2. Bryant

Jack Perry is a work of art. His strong back muscles ripple through his thin t-shirt as he picks up boxes that easily weigh more than he does, carrying them across the floor and arranging them on the proper shelves. His sun-tanned skin is glistening with a layer of sweat, and his closely buzzed dark hair and strong jaw make him look tough and weathered. I get the impression that his shitty habits and attitude were hard earned by a rough life. Football was probably all this kid had to raise him out of this shithole Alabama town, but now look where he"s landed himself.

I watch him from the shadows as he unloads boxes in the old warehouse, and briefly wonder if this place is a legit operation or if they"re hocking stolen goods, but I shrug it off. It doesn"t really matter either way, and sometimes those shady jobs pay more. I"ve been there.

At least he"s keeping himself strong. All of this lifting is certainly helping him maintain all that lean muscle.

Just as I"m considering what his body fat percentage might be, he speaks.

"You gonna stand there and stare at me all night, or are you going to get on with it?" His southern drawl is more subtle than the Texas twang I"ve become accustomed to.

I can"t help but chuckle a little. "On with what?" My voice feels too loud after standing here quietly for so long. How long have I been watching him? And how long has he been aware of me?

"I dunno," he says with a shrug. "I figured you"re here to rob me, but the way you"ve been watching me thinks maybe you"re tryin" to fuck me. And no offense, man, but I"m not into either of those options."

Now I"m really laughing. He"s so casual about the statement, all but ignoring me as he goes about his business. You"d think he thinks he"s invincible. Maybe he does. His cocky attitude both amuses and perturbs me. Every time this kid turns his back on me, I want to thrash him for being such an idiot. Maybe he could take some rando, but he couldn"t hold me off if I wanted something from him.

"And what would you do if I wanted either of those things?"

"I"m sure I"d figure it out, I'm pretty scrappy." It's a thinly veiled threat that he can take care of himself, but the way he delivers it is smooth, nonchalant, like he couldn't care less.

My chortle is accompanied by an amused nod of appreciation. "Yeah, you certainly seem like you would be."

"Where"re you from?" He asks, giving me a quick once over before picking up his next box.

"Originally? Small town in the midwest. But I"ve been in Texas for some time. That"s where I drove here from."

He gives me a proper look now, his eyebrows pulling together like I might be familiar, which I might be if he were a little older.

"Didn"t think he had it in him," he says, his mouth turning down in a strangely appreciative frown of complete acceptance for whatever he thinks is happening here.

"What are you talking about?"

"I"m assuming Coach Worth sent you to teach me a lesson or something like that." He emphasizes the words, so the meaning is clear: he thinks I'm here to rough him up, or worse. But he still looks unconcerned. He's too cocky for his own good.

"And why would he do that?"

A salacious grin spreads across his face, and it does something to me that I"m not quite ready to acknowledge. "Because I deserve it. But for the record, so did he."

"Nobody sent me," I say, trying to hold in my laughter. "But now I"m curious about what you did to Tim Worth to warrant him sending someone so far to teach you a lesson." I use the same inflection on the words that he did.

"I maimed his quarterback and fucked his daughter," he says with a shrug, returning to his work. He doesn"t let much distract him from his job. He's focused, I have to give him points for that.

"Bit more than that, from what I heard."

Jack looks over at me with a hint of surprise on his face before his features smooth into a self-satisfied leer that I want to wipe right off his face. "Yeah, maybe."

A difficult box, heavier and too long to be handled by one person, grabs his attention. I move closer to pick up the opposite side, helping him lift the box. He looks at me curiously, but doesn"t tell me to fuck off.

"Are you gonna tell me what you"re here for, then?" he asks as we heft the heavy box onto a loading platform.

"I have a proposition for you." When he raises his eyebrow, I bark out a laugh. "Not that kind of proposition," I say, although there's a voice in the back of my head that thinks otherwise. "I came to see if you might be interested in continuing your college education and trying out for another football team."

He scoffs arrogantly, and I have little doubt the accompanying eye-roll is because I mentioned trying out. Truth be told, I have zero doubts he"d be first string and a star player immediately. The team, along with every girl on campus, will probably flock to him like flies on dog shit, but he needs to know his place.

"Every player on my team earns their place. We don"t have room for cocky showboats and jackasses that don"t follow the rules. I know exactly what kind of trouble you"ve gotten up to, and I won"t have that bullshit from my players. I"m prepared to make it worth your effort, but the moment you step onto my field, I own your ass."

"Yeah… that ain"t gonna happen. I"ve had enough of self-righteous old assholes bossing me around."

"I"ve seen your footage, and I know what you"re capable of—" I cut him off with a raised palm before he interjects with any of his cocky bullshit. "But you could be better. Can be better. And I can make things happen for you."

He raises an eyebrow and gives me a look like I must be joking. Don't I know that he"s God"s gift to mankind?

"Your receiving skills are near perfect, but your ball security needs tightening up. You"re fast, but you could be faster if you worked on your form—your posture is sloppy, and you"re not taking advantage of your stride length."

I eye his long, strong legs and imagine just what he could do with them. I have to blink myself out of my thoughts when the image of his corded muscles and how they would feel under my hands fills my mind. I don"t know where these types of thoughts are coming from, but I"m going to chalk it up to exhaustion from the thirteen-hour drive, and my hopefully unnoticeable desperation to get him on my team. There"s something about this kid, something more than the winning season a player like him could bring us. I can see the determination in his eyes, but there"s also a weariness that I recognize, and I don"t want to see him give up. There are very few truly special talents out there. I want to see him succeed. The strength of my desire to turn this kid"s life around is almost as shocking as the gutter path my thoughts have taken.

Jack Perry is special. Unfortunately, he knows it.

His gaze is narrowed as he considers my words. "What school did you say you"re from again?"

Now it"s my turn to give him a cocky grin. This is one of two cards I"m holding that I know will tip the scales in my favor.

"Groveton."

Jack snorts. "Groveton. You"re fucking kidding."

"Nope, and I"ll tell you something else," I say, leaning back casually on the platform. "I think Tim Worth is as much a piece of shit as you do, and I"d get personal satisfaction out of tearing his championship prospects out from under him."

"Well, you"re welcome, then," he says, winking. "I"ve already done that for you."

"You think Tim fucking Worth doesn"t have more money and resources than God, and isn't already actively recruiting the best replacements from across the country? Because my scouts are working the same circuits, and you can guaran-fucking-tee that there isn"t a bribe he isn"t capable of making to build the best team in the conference. There"s only one thing that can come between him and a national championship."

"Oh yeah? What"s that then?"

"You."

His eyebrow raises, clearly interested but not sold.

I continue before he has a chance to interrupt. "With my help, I can not only make sure that you have a chance to rub it in Worth"s worthless face, but I'm your best chance at being a first-round draft pick after one season. Your stats are good, but I"ll make them better. I"ll turn you into the kind of player that the NFL will start a bidding war for."

"The NFL wants talent. I can give them that without another year of bullshit."

I shake my head. He's in for a rude awakening if he thinks being good at catching a ball is all it takes.

"You think the NFL is going to pick up some trouble making nobody from bumfuck Alabama after the mess you"ve made of your reputation? Tim Worth will make sure no other college will touch you, and your shitty academics are going to hold you back even more—you couldn"t get a scholarship to a community college, and I know that this dead-end job isn"t paying you enough to make tuition even at the cheapest schools. Maybe you think you can just skate into the NFL with old stats and a gap in your playing career, but you"re even dumber than I think you are if you really believe that."

"And what do you get out of it?" Jack asks combatively.

"A championship," I answer honestly, shrugging. "But don"t think that you"re a shoe in because you can catch a ball and run fast. If you want what I have to offer, I need a commitment from you. It"ll be a hot, hard summer. You'll spend it training even harder. I"ll push you until you break, tear you down piece by piece, and rebuild you into the best version of yourself. And that's all before the season even starts."

I extend the envelope with his offer, like it's some kind of bullshit olive branch. Inside there is a bus voucher, my card, an explicit contract where he"s going to more or less sign his life over to me, and an offer for a full ride scholarship.The dean wasn"t happy about that; charity cases aren't his thing, apparently. But he"ll do what it takes to win, so he signed off on it.

"My card is in there if you have questions. But I expect to see you on the field on the first Monday in June. Check in with me the moment you arrive."

I get a sick sense of satisfaction watching the way Jack"s mouth turns down in a frown at the mention of summer training.

"We"ll get you down to less than ten percent in no time," I say, openly raking my eyes over his muscular form to guess his body fat percentage. If I can get him down to the eight percent range, he"ll be lightning on the field.

I don"t wait for Jack to respond further, turning on my heel to leave.

"I"m tougher than you think I am," he calls out after me.

"I"m counting on it."