Chapter 10: Liam

In an attempt to turn this conversation away from all the bullshit running rampant through my head, I ask, "You ready for the combine?"

For once, the smile fades from his face. "Yup. I've been working my damn ass off."

I nod.

It's true. Dylan has been working hard. Early morning runs, lifting at the gym, agility training, high protein diet, and no alcohol. The guy couldn't do anything more than he already is.

It's just that Dylan injured his shoulder last season and I know it still bothers him. He never says a word about it, but you can tell when he takes a hard hit. A stoic expression will slide over his features, masking the pain. His mentality is that he'd rather play hurt than not play at all.

Which I get. But that kind of attitude seems a little shortsighted if you ask me. Then again, what do I know? I've never sustained a long-term injury. I've always played quarterback. I don't take hits like some of these guys do. The way they pummel the shit out of each other on the field, it's a wonder their freaking brains aren't permanently scrambled. Once in a great while, a player will sneak past my left tackle before taking me down. It can hurt like a mother fucker.

The question escapes from my mouth before I think better of it. "And your shoulder?"

His lips thin. "There's no problem with my shoulder, dude."

The look he drills me with clearly says-don't ask another question about it.

So, I don't.

No matter how tight you might be with someone, there are still certain things you don't talk about. And how much an injury continues to affect you is one of them. No professional football team wants to pick up a guy who is injury prone. They want healthy players at the top of their game who are going to go out there and run their bodies into the ground.

Dylan is that kind of guy.

I'm not sure what I would do if I were in his position. I don't want to be one of those players you see fifteen years from now who doesn't remember his name or can't recognize his own kids because he took too many hits to the noggin. Or who has the body of an eighty-year-old when he's pushing forty from arthritis and joint pain.

For some of these guys, football is the end all be all. They've been playing in a Pop Warner program since they were seven years old. It's all they know. And they won't move on from the sport until they're forced out of it.

"What about you?" he asks, attempting to shift the conversation, "Heard you signed with that big agent out of New York."

Barnett is a cesspool of gossip. And like any other big school with a top-notch football program that pumps out its fair share of NFL players, the mill is always churning.

As soon as I became eligible for the draft, shit was being speculated upon. Who I'll sign with. Where I'll end up playing. Blah, blah, blah. I ignore the chatter. I don't want anything to do with all the bullshit and hype that goes along with being an athlete around here.

So far, I've been lucky. There are other players on the team who get more attention than I do. Like Roan King. He's the real stud on campus. And before Ivy Kaster, the chick who locked him down, I think he was just fine with that. He's like a minor celebrity.

I, on the other hand, aren't interested in the harsh glare of the spotlight shining down on me. I don't need people digging up shit about my family and plastering it all over the internet. And I sure as hell don't want anyone's pity.

Ever since I was eight years old, I've been part of a football team. But to a certain extent, I've also been a loner. I keep most people at a distance. No one knows too much about my home life, and that's the way I intend to keep it.

Even though I realize it's a touchy subject, I say lightly, "Nah, I signed with Roan's guy."

His eyes sharpen as we finish up with our jog and start to cool down. "Hmmm."

Rumor has it that Dylan wanted Kevin McGillis to represent him as well, but the guy took a pass. I have no idea if that's idle gossip, and I sure as hell aren't going to ask.

Instead, I shrug and attempt to keep the conversation light. "Don't worry about it, man. This is your year." Dylan had every intention of entering the draft last year until he was sidelined by an injury. Even though it's a lie, I throw out, "I overheard Coach Bauer say he felt it in his gut."

That comment does precisely what it's meant to. A reluctant smile tips the corners of his lips as one brow slinks upward. "He actually said that, huh?"

Well...not in so many words. "Sure did. And we all know that Coach's gut is never wrong."

I release a pent-up breath when he mutters, "I really hope not. I don't know what the hell I'll do if the NFL doesn't pan out for me."

"Hey, it's not like you haven't been working toward a degree." Dylan will graduate in May. I have no idea what he majored in for the last four years. He's never talked about it. Hopefully, it's not some lame-ass crap that will end up being worthless in the real world.

There are athletes who have been allowed to cobble together bullshit classes in order to make up their own degree. It might not be basket weaving for idiots, but its damn close. I hope Dylan was more farsighted than that. I've seen my share of talented athletes whose futures look as bright and shiny as a newly minted penny sustain an injury that they can't come back from.

And then poof-all of their dreams are flushed down the shitter.

That knowledge is always festering at the back of my mind. I'd like nothing more than to stick around for another year and earn my degree. Especially since athletic scholarships have paid my way for the last three years. Unfortunately, my family can't afford to keep limping along financially. They're the reason I'll cut out of here early and take my chances on the NFL draft. Once I'm done playing ball, I can always go back and finish up my degree. It'll just be on my own dime.

If there's been any takeaways from my family-it's that one day, everything can be moving along smoothly, and the next it can be turned upside down. I won't be one of those guys who blows his signing bonus and salary on partying, pussy, cars, and million-dollar houses.

Nope. I'll make sure my family has enough to live comfortably on, and the rest will go toward investments.

"Yeah, but working nine-to-five at a boring desk job isn't what I envisioned for my future." He gives me a bit of side-eye. "You know what I mean?"

"It doesn't have to be that way. There are other things out there. Maybe you need to take some time and explore the possibilities."

Dylan shrugs, looking uncomfortable with the direction of our conversation. "I don't know. My dad keeps harping on me to join his firm. If the NFL doesn't work out, I'll probably get sucked into that. I'll sit my ass behind a mahogany desk and talk about people's financial portfolios for the rest of my damn life."

It's on the tip of my tongue to argue with him, but I don't bother. Dylan is in no frame of mind to hear what I have to say. I hope for his sake that it all works out the way he wants it to.

"It'll be fine, dude."

He flashes me a smile before throwing off the serious mood. "Hey, if Coach felt it in his gut, then it has to be true. Right?"

It takes everything I have inside not to wince.