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I chuckle, “No. You know the rules. We lost—”

“Only by a field goal!” he whines. “And against the champions…ice cream will help soothe the pain of such a close game.”

I lean around my brother and glare at Addelsbach. “Quit making him do your dirty work.”

“But…ice cream.” Addelsbach replies with a pout. He’s 5’11” and 165 pounds of lean muscle and should not be pouting like a child.

“Dammit.” I drop my head with a sigh. I don’t even have to say it; they both know I’m going to agree.

“Ice cream!” Lyndell takes off, his excitement too much to stand still. He has an excuse, the goofball next to me bouncing on his feet does not.

I look him in the eye, my bag over my shoulder, “May your lactose be intolerant.”

Addelsbach gasps theatrically, “How dare you!”

Edith “Edee” Shingleton 2.

If he clenches that asshole any tighter, he’s going to shit diamonds! Jesus, what the fuck is his problem? I honestly can’t tell. Rumors abound regarding Coach Heacock, but I had hoped they were gross exaggerations. I should have known with the list he sent over before the season even started that they were probably underselling just how fucking misogynistic, possibly racist, and antiquated he actually is.

I pass his position on the sidelines again in my quest for the best shots of the game. I’m in my second year here, and I’m getting a chance to make a name for myself as a photojournalist by documenting the university’s college football season. I’m realizing I was selected because everyone else was smart enough to pass on dealing with Heacock. Ambition makes us stupid.

The three-page single spaced acceptable parameters list he sent to the editor-in-chief was like a blinking neon sign to run away and instead I let my need to prove myself propel me headfirst into a giant clusterfuck. He provided a detailed and exhaustive list of acceptable angles and locations, which personnel to photograph and which to avoid, the places within university athletics where I am permitted and where to avoid. He insisted on final approval or veto for any images before they are usedin any way, shape, or form. Also, I am to only photograph him from the left side and nipples up. I gagged…repeatedly. Anything to do with his nipples is gross and not something I ever wish to think about ever again.

So, naturally, after we agreed to his ridiculous terms, my editor Destinaysia Bartley told me to document everything, no matter how small, anywhere and everywhere. This man wants to muzzle the media…he’s gonna get bit. And nothing in the last game and a half has given me reason to refuse her. Coach Heacock is one of the worst human beings I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. Even our faculty advisor encouraged me to take pictures that tell an accurate and truthful story. Capture every moment, heartache and highs, triumphs and tribulations whether they fall within his parameters or not. And if I can find something to take him down, you best believe I’m gonna do it.

Especially after witnessing his abhorrent behavior toward Phia Kerr, this season’s water girl. From what I’ve found out, Phia is incredibly intelligent, well respected by faculty and students alike, and generally a sweet person. She does not deserve Heacock’s wrath.

The fact that our school “paper” is digital does not work in his favor. He was overruled when he tried to get us banned, along with Phia. Rumor has it, the board barely contained their joy at turning him down so spectacularly. They knew what they were doing, giving us an all-access pass to tell the world who Coach Heacock really is. Destinaysia told me that they’ve been trying to get rid of him for years. He’s the last of the “old guard” and the current dean wants him gone and they don’t want to pay him anything as compensation.

I intend to do my job and do it well. We published my photos from the first game that fit Coach’s criteria, but we are keeping everything else I took for leverage or a better story later. You’dthink knowing there was a photographer running around, you and your players would be on your best behavior. Heacock really believes he has enough power to remain untouchable while he dictates everyone else’s actions. He isn’t my coach, and he isn’t my advisor either. And Lord knows he ain’t my momma.

I roll my eyes at Coach as I pass him, then start chuckling as I catch Big Prib stalking Phia. I capture every moment on film and am abnormally happy that I did. I’ve met Prib a couple times but haven’t spent a great deal of time with him, though the campus grapevine speaks highly of him. On and off the field. No lady drama, an excellent student, exceptional football player, and a leader on the team. The fact that he doesn’t want to go pro is astonishing and commendable.

I’m watching him and the plays on the field. I catch the moment the action turns in Phia’s direction. Prib rushes to get to her before she’s trampled to death. He wraps his arms around her middle and hoists her into the air, his back to the field. When the ball carrier is tackled, Prib absorbs the impact and barely moves, keeping Phia safe and sound.

Click. Click. Click.

I take picture after picture, giggling as he slowly lowers her to the ground and presses his body into hers. He whispers something to her I’m too far away to hear, and when she turns around, she smiles up at him. It drops quickly and she rushes off field to the tunnel. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals the source of her distress. I snap a few pics of Coach glaring at her retreating form.

Brandon Beiler, the offensive line coach, follows her, so I stay back and let him talk to her. I’ve noticed they’ve developed a fast friendship, but it isn’t surprising. I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like Brandon.

I pass him on my way to the tunnel. “Beiler.” He smiles and I lift my camera and capture the moment. He’s incredibly handsome, especially for someone 20 years my senior.

“Think you can put that thing away for a few minutes and help a girl out?” He nods toward the tunnel.

“What do you think I’m doing?” He laughs when I roll my eyes.

“She’s a great girl.” I nod in agreement, though I’ve never met her. “Could use a friend.”

“Aside from you?” He nods. I smirk. “I think Big Prib would be happy to be her friend.”

“A friend who doesn’t want to see her naked.” He shivers dramatically.

“Not nice to assume, Beiler. Don’t think you know me just ‘cause you saw me on a date a couple weeks ago.”

He tilts his head. “Was that a date? Because from where I was sitting it looked like you had lost a bet and were suffering through the consequences.”

I shake my head with a laugh. He’s right, that date was awful. “Don’t you have a game to coach?”

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