"Have a seat, Duncan," Coach Bainridge says as I come in, my arm still in a sling. I'm feeling pretty good, though, and I’m looking forward to ditching the damn thing as soon as I leave the athletic complex. Three weeks of wearing the damn thing around is grating on my nerves. "How's the arm?"

"The elbow's fine. Only reason I'm wearing the sling is so that the Academic Director doesn't shit himself too early. You know he saw dollar signs evaporating into the air during the Green and White game."

Coach Bainridge winces at the memory, and I'm glad about that. It was his fault that I'd even been out on the field during the meaningless glorified scrimmage that does nothing more than give the boosters a hard-on and a reason to pull out their credit cards. My side, the Green team, made up of offensive upperclassmen and defensive lowerclassmen, was comfortably ahead in the mock fourth quarter when Coach left me in for the second to last series, and I got pinwheeled by some backup junior, named Derek Young, who was trying to make a hit on the biggest star the Western University Bulldogs had. One flip over the jackass's shoulder pads, and I landed on my left elbow, with resulting chips in the elbow that required surgery a week later. It's now four weeks after the game, and I'm ready to get back to work.

"Duncan, you know that the AD cares more about your status as a healthy member of the student body than anything else."

Oh, now that's rich. I know the shit the AD pulls for the glory of Western. “We both know that’s bullshit. I'm an athlete-student, not a student-athlete that the conference likes to promote. The football team brings this university millions of dollars in profit each season. And you know that if your biggest offensive threat goes down for the year, those millions evaporate like piss in the summer sun."

Yeah, I'm arrogant. But it’s deserved. Last year, I led the conference in receptions, yards after catch, and receiving touchdowns. Fuck, I even threw for one during a trick play during our opening game against Navy. I was first-team All-Conference and second-team All-American as a junior, and now, as a senior, I am the best player on a team that has a chance to win the conference championship, if things go right.

And Bainridge knows it. He's been coaching at Western for a decade now, and his contract's up soon. He needs me more than I need him. Still, he tries. "Duncan, watch your language. You may be an important part of this team, but you’re not above the rules."

"Rules?" I ask, leaning back and laughing hard again. "In case you haven't noticed, Coach, me and rules get along about as good as you and your ex-wife. How's that going, by the way?"

Bainridge's glower is funny, but he's wrong about something. I do have rules. In fact, I have four rules for football. I'm not the guy who came up with them, but I've never been someone who thinks I need to be overly worried about borrowing from others. Anyway, my four rules are quite simple.

Hit.

Stick.

Crack heads.

Talk shit.

On the football field, I hit hard. I may be a tight end, but I handle defensive tackles and ends thirty to sixty pounds heavier than my two forty without a problem.

I stick too, whether it's catching anything thrown within my reach or sticking a route. When I was in high school, I played defensive end, and I stuck plenty of helpless idiots there too. Now that I'm in college, I run my routes perfectly, I block my assignments perfectly, and I am perfect.

Crack heads. Yeah, that's right. I'm going to bust your balls, take your heart, and stomp on that motherfucker more than once before the end of the game. If you're on defense, you're my bitch, and I mean prison style too. I'm not going to go easy on you, regardless of whether you're the best in the country or some guy who's fighting for a spot on the team.

And of course, I talk shit. I'm going to tell you how good I am and exactly what I'm going to do to you while I do it. It makes it all the better when I whip your ass, take your heart and your girl, and maybe your sister too, if she's hot enough.

Coach Bainridge doesn't seem to agree with my assessment, however, and his face turns a little pink as he listens to my question. It’s a low blow. I mean, it wasn't his fault his ex-wife ran off with a younger guy. "You little shit. You're lucky that you're even still on this team after the stunts you've pulled. I could throw you off the team, you know."

"And if you do, I declare for the supplemental draft that's coming up soon, get selected, and cash in early while you get your contract bought out. I'll be in the pros while you're stuck doing what? Analysis on some second-rate cable network? That's really supposed to scare me?"

Coach smirks, and for the first time in our entire conversation, I'm somewhat disturbed. I'm the one who’s supposed to be in charge of this conversation, not him. Then why does he look like he's under control? "I don't think so, Duncan."

"What's that supposed to mean? In case you don't remember, I'm not one of your scholarship losers. I'm fully paid up. My dad paid all of my way through this school. I can walk, and it doesn't hurt me. You can't hurt me."

Coach leans forward, putting his forearms on the desk, and shakes his head. "Oh, but Duncan, I can. You say you can declare for the supp draft, and that's true. But try getting drafted if it comes out that you're a ball hog and a bad teammate who causes drama for any team that drafts him. The teams can find out about your party habits. The League nearly crucified the last little shit who tried to ride out the gravy train while having your sort of past. What's he doing now? Oh yeah, that's right, drug rehab in an in-treatment facility about an hour south of Santa Barbara with no contract and about ten million dollars’ worth of lawsuits sitting in his lap when he gets out."

Shit. "You can't. I'll sue you for defamation of character."

Coach laughs again, like I've just told the funniest joke in the world. "Sue me? Duncan, first, you'd have to prove that I did actually reveal any information, and there are so many sources out there. The reality is that for three years now, I've been covering for you, not revealing anything about you."

Like that matters. "Yeah, just like every other coach around college ball. You guys get a player with my talent, and you bend over backward to make sure we stay eligible and putting cash in your pockets. How much is that Nike endorsement contract the team signed last year worth to you? Half a million a year?"

"That contract is written with the knowledge that players like you come in and fade out. There are some who have a good year, then shit happens," Coach counters, still smiling a little smile that disturbs me. Maybe Bainridge knows something more than I do. “By the way, I know you had that agency do an evaluation of your potential draft position over the summer, and I know the results. Coming off the chips in your elbow, and as a tight end, regardless if you have good speed and hands for that position and can play slot, you were looking at nothing higher than a third-round pick in April's draft, weren't you?"

Damn, Coach knows more about me than I thought. Talking with an agent like that is technically against the rules, although I never signed any contract with them, so there's nothing that can be proven. "Something like that."

Bainridge nods and continues. "But if you put up good numbers this year, you've got a chance at a first- or second-round pick, which doubles or even triples the money you get on that rookie contract. I know you don't give a fuck about the money—you care about the fame and your reputation. Being some third-round scrub pick is nothing. Being a first- or second-rounder though, you come with expectations and a greater potential of fame. You think you're the first egotistical prick I've had to deal with in twenty years of being a head coach?"

Of course I don't. It was one of the reasons I picked Western. I knew that Bainridge ran a program that produced League-level players nearly every year. He'd just had a dry spell, and there were whispers that maybe he'd lost his touch as a recruiter, that he was getting too old to keep up with the modern game. Not that I cared. I cared that Western got a minimum of nine games a year nationally televised. "You covered for the other guys."

"Of course I did. You're right. But I also demanded at least a modicum of professionalism from each of them. Which meant that I overlooked their poofty, underwater basket-weaving major schedules, the girlfriends that got stacked two and three deep at times, the parties, the drunken frat antics, all of it . . . IF they showed up and did their jobs for the team and produced on the field. Now, I will admit you've been a tougher nut to crack than most of the others. I could hold their scholarships over their heads. But I know what drives you, Duncan. I take away your ability to get fame, and you're stuck. So that's what I'm holding over you. You either get with the program, or some of the front offices in the League get anonymous but easily verified reports about your antics during the past four years."

Fucking asshole. But he has me over a rock. "What do you want?"

"I talked with Coach Taylor. He says you've been avoiding coming down for a rehab."

"Of course. That meathead can't tell me what to do." When I say meathead about Coach Dave Taylor, that is exactly what I mean too. The guy has a neck larger than his head and seems to think that the cure for everything is squats and deadlifts. If he got an AIDS diagnosis, he'd probably go do some power cleans to cure it.

Bainridge doesn't agree with my opinion. Nothing new there. "Actually, he can. In fact, he's got a PhD in kinesiology and rehabs more athletes in a year than some strength coaches and trainers rehab in a lifetime. So here's the deal. For your own damn good, I'm ordering you to go down to the weight room tomorrow as soon as your last class is finished. When is that?"

"Two," I grumble, knowing if I lied, Bainridge would just look it up anyway. He gets that information from the registrar's office every semester. "So three?"

"Two thirty," Bainridge counters. "Coach Taylor has an offseason lift with the volleyball team scheduled to start at three, and I won't let some prima donna player of mine screw with his schedule. So you get your ass down there by two thirty, and you talk with him. I don't care if he wants you to sleep in the weight room and do wind sprints before breakfast. You do them, and you do them exactly according to protocol. If he says walk, you walk. If he says run so hard you puke, you’d better bring a bucket."

"Why the fuck are you doing this?" I ask, and I know I'm pouting. Still, this sucks, and I can't do a fucking thing about it. "You just want to see how hard you can push me for a year? Getting your rocks off or something?"

"Actually, whether you believe it or not, I'm doing this because I think you actually do have the talent to be a good pro-ball player. In fact, you’re one of the most talented players I've seen on this team in the twenty years I've had at Western. But . . . you're lazy and undisciplined. You take those habits to the pros, and you're going to be broken in half. So I'm going to make you learn discipline and how to work hard and be a man instead of an overgrown boy. That it will just happen to benefit this football team is what is known as a win-win. Understand me?"

I nod, and I'm not happy, but at least it's not as bad as I thought. He has what my father calls leverage, and most people with that amount of leverage don't exactly give it up this easily. Still, I can’t be sure that this was all that Coach wants. "Okay, I'll be there. Now, is there anything else you want?"

Coach shakes his head and points at the door. "You should probably get going, Duncan. After all, you still have a doctor's appointment this afternoon to make sure you're medically cleared to start your rehab tomorrow."

I get up and resist the urge to kick the chair across the room. Instead, I grab my backpack and go to the door, pausing before I open it. "You know, Coach, I'm going to take this shit and shove it down your damn throat some day."

"Good. That means you'll be scoring touchdowns while doing it, too. Now get out."

I leave the Coach's office, and I'm determined not to act like anything is wrong as I head out. I'm Duncan Hart, and there's no way that I can be made to look like a punk ass bitch. I'm going to play it cool.

Unfortunately for me, I'm playing it so cool—especially when I see a couple of girl's volleyball players heading down the hall toward the gym they use for practice, with their tight, thick volleyball asses snug inside those ridiculously hot short shorts they wear—that I'm not really looking where I'm going.

"Hey, Linda," I say to the one I know. "Whatcha doing tonight?"

"Don't even try it, Touchdown," Linda replies with a little mix of hatred thrown in. Okay, so I'd slept with her twin sister. That didn't mean I had to be hated, did it? Besides, I noticed Linda checking me out even afterward, especially when I was wearing my football pants, which are nearly as tight as her shorts. She wants the Hart Attack. Her sister loved it, and I know they talk.

"Come on, you know I'm not that—"

I'm not looking where I'm going. My eyes are fixed on Linda's ass, and I collide with someone, knocking them to the ground and causing me to stumble into the wall. “Holy shit! Look where you're going next time."

I see long blonde hair, maybe a girl's, as I grab my backpack, but before I can do anything else, the alarm on my phone rings, and I need to haul ass. My doctor's appointment is in twenty minutes, and since I can't technically be without my sling, that means I can't ride my motorcycle. Thankfully, the campus bus is convenient enough, and I catch the bus right as it starts to pull away, taking it the ten-minute ride to University Hospital.

* * *

I’m glad that Western University has one of the better orthopedic departments in this half of the United States. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to have dealt with any sort of injury at some cow college in the middle of nowhere.

"Mr. Hart? Let's get you to X-ray," the nurse, a cute little thing who's already eying me as we walk down the hall, says as she leads me to the scanning room. I check out her name tag, and I have to do a double take. I've seen her before, but this is the first time I've seen her name tag. Really? Someone actually named their daughter Nancy Drew? You've gotta be fucking kidding me. "You're feeling no pain, right?"

"None that the doctor can help me with," I say, giving her a smirk. Nurse Nancy might just be what I need to relieve some stress. "You might be able to, though."

"Oh?" she purrs, leaning in. She's got a tight little body—that's evident even through her uniform—and she's showing me just a little bit of cleavage with her scrub top. "Find me after the exam. Maybe we can see what I can do for you."

"For sure." I smirk. "Think I can get the speedy service? You know, I'm having so many aches and pains in my hip area."

"Swelling?"

"Lots of it. Huge amounts of swelling."

The nurse is breathing heavier. She's already DTF, and I take her hand and give her a little kiss on the knuckles. "After my appointment, where will you be?"

"Department desk," she half-moans. Her brown eyes are half-lidded and she’s biting her lip. "I can take a meal break then."

"And we can get some privacy?"

She nods, and I kiss her knuckles again. "Good. Now, let's get the scans done."

The exam room is really high-tech, with the X-ray not being some old school sit there and take photos machine, but instead, they are able to give you a live scan of the area. I can even watch my elbow move on the video monitor above my head. The X-ray tech records for a minute, then tells me I can go see the doc.

"Mr. Hart?" Dr. Lefort says. "How're you doing?"

"Ready to get out of this sling and back to the real world," I answer, flexing my arm. "You keep me in this thing much longer, and my bike's going to forget who I am."

Lefort laughs, an interesting side effect of my mouth sometimes. I either piss you off, or you think I'm funny. Some people think both at the same time, but Lefort is amused. "Well, let's take a look at the video. Hold on here . . . okay."

He replays the video, nodding and humming to himself in places. "And you're not feeling any pain?"

"None."

"Let me see the incision. You know, I still don’t understand why you didn't let me do the surgery arthroscopically. The scar would have eventually been no more than the size of a thumbtack hole."

I look at the two-inch line on the inside of my arm and grin. It's perfectly aligned with the tattoo I want to get, a half-sleeve that'll go from my shoulder to my elbow. "Chicks dig scars, doc. You know that, right?"

Lefort laughs again and has me flex my arm a few more times. "Okay. You're cleared to start rehab. I assume you'll be working with Coach Taylor?"

"Unfortunately," I grumble. "Coach Bainridge ordered me to."

"Don't knock it. Dave's a good man. Helped me with my rehab when I tore up my hip going hiking last summer. And doctors make the worst patients, because we know that we already know it all."

I smirk at his joke and roll my arm. "Think I can ride my bike?"

"Give it a few days," Lefort replies, scribbling on his clipboard. "Not because you don't have the strength, but just to reacquaint yourself with using the arm. At least wait until this weekend. All right then. I'll forward this to both Coach Taylor and Coach Bainridge. Good luck, Duncan. I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do this fall."

"Thanks, Doc. Take it easy."