Anderson, Owens, and I are lounging around the campground, watching with amusement as Kenny struggles with the slippery material.

We’ve gone on this trip together for the past three years, ever since Kenny and I met Anderson and Owens the summer before our freshman year at Lincoln’s preseason camp. The four of us melded easily, forming a tight unit within Lincoln’s already close team.

We spent our first weekend off from preseason training in the Michigan woods together, and it’s become an annual tradition. This year Anderson and Owens are the only ones who will be returning to campus. Kenny and I were both drafted, and are set to make our professional football debuts next week.

“We’ll see how you feel tomorrow after spending the night on the ground without a fan, Dawson,” Kenny retorts, zipping up the side of the fabric structure that could easily sleep ten.

I roll my eyes, settling deeper into the comfortable chair I’m lounging in. I take a long sip from the cold beer I’m holding and enjoy the peaceful sounds of nature surrounding us, feeling relaxed for the first time in weeks.

“How’s the pro life treating you, Dawson?” Anderson asks me as we’re sitting around the campfire eating dinner.

“Good,” I reply, taking a large bite of chicken. It’s surprisingly tasty, and I’m glad Kenny also sprang for some fancy new portable grill. Not that I’ll tell him that.

“Don’t spare us any details.” Anderson rolls his eyes.

“It’s not that different from Lincoln. Longer practices, better facilities. Still football.”

“What are the girls like?” Owens asks, shooting me a sly grin. “I hear southern girls are super hot.”

“Yeah, they are.” I think back to the girl at the bar. The one I barely glanced at.

“I’d bet your pro contract you haven’t touched one of them though, right?” Anderson asks.

I scoff and take another bite of chicken.

“We’re still not allowed to talk about her?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I clip.

“And you’re still pretending you’re not in love with her?”

“I’m not in love with her,” I state, injecting as much resolution in my voice as possible in hopes Anderson will decide to drop it.

“So…you’re turning down models and refusing to talk about her because…?”

Owens and Kenny are silent as Anderson and I stare each other down. I’m surprised he’s pushing the topic as much as he is; normally he mentions her once and then drops the subject.

“I’m focusing on football.”

“Why can’t you just admit you still have feelings for her? That you’re pissed about what happened?”

“Why can’t you just drop it?” I shoot back, taking a long swig from my beer. All traces of relaxation have long disappeared. I’m tense, edgy, and annoyed.

“I liked her,” Anderson replies. “Obviously not as much as you did—or do—but still. And I can see how it bothers you. Just admit it and do something about it. Or else move on.”