“She wouldn’t want you to give up on what you do every year.”
I arch a brow. “You’ve been texting with her again. You two kill me.”
“We do Zoom calls and drink margaritas once a week.” She grins. “Nina is dear to me and technically I’m your campus mom, so deal with it.”
Miss Janie and Mom met my freshman year at a meet and greet for the players and staff, and they immediately hit it off. They’re both from the New England area, in their fifties, single, and adore me.
“Go. Enjoy yourself. It’s just a three-day trip. Then go see your mom for two weeks.”
I exhale. Mom is recovering after several chemo cycles. She didn’t make any games this year because she couldn’t be around crowds. Chemo weakens her immune system, and any kind of viral or bacterial infection might put her in the hospital.
“We’ll see.” Code for I’m not going.
Miss Janie gives me a side hug, and my throat is raw as I hug her back. She pats my arm then moves to her desk. “Now, who are you here to see today?”
“Edward.” My anxiousness ramps up.
She types into her computer. “He’s finishing up a call.”
“Got it.” I plop down in one of the leather seats and bounce my knee.
The elevator pings, and she moves her gaze to the doors behind me.
“Can I help you?” she says.
A man dressed in a polo shirt and khakis walks up to her desk. Late twenties with a red goatee, he’s holding a phone in front of him like he’s recording.
“Hello! I hope so!” He smiles broadly. “I’m doing a story and was wondering if I could get the administration’s reaction to the Badgers’ season—”
“That’s enough,” Miss Janie says, her normally sweet voice sharp as knives. “Put that phone down and stop recording immediately!”
He swivels his phone around the room. “Hello, viewers. Here’s where the magic didn’t happen this year for the Braxton Badgers. A former national championship team, they were supposed to be at the top of their game. What went wrong?”
Miss Janie stalks toward him, all five feet of her.
“Don’t get too close,” I tell her as I stand and step between them. I’ve been in the limelight long enough to see reporters trample people to get what they want. Last year after we won the championship, a guy from ESPN mowed down two athletic trainers to stick a mic in my face.
He shoves his phone in my direction. “…and here we have River Tate, star wide receiver. Not quite a star though, am I right? Is it true you frequently fought with your teammates?”
“No.” My fists curl. That is not true. My team means everything to me.
“How do you explain five dropped passes?”
Honestly? I played after a rough tackle when I shouldn’t have. It wasn’t a concussion—the trainers checked—but it was serious, and I went back in anyway.
Miss Janie inches closer to us, hands flapping. “In the state of Georgia, our legal statutes prescribe that if you want to film in this building, you need to have written permission from Braxton. You do not have written permission, and any video you have taken since you parked your car is illegal. If you use any of those recordings, including this one, without blurring the image of every individual associated with this university, we will be forced to sue you and whatever platform on which you broadcast your production. Do you understand what I just explained to you?”
The guy shoves the phone in my face. “Do you think you have a shot at recovering your status as one of the best players in the SEC? Are your hopes for the NFL gone?”
When you’re golden, reporters love you, but when you’ve lost your shine, they dig a hole and throw you in.
“Don’t answer that, River!” Miss Janie darts back to her desk and fiddles with a button I know is hidden under it.
“I got this.” I saunter over to him and smile. “Hello, everybody. River Tate here. I assure you Braxton is still one of the best football programs in the country.” Then, I snatch the phone out of his hand and scan the screen to see if it was live. Shit, it is. I smile into the camera then wink. “Sorry, folks, this video is unauthorized. Have a great day!” I turn it off and stuff the cell into my pocket.
He shoves at my chest. “Hey! That’s mine!”
My teeth grit, but I don’t punch him. Sure, I’ve been known to lose my temper. I’m passionate—but not stupid.
I wait for the ping.
Right on cue, the elevator doors open and two bulky guys in their early thirties appear.
Dressed in black, they wear the campus security logo on their shirts. Stun guns are on their hips. “Denny and Ken. How’s it going?” I ask with a grin. They’ve broken up a few of our frat parties. They usually give us a warning to pipe down then leave.
I point my finger at the reporter. “Red here brought in an unauthorized recording device. Miss Janie explained it, but he didn’t listen.” I slap the phone in Denny’s hands.
He nods, all business. “Thanks, River. Sorry, Miss Janie. He must have slipped in one of the maintenance doors at the back of the building.”
“All I wanted was a story! Everyone wants to know what happened!” the man says as they get on either side and escort him to the elevator.
Ken gives me a chin nod. “Good to see you, River.”
I smile. “Later. Stop by the house when you’re off duty. Bud Light, right?”
He gives me a thumbs-up as they leave. “Will do.”
Miss Janie pulls at her little cardigan, her feathers clearly ruffled.
“You okay?”
She shakes her head. “It’s been a while since someone busted in here. I need a margarita. I’m glad you were here, River.”
Ah. Yeah. The question is, will I be here for long…
Later, I stand outside Edward’s office. He’s my student-athlete academic advisor.
Just get it over with.
I finally knock on the doorframe.
“Come on in, River. How are you doing?”
I reply with a noncommittal answer. He’s not Miss Janie. I’m just a number to him.
“Good, good, have a seat,” he murmurs as he opens up a thick folder with my name on it. “We have a few things to talk about. Most importantly, we need to know if you have made your decision about the draft or if you want to return to Braxton next semester?”
Cement lands on my chest. “My mind changes every day, sir. One minute I want to stay, and the next I want to take my chances as a low draft pick.”
He frowns. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
He laughs a little under his breath as he shakes his head. Dude doesn’t get how my brain works. “I see. What are you thinking today?”
A long sigh comes from me. “Let’s say I want to come back. Are my grades okay, or am I in trouble?”
He types some more on the computer, his expression hardening as he furrows his brow. “Your grades suck in this lit class.”
No shit.
“You’re cool in Dances of North America, Beginning Improv, and Modern Art.” He looks at me. “I told you not to take this literature class. I had that geology one lined up. Much less reading.”