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Was this how it was supposed to be? Was it normal? Because nothing about it felt particularly normal to me. It felt a lot more like losing something. Like I was losing him.

But hadn’t I initiated this to begin with? I was the one who’d ended it. I’d looked him in the eye and drawn the line.

Fuck, my head was spinning.

I hit the throttle and spurred my bike on faster, letting the engine roar beneath me as the trees blurred at the edges of my vision. Theo was a distraction—one I couldn’t afford to let unravel me. The season had barely started. I had a team depending on me. Theo had a future bigger than whatever existed between us, and the smartest thing I could do for both of us was keep my head straight. All I had to do was focus.

Just focus.

I could do that.

CHAPTER 13

Rhodes

The team looked good—better than I expected, given how little time I had with them. They weren’t perfect—not by a long shot—but, considering how little time I’d had with them, I could already see the difference. Was I pushing them hard? Probably harder than they liked. But I didn’t have the luxury of easing into this. The season wasn’t going to wait for me to get comfortable, and neither were the teams we’d be facing. I had limited time to get them into the shape I wanted, which meant every day mattered.

They were exhausted, and so was I. I tried to make up for some of it by feeding them every night. Dinner had quickly become the closest thing I had to bribery. I told them to order whatever the hell they wanted and watched an alarming amount of food disappear every evening. If I was going to put them through hell during the day, the least I could do was make sure they were well-fed afterward.

It also gave me another excuse to spend time around them when nobody was running a drill or staring at a playbook. I was learning them. Who sat with who. Who got louder when they were tired. Who went quiet when something was bothering them. Which guys needed to be challenged and which ones responded better when somebody pulled them aside instead of calling them out in front of everyone.

Those details mattered. At least, I believed they did.

We were pushing into the last few days of camp, and I’d packed every available minute with something. I joined them for as much as my own body could tolerate. Partly because I wasn’t going to ask them to do something I refused to do myself, and partly because I was beginning to suspect I had some deeply rooted self-destructive tendencies.

By the end of the day, every muscle I had felt used.

I was dead on my feet as I headed down the hall toward my office, my shirt drying uncomfortably against my skin. The Dean had interrupted my practice to tell me he’d left his pick for new coaches in my office—three out of the four anyway. He was still hunting down a final offensive coordinator.

Meeting them now was less than ideal. I was sweaty, in my workout clothes, and looking worse for wear. Then again, maybe that was useful. If they were going to work with me, they might as well see exactly what kind of coach they were dealing with.

I reached the office and stepped inside. Three men turned toward me, and immediately, I knew exactly what they were thinking. All three were significantly older than me, with graying hair, neatly tucked polos, and the look of traditional coaches. Meanwhile, I looked like I’d wandered in from somebody’s pickup game. Their expressions shifted slightly when they saw me.

Well, this would be fun.

“Sorry for the wait,” I said. I planted my hands on my hips and drew in a breath, mostly because my lungs were still trying to recover from the field. “Rhodes Kennedy. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Clark McBride, defense coordinator,” one said, offering me his hand. I held up mine with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, I’m a mess.” I chuckled. “I’ve been on the field since six.”

“You practice with them?” McBride asked. There was enough surprise in his tone that I almost smiled.

“Practice and train,” I replied, unashamed of being right there with my players.

“That’s bold,” one of the others said. “Harrison O’Neal, your other defensive coordinator.”

I gave him a small nod.

“Fred Hale. I get to be the oddball and be your offensive coordinator.” The third laughed like he was funny. I didn’t think so, but I grinned to be polite. “You’re young.”

I’d been waiting for that one.

“I am.” I wasn’t remotely surprised he brought it up. The age gap between the four of us was impossible to ignore, and if I were standing on their side of the room, I probably would’ve had questions too. They had years of experience. I had an engineering degree and a football background—both of which I was sure the Dean had told them about. They had every reason to wonder if there’d been some kind of mistake. “I promise you, I think the Dean is just as crazy as you do right now.”

That statement earned me a chuckle, quickly dissipating the tension in the room.

“I know I’m young, but I promise that while I don’t have the background you might expect for a coaching job like this, I do understand the sport and played growing up,” I told them. “I am taking this job and this team seriously, and any help you can give me along the way would be appreciated—insight, experience, whatever you’ve got. We’ll do just fine.”