Page 165 of Forever Relentless

“Suicides.”

I turned to look at Coach Holt.

“Why?”

“Because it’s Monday and I’m bored?” he shrugged. “Because? Just because you’re first team doesn’t mean you can’t run suicides.” He grinned. “Pick one, I don’t care. To the thirty. I want ten.”

“But—”

“You want to make it to the forty and run twenty?”

“Fuck no.” I started jogging to the end zone. “Thanks, Coach, I appreciate you!” I called over my shoulder.

His callous laughter made me imagine punching him in the throat. I ran my suicides.

By the time I was finished, she was in the corner of the field, sitting cross-legged on the turf and checking her camera.

Briar looked up and caught my stare, then dropped her head and went back to her camera.

“Nah.” I walked over to the bench on the pretense of finding my water bottle.

Dante was in the middle of the eighty, practicing his throw. I saw him wince and rub his shoulder once he’d completed the pass to the tight end, Moore.

I saw that Coach Sutherland also watched him, and he seemed to be in a deep discussion with Coach Hembry about the number-one quarterback for the Blues.

But did Dante know he was being watched?

He answered by turning and assessing the two coaches, then, in true Spence style, walked right over to them.

I hid my smile. The guy was fearless. He genuinely had no qualms about confrontation. He didn’t care if it was a classmate or a coach. If it concerned him, he wanted to know.

Dustin was running routes up and down the field, and I wondered where he got his energy.

“Looking good, Slater,” I encouraged.

“Eat shit, Matthews.”

I laughed. Dustin was still grumpy. Fine. Hadley had refused to see him last night, which is another reason why he was at the dorm, so that hadn’t helped my case.

I’d heard him talking on his phone long after I should’ve been asleep, and I’d put my headphones on rather than ask him to shut the fuck up.

Bridges to mend and all that.

Speaking of bridges.

I walked down the sideline, capitalizing on the fact that Coach Holt was ripping into one of the defensive ends. It really was a pity Whittaker was still out; Saturday’s game would have been his shot.

“Are you avoiding me?” I asked her quietly as I got closer.

“I’m working.” Briar stood smoothly, wiping her hands over her ass for debris.

“Did you get any pictures of me on Saturday?” I asked, and when she gave me a look, I pointed to her phone sticking out of her front jeans pocket. “For my social media? I haven’t posted in a while.”

The look she gave me let me know in no uncertain terms that she was doing her best not to curse me out.

“B?” I lowered my voice. “Still mad?”

“I’m not talking about it, and don’t nickname me.” she muttered. “Not here. Not now.” Her fingers flew over her phone. “There, I sent you some for your feed.” She walked away from me.