Dr. Haynes was a hottie, a total silver fox. I’d only seen pictures in the campus newsletters, but holy fuck. I could learn a lot from that man. “No,” I choked out. “I just want to make sure I have a good mentor and the support of Coach Howard. From the looks of it, Oakley Davis will require a lot of work, and I want to be set up for success.”

“Of course,” Mr. Tuesday replied, though he didn’t sound convinced. I didn’t really care. I was doing the university a favor. Most universities had PR reps for the campus, but if they wanted to assign an intern to their star player, then they must be desperate.

I briefly wondered why Oakley was willing to throw his life away. I mean, how hard was it to keep your social media clean and stay sober? Did he not want to become a pro? Most guys on the team at this school were using the university’s influence as a stepping stone to the NFL. I didn’t know sports, but it didn’t take a genius to see that there was something else going on.

“I’ll make sure you have all the resources necessary to do this,” Mr. Tuesday said, drawing me out of my thoughts. I was already trying to think of how I’d help him. Maybe he needed to sign up for some charities. It would be easy enough to get his photo in the newspaper, kissing a baby or something. “Practice ends at seven tonight. Coach Howard said he would introduce the two of you afterward.”

“Great,” I said unenthusiastically. “Thanks for finding me something.” I had never been to the stadium before. I had a general idea of where it was, but I made a mental note to look it up.

“I only want what’s best for the students,” Mr. Tuesday replied before pulling a Twinkie out of his desk, opening it, and shoving the entire thing in his mouth. Disgusting.

I excused myself without a word and let out a long exhale in the hall. Glancing down at my phone, I quickly found all of Oakley’s social media accounts and followed him so I could start researching my client.

He was hot. I wasn’t going to deny it. But as I scrolled through every feed and tag and ridiculous comment, I grew sick to my stomach. Oakley’s wild life felt all too familiar. It was like staring at my old self. This was going to be a challenge—for more reasons than one.

* * *

Coach Howard was a short man with orange skin and chiseled muscles. He looked like your typical coach, with a university-issued polo shirt tucked into khaki pants. His tennis shoes were tied so tight that I wondered if any circulation could get to his toes. He was about my height but still somehow managed to look down at me.