Chapter 4

four

. . .

Asher

“Be ready today, Asher,” Coach Connelly’s voice booms as I lace up my cleats Saturday morning.

“Of course, sir.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are. And I am ready.”

Look, I’ve been the backup quarterback at Mystic Falls for four years now.

Not one minute of playing time. Not one.

But every game, without fail, Coach reminds me to be ready like I’m the starter.

“I mean it,” Coach says, narrowing his eyes. “You ready?”

“Yes, sir. Always.”

“Better be.”

Here’s the thing: I know my role. I’m fine being the backup. I’m not delusional—I know I’m not Joe. But Coach insists I prepare like I am, so that’s what I do.

The biggest decision I’ll make today is glasses or contacts. Glasses are comfier, but if there’s even the slimmest chance I might need to put on my helmet, contacts it is.

“Where’s Joe, anyway?” Coach asks, looking around. “Have you seen him?”

I shake my head. “Nope…”

Before I can finish, Joe stumbles into the locker room. Stumbles being the key word.

He coughs loudly, like he’s trying to cover up the fact that he reeks of booze. Did he keep drinking this morning? Jesus.

“Joseph. Can’t show up on time, eh?”

“Sorry, Coach. Just had the most fucked up night of my life,” Joe mutters, sauntering over to his locker a few down from mine.

I glance up and immediately regret it.

“Fucked up night, Asher,” he says under his breath, pulling on his jersey.

I clear my throat. “You don’t say.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t ask.”

He spins toward me, his eyes narrowing.

Joe and I? Arch enemies. Always have been.

Not because he’s the starter—I’m fine with being number two. It’s because he’s a douchebag, plain and simple. He’s been a chronic sleep-arounder since freshman year, and I’ve done my best to keep my distance.

I’m not the guy who gets off on out-alpha-ing someone.

But last night? Listening to him on the phone with Sloane? Something in me snapped. I couldn’t resist twisting the knife.

Look, I’m not perfect. But he deserved it.

And I disguised my voice enough that he won’t know it was me who said, “She’s busy.”

A moment of weakness—or maybe pure, raw animalism.

If he doesn’t know how to take care of his smart, insanely hot girlfriend, that’s his problem.

“Yeah, man. Rough night. Anyway, how was yours?” he asks suddenly, catching me off guard. Joe doesn’t usually care about my nights.

“Oh, you know. Average stuff. Studied a bit. Got to bed early.”

“Typical for you.” He laughs, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“Yep. Not trying to make it to the NFL like some of us.”

“Damn straight. And I love that for you.”

I love that for you.

Classic code for: I’m better than you.

Whatever. I don’t care. Football is just a fun side hobby for me—I’m going into business.

“Good luck today,” I say. “Hope the scouting report I made was helpful.”

“When did you send that to me?”

“I put it in your locker Wednesday morning.”

“Oh.” He rummages through his locker, finally pulling out the spiral notebook I’d made. “Got it.”

“You didn’t read it?”

He shrugs. “I’ll glance at it. It’s fine.”

“Ah, okay.”

I love that for you. So good he doesn’t need to do any research.

A few hours later, we’re in the first quarter, and we’re already down two touchdowns.

I have to admit, it’s fun being out here on the field. Fifty-thousand fans screaming their heads off, the energy electric. Even though I’m just holding a clipboard, there’s a sense of pride in being part of the team.

Joe, though? He’s a mess. He throws his second interception of the game, and it’s painfully clear he’s off today.

Not surprising, considering he was probably blackout drunk last night and didn’t bother reading the meticulous scouting report I handed him. That kind of slacking catches up to you eventually.

“Knox,” Coach barks, pulling me out of my thoughts. “What the hell is going on with their defense? Didn’t you scout them?”

“They’re falling back into a cover two zone,” I reply, pointing to the field. “It was all in the report. We need to hit quick outs first to soften them up, then establish the run game before we can go long. That’s the issue.”

He nods, arms crossed, gum snapping between his teeth. “Roger that.”

Coach Connelly stalks over to Joe, saying something that makes him nod stiffly.

My phone buzzes in my hoodie pocket, and I slide it onto my clipboard, glancing at the screen.

It’s from a number I don’t recognize.

Unknown number: You look good in glasses out there.

Attached is a zoomed-in photo of me on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, looking every bit the backup quarterback.

I smirk and text back:

Me: Mom?

Unknown number: lol. Does she really come to the games?

Me: No, but she does watch on TV. Who is this?

Unknown number: Just one of your hoes.

Me: Since I don’t have hoes, I’m assuming this is my new ho.

Unknown number: Whoa, whoa. Easy there. I’m not anyone’s ho. I’m playing the field. Just got out of a long relationship.

Me: Whatever you want, my HOT NERD friend.

Unknown number: lol. If that’s my nickname, I’ll take it. Jacklyn gave me your number.

Grinning, I save her number as Hot Nerd and fire back:

Me: Good. I’ve been meaning to text you. You left something at my place last night.

Hot Nerd: Don’t act like you didn’t already frame them.

I chuckle, shaking my head. Frame them? No.

Did I get so hard this morning thinking about last night that I rubbed one out while staring at them on the couch?

Maybe.

Me: Okay, fine. Guilty. Is that so wrong? They look great on my wall in a frame.

Hot Nerd: So now that the conquest is over and the night has passed, guess we’re never doing that again, huh?

Me: Not sure which part you’re talking about with ‘never again.’ I’d happily repeat certain parts of last night. Though next time, I’d prefer no interruptions from your ex.

Hot Nerd: lol. Is it bad that I got turned on again this morning thinking about that?

My heart skips, and I glance over my shoulder at the stands, trying to calculate where she is from the angle of the photo she sent.

Hot Nerd: You’ll never find me. I took the photo from somewhere totally different than where I’m sitting. I knew you’d try to find me. Nerd. Stop stalking me.

I’m grinning like an idiot when Coach Connelly taps my shoulder.

“Knox! What’s this formation they’re running now?”

I snap my playbook shut, hoping he doesn’t notice that I’ve been flagrantly breaking his iron rule: no texting during games.

“Three-four defense,” I say quickly. “They ran this in their opener last week to confuse the offense, but really, they’re blitzing two linebackers. Same as a standard formation, just dressed up differently.”

Coach nods and shuffles back toward the field.

I tuck my phone away, my smirk lingering as I glance back toward the stands. I have no idea where Sloane is, but I can feel her watching.

We watch the play unfold, and lo and behold, they do exactly what I predicted. Joe overthrows a pass down the sideline, the ball sailing out of bounds.

Coach stands there, arms crossed, his face a mask of frustration. I’m just praying he walks away soon so I can get back to texting. Terrible, I know. But last night? Last night was so hot, I can’t stop thinking about all the things I want to do with Sloane.

“Anything else you need?” I ask, clipboard in hand, feigning focus.

Coach shakes his head, his gum snapping. “A damn touchdown would be nice.”

We run the ball on the next play, predictably get nowhere, and end up punting.

Heading into the locker room at halftime, we’re down 21–0. It’s bleak.

Inside, the air is heavy with shame. Coach is pissed, stalking the room, his sharp gaze slicing through us as we sit in silence.

“Is everyone giving maximum effort?” he asks, his voice cutting through the tension.

We nod quietly, almost in unison.

“I said, is everyone giving maximum effort? Because it sure as hell doesn’t look like it!”

A few linemen exchange glances before one pipes up, shaking his head. “I’m gassed, Coach. Feels like we were on the field the whole time. We barely had the ball.”

I expect Coach to rip him apart, but instead, he nods. “Our ball control has been shit today. You know what?”

I keep my head down, running a hand over my face, pretending to review my notes. But then I feel it—his gaze.

“Knox,” he says, his tone sharp. “You’re getting the ball in the second half.”

I blink, pointing at myself. “Me?”

“Yes, you, motherfucker. Did I stutter? Joseph smells like booze, and he’s throwing like shit today.”

Joe’s jaw drops, and his face flushes. “Coach, I’ll get ‘em in the second half. We’re a second-half team. You know that.”

Coach shakes his head. “You’re not reading the defense. So fuck that. I’m giving the ball to Knox.”

He tosses me the football, and I catch it, feeling its weight—and the weight of the entire team’s stares. Especially Joe’s.

“Don’t make a fool out of me, Asher,” Coach says, clapping his hands sharply. “Let’s go.”

The defense jogs back toward the field, but I’m frozen, my heart hammering in my chest.

I don’t even have my contact lenses in.

At my locker, I fumble for them, feeling Joe’s presence like a storm cloud behind me.

“Don’t fuck this up, Knox,” Joe growls. “You’re the backup. Remember that.”

I spin around, shrugging. “Hey man, I’m just doing what Coach wants.”

He glares, shaking his head before stomping out toward the field.

As I slide my lenses into place, Coach claps me on the shoulder. “Told you to be ready, Asher. Now go get ‘em.”

“Yes, sir,” I manage, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.

Taking a deep breath, I step into the tunnel, my cleats clacking against the concrete.

I’m nervous as hell, my stomach twisting into knots.

And all I really want to do is text a girl in the stands.

But now? Now it’s time for my game face.