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The rhythm of the practice captivated me as it morphed into something that was almost familiar. The noise stopped being completely overwhelming and started making sense. The calls and responses aligned with the corrections and adjustments, with one thing feeding into the next to create an actual play.

It pulled at my focus before I could push it away, and then it fractured. Movement at the edge of the field drew my attention. Frank Delaney stood near the sideline again, and this time he wasn’t just observing. He was talking to Trace.

The rest of the field blurred slightly as I zeroed in on the two of them, and my attention sharpened with instinct instead of intention. Trace stood with his helmet off and one hand resting on his hip as he listened. He wasn’t relaxed or tense. Instead, it looked like the situation was completely controlled.

Frank leaned in, and he was speaking low enough so no one else could hear. Trace’s responses were short and clipped, but it didn’t seem to affect Frank at all because he just smiled. My fingers tightened around my pen as that feeling returned. The feeling that something was wrong with this picture.

I shifted my stance slightly, angling for a cleaner line of sight without drawing too much attention to myself. The conversation continued, quiet and contained. Frank spoke again, slower this time, as if he were trying to choose his words very carefully.

Trace didn’t answer right away. A beat passed before he nodded, and he only did so once. Frank’s hand came down lightly on his shoulder, a gesture that looked casual from a distance but lingered just a fraction too long before he stepped back. It looked like he had gotten what he had come for.

Trace’s gaze lingered on him for a second, and something I couldn’t understand crossed his expression. Then he turned back toward the field and jogged into position as if nothing had happened. As if it didn’t matter.

My pulse raced. I was getting closer to proving I wasn’t just chasing a theory. This wasn’t just about scattered pieces I was trying to force into place. It was something real. It had just happened in plain sight.

I slowly closed my notebook as my mind ran ahead, pulling threads together and building something bigger out of a moment most people would’ve missed entirely. There was definitely something going on between those two, and I was going to find out what that was. I was going to expose Frank Delaney and make sure Trace Prescott didn’t walk away from it unscathed.

10

Trace

I didn’t head straight to the locker room when practice ended. I wanted to have a shower and get out, but my feet slowed the second I cleared the field. The noise of the guys faded behind me and Frank Delaney’s voice moved back in. It was so confident and measured, letting me know that everything he said was already halfway done.

I tried to shake it off, but it was of no use.

“You’re thinking too small,” he said, and his words sat there, heavy and persistent.

Frank hadn’t rushed it, and that was the problem. He hadn’t thrown out wild promises or tried to overwhelm me. He had taken the time to build it piece by piece because he was laying out something inevitable instead of hypothetical. He spoke about connections, exposure, and the right eyes in the stands as if they were something natural. About the people who didn’t just watch games but decided futures.

I rubbed the back of my neck to still the feeling of unease creeping over me. Even if just half of what he said was real… No! I had to cut off the thought before it took root. I had seen how fast things could shift, and I wasn’t stupid. But even then, I had to admit that the conversation stayed with me.

The hallway outside the locker rooms was a lot quieter than the field, even though there were echoes of footsteps bouncing off the walls as the guys peeled off in different directions. And yet, I kept my head down as I tried to focus on the path ahead of me.

“Prescott.”

The voice made me stop in my tracks and sent an unbearable chill down my spine. Of course she had to show up. I couldn’t have a moment of peace when I needed it, so what made this any different?

I turned to see Dakota Hayes leaning against the wall, waiting for me with her arms crossed over her chest and an expression edged with quiet curiosity. Her glasses caught the overhead light, and she fixed her gaze on me. It felt like she had picked me out of a lineup and wasn’t planning on letting go. It was one of the strangest things a woman had ever done to me, and it had me equal parts intrigued and kinda scared.

I exhaled slowly, trying to regain my composure before opening my mouth. “Has there ever been a time that you haven’t lurked in a hallway?”

“Do you ever answer a question the first time it’s asked?” she shot back as she pushed off the wall.

I tried to step around her, but she mirrored my movement and blocked my path. I tried again, hoping she’d let it go, but she didn’t, and I found that incredibly annoying.

“Move,” I said.

“No.”

Stubborn as a mule. But that shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

“I’m not going to play this game with you today,” I said, giving her the once-over.

“Good, because I’m not in the mood for it either. You can just answer my questions and we can both be on our way.”

I knew she wasn’t messing around with that statement, but I rolled my eyes. She couldn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do. But I didn’t want her to go around and twist my words into something sensational either.

I let out a short breath that was something between a laugh and a warning. “Go find someone else to annoy.”