Two weeks, two away games, but it doesn't matter as I run onto the field at Farmington University, our away whites gleaming in the sun. They can't stop me, and the only bad thing about coming to Farmington is that they have a smaller stadium than Western, holding only sixty thousand instead of our eighty.

"You gonna put on a show again today?" Charlie Peters, one of our defensive backs, asks as we all gather on the sidelines for the kickoff. "I've got fifty bucks saying you get two touchdowns."

"Hope that means you took two and up," I shoot back, smiling. "You keep doing that, and you'll make plenty of money this year."

"We'll see. Nobody can keep up the pace you're on for a whole season," Charlie replies. "I mean, you're going to be breaking records by Thanksgiving if you keep this up. Shit don't work that way."

"You mean it doesn't work for other people," I reply. I look around at the crowd, and feel their power soaking into me and filling my body with their energy. Nobody understands the power of the crowd that way, the rush . . . the recognition. Duncan Hart, world-beating tight end, not Duncan Hart, son of Winston Hart.

I put my Dad out of my head and focus on the game. We're going on defense first, so I slap Charlie on the shoulder as he straps up. "Go get 'em. I hate trying to play both ways."

"Yeah, right!" Charlie calls, jogging out on the field as Coach Bainridge calls for the starting defense. I watch him go and settle into the game, flexing my arm as I feel the tape. Coach Taylor did the job this week, and it feels different, not quite right, but it'll get there. Still, it's not Carrie's work, and I'm not sure I like it all that much.

Pretty soon, though, we get the ball, and it's my turn. Let's go to work.

* * *

Three weeks into the season, and Western's knocking on the door of a top ten ranking in the polls, and it's all due to me. Tyler, our quarterback, is even getting some sniffs from pro scouts, who are wondering if his play is because of him or because of the talent surrounding him. Of course it’s the talent around him. “On three. Ready, BREAK!"

Tyler spreads the ball around a bit in the game. I mean, he can't just throw it to me every single time. Farmington's not a bad team. In fact, they went to a bowl last year, but they can't stop me, and because they can't stop me, they can't stop the Western Bulldogs.

I line up on the right side, squaring my feet. I look across and see that the linebacker covering me is number 47, a guy I've burned two times already for big chunks of yardage. Farmington runs a 3-4, and their outside linebackers tend to play close, only a couple of yards off the line to jam guys like me . . . if they can. "Don't worry, 47, it's all going to be over soon," I call, grinning, making sure to keep my voice low enough that the ref won't throw a flag on me. "Thirty minutes at most, and you can go crawling back home."

“Fuck you, bitch!" he yells, and I've got him. He's distracted, not playing smart, and it’s just a matter of time.

I can see Tyler out of the corner of my eye smile as he starts his count. He knows what's coming, I've used it enough before. It's not a particularly original taunt, but fuck it, it works.

The ball snaps, and 47 is out of control, so pissed off he charges instead of waiting for me to come to him. I slap his outside shoulder, sending him past me while I slide my hips and body to the outside.

I'm uncovered as I turn back, just in time to catch Tyler's pass. I’ve gotta give it to him. He's not the strongest armed QB in the conference, but he's got laser precision, and I don't need to break stride at all as I draw his pass in and turn upfield.

I see the free safety coming to try to stick me and I lower a shoulder, taking him on my left side while I send a quick angled step that puts my entire weight into him, and the hundred and ninety-pound bitch goes flying while I spin off, already accelerating upfield again. There's only one guy who has a shot at catching me. He's got the pursuit angle, and as a cornerback, he's pretty fast. He’s closing the distance quickly, but I've only got twenty yards to go.

Fuck it. We're up by two touchdowns already, one of them mine, and I want to have some fun. When the cornerback gets close enough, we're nearly at the goal line, and I lay out, diving over top of him and flipping, completing the front flip to land on my feet in the end zone, the cornerback left lying on the turf with a chunk of grass for a snack, and the roar of the fans is a physical wave that lifts me while the rest of the team comes rushing toward me.

Someone hits me from behind, and I realize that 47 isn't willing to let my taunt go, but as he drives into me, I roll with it, flipping him over and landing him on the turf underneath me, face to face.

"Don't worry. I'll seal the deal of making you my bitch after the game. Just make sure you've got lots of lube," I taunt him again as the mob of players on both sides tries to pull us apart.

The late hit costs Farmington fifteen yards on the kickoff, and 47 gets thrown out of the game. As I head off the field, the ref gives me a warning. "Watch the trash talk, 83. Any more of it, and I'll throw a flag on you."

Like I care. I've already broken their starting linebacker, gotten two touchdowns, a fucking ESPN highlight reel catch, and I've still got a quarter to pad my stats. I jog off the field and take a seat on the bench. I look around for a moment, then remember that we're on an away game, so the training staff is light. Carrie's back at Western.

"Looking for your PAT again?" Tyler asks, taking a seat next to me and pulling off his helmet. "You know she's probably back at campus, watching the game and dreaming of you. You hit that yet?"

"Fuck you, Paulson," I seethe unexpectedly for some reason. I’d already warned him once. "I told all of you to stop calling her that."

"What, PAT? Fuck it, man. She's just another slut," Tyler continues, his words cut off when I grab him by the shoulder pads and jerk him to his feet. "Whoa, what the fuck, man?"

"I said . . . stop calling her that," I hiss, my face inches from him. "She ain't no slut. Back off, or the only thing you'll be doing the rest of the season is learning how to jack off left-handed."

"Whoa, whoa!" Coach Thibedeau, our tight end coach and offensive coordinator yells, getting in between us. “You two, calm the fuck down!"

"Just remember what I said," I finish, letting go of him. "Not a word."

Tyler's pissed, but he lets Coach Thibs lead him away while I sit back down and stew. What the fuck am I doing? I know that sort of blowup is going to be caught by the cameras, and even if I'd told Tyler before to not call Carrie that, we'd done shit like that with each other lots of times. Coach Thibs isn't in a good mood either when he comes back.

"What the hell are you doing, Duncan?" he yells, barely restraining himself from popping me in the shoulder pads as he echoes my own inner thoughts. "Are you trying to get yourself benched or something?"

"I won't take any disrespect from anyone," I reply, looking Thibs in the eye. "Not from Tyler, not from Farmington . . . not from anyone."

"Yeah, well, if you want to catch any more balls this game, you’d better cool that shit off right now," Thibs replies, squatting down so we're eye to eye. "What the hell's gotten into you, Duncan? Talking shit to the other team, sure. Talking the same in practice, I don't like, but we can't seem to get you to stop. But you've never started shit with a teammate in the middle of a game. Don't get cocky. Farmington's a good team, and we could still lose this."

"No chance in hell of that," I say, looking up at the scoreboard as the crowd roars, contradicting me. Farmington's offense just connected on a deep pass, and they scored quickly, bringing them back within two touchdowns. Twenty-eight to fourteen, with one minute left in the third quarter. I look back at Thibs and pull my helmet on, snapping up.

"Okay, you're right. Fine. I'll keep it under control."

After the game, which we do win thirty-five to fourteen, I find Tyler in the shower area, where he's styling his surfer boy hair to perfection. He's currently dating one of the cheerleaders and probably looking forward to some quick couple time before we all get on the plane back to Western. "Yo, Tyler."

He glances over, then turns back to the mirror. His voice is tense, like he isn't quite sure how to handle me approaching him. Tyler's a tough guy for a quarterback, but I’m way too big for him. "Yo, Duncan."

"Hey man, I just wanted to say . . . my bad on the sidelines. I shouldn't have jerked you around like that."

Tyler brushes his hair one more time, then sets his comb down, turning to look at me. "Okay. Let's get this straight between us, Duncan. I know you're the biggest reason I'm putting up numbers like today. I know that, and I'm grateful for it. But that's beside the point. This girl, Carrie . . . she's getting to you. You need to get your head right. You're getting away with it the past two weeks, but come next week, we can't have it. We're playing Clement, remember? Their defense is all hard core motherfuckers."

"They always are. At least they aren't as bad as they used to be," I say, thinking back to my freshman year. Back then, Clement had beasts at linebacker, especially in the middle. Biggest ass whipping I've ever taken in a game. "But yeah, they’re good.”

"Damn right. Unless you want to be punked in front of a home crowd next week, including Carrie, you’d better have your shit tight come game time," Tyler says, finishing his hair. "Yo, we're friends, right?"

“I guess,” I reply, checking out my own hair. I'm not as picky as Tyler, but I'm not going to look like a mop coming out of the locker room either. "You know how I roll."

"Nobody's your real friend. I know. But you know what I mean. Just... make sure you're doing what needs to be done. The League's calling your name next year, while I'm hoping to get a spot up in Canada or on someone's backup roster. Ah well. No matter what, I've still got one thing on you."

"What's that?"

Tyler flips his hair and flashes me a cocky surfer boy grin. "I'm still better looking than you."

I laugh, our rift healed. "I doubt it. At least, that's not what your mom says."

* * *

"I can't believe you asked the coaches to do this," Carrie says as I meet her in the library. I hoped she'd be flattered, but instead, she's upset, but I'm not sure why. "I mean, as if having me as your personal taper isn't bad enough, Duncan—"

"Nobody's going to say a single word about you. I've made sure of that," I reply, setting my bag down and realizing what it is. That stupid fucking nickname. Yeah, it's pretty obvious to everyone that I'm wanting to get in her pants, but things have changed some too. I don’t want her as just another notch in my belt. "I just realized a couple of things after I got that first test back."

"That you shouldn't have blown off your science requirements for three years?" Carrie says as we sit down in the study booth. Western's library is huge and has two-person booths lining the study area that are perfect for this sort of partnered tutoring. "And maybe choosing Introduction to Human Biology wasn't the best choice?"

"Well, I figured I'm already an expert in the portion on reproduction," I tease, and it makes me warm to see Carrie blush a bit before she shakes her head. She's still so shy, but she's able to be strong too. Softness and strength together . . . God, she's sexy.

"I doubt that the Kama Sutra is on any of the tests," Carrie says, coming around at least a little bit. "However, the Krebs Cycle is, and for a guy who uses it to build a ton of muscle on that frame of yours, you don't know how it works."

"So help me," I say, and Carrie looks around, nervous. "I'm serious, Carrie. I know I'm a jerk, and maybe I shouldn't have kissed you the way I did before the first game, but . . . well, I enjoy spending time with you. Three games, seven touchdowns caught, and it's because of your work with me. Well, I take that back. Some of it is because of your work with me. You're cooler than most of the assholes around this campus."

I'm warmed again when Carrie brushes a lock of her cornsilk blonde hair behind her ear, smiling shyly. I realize she doesn't know how hot she really is, maybe because of the weight loss, maybe because of her keeping her nose in the books too much. But as confident as she is academically or when it comes to training, she's just as shy and insecure in the social realm.

I take her hand. “Come on, Carrie. I promise I'll behave myself, all right?"

"All right," Carrie says, giving me a little smile, and we get to work. She's got a knack for explaining things, better than the teacher's aide who's been trying to get through to a lecture hall of fifty people who can barely understand what he's been saying, and the time flies. Carrie and I are both surprised when the chimes in the library ring, and we realize that we're only fifteen minutes from the library’s closing. "Whoa."

"Yeah," I say, laughing softly. "This has been the best study session I've ever had. And you do make it a lot more interesting than my major courses."

"Which are?" Carrie asks, then shrugs. "They didn't tell me. Coach Taylor just told me you asked for my help on a biology class."

"I'm a management major," I reply, putting my book back in my backpack. "I figure it'll teach me enough to keep my shit together next year when I'm in the pros. A little bit of business, a little bit of leadership, you know . . . stuff that could be useful."

Carrie nods and closes up her own backpack. "You're smarter than that, though. I've seen it. Why do you insist on limiting yourself to being just a football player?"

"I'm more than just a football player," I reply. "I'm an exceptional football player. But as to why . . . well, tell you what. Go out with me, and maybe I'll tell you."

Carrie shakes her head. “Not interested in a team party again. I already told you that."

Carrie goes to stand up, but I put my hand over hers, and she stops. "I'm serious, Carrie. No team party, no frat house, nothing like that," I say, and I'm surprised in that I actually am being honest. I want to spend time with her, not just find a way to fuck her. "Just you, me, and maybe a pizza? Stagglione's just off campus makes a pretty mean deep dish."

Carrie considers it for a moment, then shakes her head. "Nope." She sees the disappointment in my face and breaks out in a grin. "I don't like Stag's. But, if you make it the Bangkok House on the other side of campus, I might be tempted."

I grin, and the chimes play again. We've got five minutes to get out now. "Okay, Bangkok House it is. How about tomorrow night, say eight? I'd say Saturday, but after Clement, I might not be in the mood for a date."

"A date, huh?" Carrie teases as we walk toward the exit of the library. "Why, Duncan Hart, I think I might be the first girl in at least a semester you have actually asked out on a date, and not what your reputation says you normally invite girls to."

It's my turn to blush slightly, and Carrie takes my hand when we go outside, walking down the long steps to Allen Quad, and yeah, it's the same Allen that the stadium is named after. Being stupid levels of rich means you get to put your name all over the university you give your money to. "Well, I guess you could say that—”

"If you can keep yourself under control, I think a date with you might be a lot of fun," Carrie says, and suddenly, she gets onto her tiptoes, kissing me on the cheek. "Have a good night, Duncan. See you for taping tomorrow."

Carrie starts to walk away, but she turns and looks back. "By the way, I wouldn't worry about Clement," she says, just on the edge of the circle of light from the library lamps. "As good as you've been doing, they should be the ones worried."

"Who knew you were romantic?" I toss back, and Carrie laughs, giving me a wave. As she walks away, I notice that she's not wearing stuff as oversized as she used to. It's a subtle change, but I can start to see the faintest outlines of her dynamite figure in her clothes, and I watch until she disappears into the night, heading toward her dorm room. I shake my head, and I'm smiling as I get on my bike and fire it up, heading back to my apartment.

A date. For Thai food. God, I feel like such a goofball.