My alarm goes off, reminding me I have a fucking life to keep together. Fuck if I care. I hit Snooze, but instead of drifting back into my nightmares, I stare at the ceiling. I have a million things to worry about, but the only thing running through my head is Elizabeth’s face when I told her what we felt wasn’t real. Her lips quivering. Her eyes welling up with tears. The confused wrinkles on her forehead. She looked like I told her someone she loved died. And I guess I did. The guy she thought I was.

I pull myself out of bed and try to get out of my head. I open the drawer on my nightstand and grab the fifth of vodka I bought a few days ago. It’s half empty. I take a long pull, closing my eyes to focus on the feeling. The burning down my throat is a welcome momentary distraction from the ache in my chest. I toss the bottle into my gym bag and head to the shower.

* * * *

“Jacobs,” the assistant coach shouts at me from across the field. “Coach’s office. Now.”

I jog back into the locker room, knowing there’s no way this is going to be good. I’ve been half-assing practice all week, showing up buzzed and not giving a fuck. I’m in no mood for this shit. If I didn’t need this scholarship, I’d be off this field in a heartbeat. Two weeks and the season will be over.

I knock on the door jamb. “You wanted to see me, Coach?”

“Close the door.”

I take a seat across from him and wait for the ass-chewing. He stares down at the paperwork in front of him like it insulted his favorite grandmother. He’s more angry than usual, his lips pursed and his eyebrows pinched together so tight they’re nearly touching.

He doesn’t even bother looking at me when he says, “Jacobs, you’re off the team.”

“What? I know I’ve lost focus this week—”

Standing up, he pushes back from his chair and slaps the folder down in front of me. “You tested positive for HGH.”

“Human growth hormone?” I laugh. That’s how ridiculous this is. I actually laugh at him. “That’s not possible.”

“Think this is funny? You just flushed your scholarship—your fucking life—down the toilet.”

“Coach, you can’t be serious.” I open the folder, flipping through the pages of lab results that don’t make any sense. There are numbers, percentages and drug names I can’t even pronounce. “There’s gotta be some kind of mistake. You know I’d never touch this shit.”

He crosses his arms. “That’s what I would have said at the start of the season. Now, I have no idea who you are.”