“Train harder.”

I swing my head to the side. “At three AM?”

“If you train harder, you’ll sleep harder. Watch a little film if you can’t sleep. Problem with all you knuckleheads like Todd is you forget football is won when you prepare.”

Lifting my head, I glance at my team—my Super Bowl winning team. “They were prepared enough to win a championship.”

“Defense gave up score after score.”

Yeah, because you sat our number one corner back to prove a point.

“You threw two picks.”

I don’t need the reminder, but I guess I know Coach well enough that he’ll continue to serve it for as long as he remembers to. I frown but don’t say anything. Rubbing a hand over my face, I look over at the paper, reading the headline.

MONTGOMERY CALLED TOO PRESIDENTIAL TO BE ELECTED AS THE PEOPLE’S PRESIDENT FOR SECOND TERM.

“You know, Walt Montgomery is a big Rebels fan.” Coach tilts his head at me and smirks. “Let’s make sure to get a photo, just the three Manhasset boys.”

If I remember correctly, Coach Foller isn’t from Manhasset. He’s from Connecticut. But I guess that’s fair. He worked as a guidance counselor at Thacher far longer than he ever coached at the school.

“We’ll be collecting those kinds of photos, you and me,” Coach says. “Many of them. Too bad it never worked out at Thacher for his younger daughter.” There’s nothing empathetic about Coach’s tone. “But it worked out better for you. And I’m sure wherever she is, she turned out alright.”

* * *

I’ve never had a focus issue when it comes to work. Not on the field or off it. If a relationship took my attention away from training or the game, I ended the relationship. If a brand deal wouldn’t be flexible with my intense schedule, even during the offseason, I didn’t work with them. And now? Now, at one of the highest celebrations of my professional accomplishments, while Walter Montgomery babbles on about patriotism and dedication, about how the Rebels exemplify the same spirit of its early-American namesake, I don’t give two shits about the fact that I’m not thinking about football at all.

I go between boring a hole into the back of his salt-and-pepper-covered head, dreaming about wringing his neck, and letting my gaze drift over to Candice, hoping she’ll burn in hell. But mixed into the crowd of the First Lady and her group of staffers with wide eyes and bright smiles is a pair of honey-brown eyes homed in on me.

Parker’s stare is strong, nearly palpable, and I expect to see a glint of excitedness there considering we’re nearly at go time. Instead, I press my lips into a tight line when I find that she looks exhausted.