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“It’s a kicking drill,” he explained.

I blew out a frustrated breath. We’d already covered this. “I know. Why now?”

When his body tensed up, I ran a hand down his back and placed the other in his hair in hopes of helping him relax a little.

“My kicking coach’s son kicks for Auburn. He’s a senior, too. Being scouted, same as me.”

It took me a minute to make sense of what he was saying. “Wait, wait. So…” My brain quickly came to several ugly conclusions, but I stopped myself before putting them into words. I was no conspiracy theorist.

“Never mind,” Bett said. “Maybe he just thought I needed it.”

“Bullshit. With the exception of one fucking kick, you haven’t missed in like sixteen games. Since Sovereign last year. And the snap was shit, so it wasn’t even your fault. That’s not a guy who needs to be running himself into the ground in October. That’s a guy your coach should be bubble-wrapping.”

Bett lifted his head up and slow-panned toward me before I realized what I’d just revealed.

“My uncle’s a Blues fan,” I quickly stammered. “He’s obsessed with Demere football.”

Bett’s tone was incredulous. “He’s obsessed. Right.” He put both hands on my chest and rested his chin on them, grinning up at me. “You know my stats.”

“No.”

“You do.”

I rolled my eyes and shifted my hips a little to make sure he couldn’t feel my cock perk up at the sight of his big, stupid grin. “Hard to miss it when my uncle blasts the game every Saturday at the garage while I’m working.”

“M’kay. If you say so.” He snuggled back down with a satisfied grin on his face. I kind of liked knowing I’d put it there, no matter how revealing the situation had been.

I ran my fingers through his messy hair, straightening a chunk that had been sticking up adorably. “Tell me you don’t think your own coach is trying to jeopardize your recruitment.”

“It’s weird talking to you about this.”

He wasn’t wrong. “Do you want me to stop asking questions?”

Bett hesitated, his face scrunching up as he considered it. “No. It’s kind of… nice. I mean, nice that you care, I guess.”

I opened my mouth to deny it. But if I did that, he’d shut right down. And I wanted answers. “Then tell me why you had to run a fatigue drill in the middle of the season. Is your own coach trying to sabotage you?”

He sighed. “I don’t want to think it, but it’s hard not to. Unfortunately, it’s not something I can control. I already tried talking to the head coach about it, and he implied I was being a prima donna. He’s always muttering at me not to be one of those high-maintenance kickers who thinks they’re better than everyone else on the team.”

The information enraged me on his behalf, but before I could say anything, he surprised me. “It doesn’t matter. No need to impress the scouts unless you intend to go pro.”

I used my grip on his hair to pull his head back so I could look at him. “You’re not going pro?”

He shook his head but didn’t explain.

I nudged him off me to force the conversation. He let out a breath, then sat up against the wall, pulling the sheets over his lower body and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“The commentators on the radio talk about you being drafted like it’s a sure thing,” I said. “What am I missing here?”

His eyes flicked away from mine to the same spot on the wall as before. It angered me enough to consider getting a photo of myself framed for that spot so he’d still have to fucking look at me. Instead, I reached out and grasped his chin, tilting his face back toward me. “Bett.”

His eyes widened. “You… you’ve never called me that before.”

Fuck.

“McNeely,” I corrected quickly. “Talk to me.”

He shrugged. “The media’s just blowing smoke up my ass. The league might give me a shitty contract and some bench time to keep my dad in their good graces, but that’s about it. I’m better off going to law school and starting a real career.”