“Nine thirty, then. What dorm?”
“Schaefer.”
I still haven’t let go of her face, and I force my hand down by my side.
“I’ll be there.”
I take a quick step back and nod before I turn.
“Carson?” she calls after me.
I swallow and then turn back. “Yeah?”
“Think you can manage to text me when you arrive?”
She’s smiling, but the bite in her words lets me know she’s only half teasing.
I grin back in lieu of an answer, but as I walk away, I pull out my phone. Unlocked, it automatically comes up to her text message, since it was the last thing I looked at.
How’s that list coming?
Finally, I reply.
I thought about it all weekend. And
through most of my last class.
I shove the thing back in my pocket and am both grateful and disappointed when she doesn’t reply. I’m sending mixed messages. I know that. But that’s because I’m a little mixed up myself.
Maybe my run will sort me out.
The athletic complex is on the far side of campus, and it takes me a good twenty minutes to walk there. Normally it only takes fifteen, but I stopped in at the student activity center to grab some food to go after all.
I stop by the locker room to change. There’s one dude asleep on the couch when I come in, probably waiting on the one-o’clock workout, otherwise it’s empty. Most of the room is done in the deep red that the school affectionately calls Rusk red. On the far wall is a painting of the school mascot, a wildcat that has to be at least ten feet long. Beside it in big, bold letters it says, “Bleed Rusk Red.” The locker room is a huge step up from the one I knew in high school and the one I spent last year in at Westfield, that’s for damn sure. It’s big and newly remodeled with plenty of space and amenities. Rusk might not have much in the way of a win-loss record, but they aren’t hurting for money, not with how much tuition at this damn place costs.
That’s another part of the plan. Between what my parents and I have saved up and financial aid, I have enough to go three semesters at Rusk. That gives me this season and the next to make myself an integral enough part of the team to warrant a scholarship if they want me to stay.
It’s damn near impossible to play college ball, go to class, and work a job. I busted my ass while I was at Westfield, saving every damn penny I could. My parents are doing the same. We have our ranch, but our area of Texas has been in a drought so long that there is no decent grass left for the livestock, and feed prices are sky-high. We had to sell more of our animals last year than ever before just to pay for everything we needed for upkeep. And considering they were underfed, we didn’t get nearly as good a price on them as we needed. Our only other income is from the store where we sell and repair tractors and other agricultural equipment. And the drought means no one else has the money to go around buying new equipment. It’s been a lean couple of years, but still my parents have managed to put some away.
I just hope it will be enough.
I should call them soon, but I’m not up to talking to Dad about the plan. And with all the money issues and the fact that Granny is in worse shape than she’s ever been, I’m swamped with guilt every time we talk. I should be there helping. The only thing worse than not being there to help is the thought that I might fail and all our planning will have been for nothing.
Goddamn. My mind is a mess today.
I change clothes quickly and head into the weight room. I catch sight of Coach Harrison, the defensive coordinator, along with two grad assistants, through the glass window to the coaches’ office. I raise a hand in greeting, and then head for a treadmill. There’s only a handful of other players in the room, as most of them come in the morning. One’s last name is Salter, but I’ve only spoken to him once, and the rest I don’t know. I’ve been working out with the team for several weeks now, but with over one hundred players on the roster, there are still plenty that I haven’t gotten to know.
There’s a trainer supervising as we work out, but otherwise we’re on our own. The coaches are only allowed to formally train us for a set number of hours a day; anything above that we have to do on our own.
But even if the coaches aren’t leading the extra workouts and they’re not “mandatory,” they’re not exactly optional either.
Another part of my plan? Put in more work than anyone else.
I turn the treadmill up to a brisk run and set about doing just that. I set my timer for half an hour and run hard, until the sweat runs off me in rivers.
I like the quiet that comes with running. As the sweat runs off, so does everything else, and I feel lighter when I’m through. I’ve always been this way. If I’m working—whether it’s out in the fields back home or on green stadium grass or here in the weight room—that’s the only time when my head goes silent.
That, and when I’ve got Dallas sprawled across my lap.
I run an extra ten minutes for that thought because clearly my head didn’t go quiet enough. If my schedule allowed, I’d run several times a day just to hold on to this feeling for a little longer.
When I’m done, I take a seat on a bench, using a towel to wipe at my face and arms.
“Need a spot?”
I look up. The guy standing next to me is one of the team managers, I think. He’s got blond, curly hair, and is tall, but a little too thin to be a player. I vaguely recall seeing someone with a similar build setting up before practice a few days ago. I look behind me and realize I’ve taken a seat at the bench press rather than just a normal bench.