Wednesday came before I was ready for it.

It was a bright and chilly morning. I hunched my back against the crisp breeze and clutched at my paper cup of steaming coffee for warmth, staring out at the training field and doing my best not to have a panic attack.

There was a clipboard tucked between my butt and the bleachers. It had a page of questions that Ellison had helped me draft—so I wouldn't forget anything important—but she'd also encouraged me to follow my instincts.

My instincts were telling me to sprint home and throw myself back into bed, but I didn't think that was what Ellison had meant.

My right knee bounced as I exhaled, breath visible in the morning air.

I checked my phone again.

Seven twenty-eight. Practice was almost over.

The football team had been there since six o'clock. I'd arrived at seven to give myself plenty of time to gather my courage and gulp down a black coffee (which I'd thought would make me feel very mature and put-together, but just left my stomach churning from the acidity).

My phone lit up with a pair of texts from Hanna.

You are a strong confident kickass journalist and I believe in you.

Also we need more toilet paper can you steal some from campus?

I finished the last third of my coffee in one gulp.

The team had been scrimmaging for the last fifteen minutes, but Andre kept glancing over in between plays and waving at me with the abandon of a five-year-old who'd spotted his best friend at the grocery store. Each time, a few of the other players turned and narrowed their eyes at me, trying to figure out who the girl with the clipboard was.

They could probably tell I wasn't an NFL scout.

Andre was in a dark green practice jersey, so I quickly deduced that the guys in green were second string and the guys in white were the starters.

Bodie St. James looked very tan in white.

The sight of him made my already-tender stomach twist into knots, so I tried to watch Andre. Then Coach Vaughn pulled Andre to the side to talk him through a play, and I had to resort to examining a nonexistent hangnail on my left thumb.

Finally, Vaughn blew his whistle.

The shrill sound cut through the air and made my eardrums wobble.

It was seven thirty.

I collected my empty coffee cup and tugged my clipboard out from underneath me. Then I climbed over two rows of bleachers and hopped to the ground, feeling like perhaps the least athletic being to ever take the field.

It was a long and lonely walk across the grass to where the players were huddled around their head coach. Truman Vaughn was my height—about five eight, give or take—and built like a panther, with lithe muscle and a cutting stare. His lips were narrow and his dark hair was speckled grey around the temples. Beside him stood the assistant coach, Chester Gordon, a big-eared redhead whose eyebrows were practically translucent. The players stood in a semi-circle before them.

"—we'll run it again tomorrow, bright and early. Lions on three."

The boys erupted in a single, unified, "One-two-three-Lions!"

I took a deep breath and scolded myself for feeling so nervous. I'd interviewed people before. I knew how to do this. Besides, Bodie was a nice person, either by nature or by some kind of self-serving choice, so there was nothing to be afraid of.

It wasn't like I was going on a first date with the guy.

I was just trying to figure out if his head coach was a scumbag.

Half the players took off for the locker room. The others hovered around the field, packing up their gear and talking amongst themselves. I kept my eyes on Bodie's back as Andre shuffled over to meet me a few yards out from the bench.

"Detective Cates," he greeted.

I shook my head and put one hand on my stomach.

"I drank so much coffee, Andre. I'm gonna be sick."

He made a face, one that conveyed yikes nonverbally, and plucked my coffee cup out of my hand.

"Maybe I should—wow, damn. You killed it. Is this a venti?"

It was.

My phone buzzed with a text.

"Fucking great," I grumbled as I scanned it once, then twice to be sure. "I've gotta do it now. Ellison has Vaughn in his office."

"You got this," Andre told me. "St. James is the nicest guy. Don't stress it."

He gave me a quick thumbs up as I trudged closer to the bench, where the aforementioned nicest guy had shed his jersey and pads, so he was down to just a black, sleeveless Under Armour shirt that was so tight I could see the muscles in his shoulder blades working.

Madre de dios, please keep your shirt on, I thought. This will be so much easier if you keep your shirt on.

I squeezed my way around a clump of large, damp, smelly bodies.

And then I was standing right there, close enough that I could see the rivulets of sweat running down the back of his flushed neck.

"Bodie?" I asked.

I had only a split second to scrub my sweaty palm against the side of my leggings as furtively as I could before he turned around, eyebrows pinched in question and a Gatorade squeeze water bottle held halfway up to his mouth. His brown hair was messy and damp, and in the morning sunlight, his eyes seemed warmer—more hazel than grey, like I'd thought they were.

"Hi," I croaked. "Could I borrow you for a sec?"

Bodie's fingers clenched and his water bottle spurted out a cloud of mist. He winced and reared back, blinking wildly.

"I'm with the Daily and we're—"

"St. James!" someone shouted, loudly and directly next to my head. Kyle Fogarty stepped around me, his faux-hawk glistening artificial green in the sunlight, and smacked Bodie on the arm. "You down for lunch? Me and Torres are gonna go fuck it up at Chipotle."

I stepped to the side, feeling entirely invisible.

"Maybe I'll catch up with you," Bodie said, turning to face me even as he spoke to Fogarty. "I've gotta do something quick for the Daily."

Fogarty turned and blinked in surprise.

He hadn't noticed me. Predictable.

"Who's this?"

A part of me was outraged that Fogarty had directed the question at Bodie, as if I weren't capable of introducing myself. But I quickly forgot my outrage and fell into unexpected despondency as Bodie remained silent, his eyes searching my face in a way that I was achingly accustomed to.

He didn't remember me.

It made sense. It'd been nearly a week since we caught the same elevator, and he'd been standing a few feet away when I told Nick my name, so he probably hadn't heard it, anyway. I couldn't fault him for that.

I was used to being forgotten.

It didn't ease the sting.

"Laurel Cates," I told Fogarty.

He held out a large, sweaty hand. I flushed bright red as I shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Laurel," Fogarty said with a wink.

Kyle Fogarty was, objectively speaking, a ridiculously attractive guy. His skin was flawless and his hair was shiny and his face was arrestingly masculine. If you gave a hundred people a photo of him and a photo of Bodie, my guess was that almost every one of them would pick out Fogarty as the hotter of the two.

But there was something in Bodie's eyes that wasn't in Fogarty's.

An alertness. A kindness.

"You writing an article on my boy here?" Fogarty asked, grabbing Bodie by the back of the neck and jostling him.

"Well, actually, it's—"

"You should mention how big his dick is."

I choked on the rest of my sentence.

Bodie exhaled sharply.

"Fuck off," he said, giving Fogarty a shove. "I'll see you at Chipotle."

Fogarty laughed like a teenager who'd just executed a that's what she said joke he was immensely proud of, then sprinted off to catch up with a group of guys who were walking towards the locker room.

I was left alone with Bodie.

"Sorry about him," he said immediately, jaw tight and cheeks splotchy pink with what could've been a sunburn but was more likely embarrassment.

"It's okay," I mumbled.

"Uh, what did you—what'd you need me for?"

Bodie lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, slicking back his short hair. My eyes shifted, against my will, to the underside of his bicep. His skin was paler there, where the sun didn't reach.

I cleared my throat.

"Do you have a few minutes for an interview? I just have a few questions—" I held up my clipboard, as proof, and hoped he couldn't tell that my entire body was vibrating with caffeine and terror, "—for a profile we're doing on Coach Vaughn."

"Of course," Bodie said, polite as could be.

I clicked the end of my pen, then remembered something Ellison had told me.

"Oh, wait, sorry," I blurted, fumbling for my cell phone and wishing that I had a third hand so I wouldn't have to shove the end of my clipboard against my stomach to keep everything from rolling off. "Um, I'm supposed to ask before I—do you mind if I record this? My editor asked me to."

The corners of Bodie's mouth tugged up, as if my being flustered was charming rather than annoying.

"Do what you need to do," he said.

The full brunt of his smile was blinding. I looked down at my phone, glad for the excuse to avoid eye contact, and started an audio recording on the app Ellison had made me download before I cleared my throat and read off the first question.

"How has Vaughn influenced you as a player and as a man?"

Bodie let out a low whistle.

"Right to the heavy stuff, huh?" he joked. "Um, I think Vaughn's just—he's a really good role model. He's a good leader. He knows the game really well, and he's really good at communicating what he knows." He huffed. "I feel like I'm using the same three words over and over, is that okay?"

I glanced up.

Bodie seemed as nervous as I was, which seemed odd, given that he probably did interviews all the time. Maybe I'd thrown him off with the first question. Or maybe my anxiety was transferring via osmosis.

I don't know. I'm not a chemistry major.

"It's alright," I told him. "I'll redact all the ums."

He beamed at me.

I had to look down at my clipboard again to keep from blushing.

"So the two of you are close?" I pressed on.

"Oh, yeah. He's practically—um, I consider him a father figure."

"Is he optimistic about the season?"

"Absolutely. We're looking really strong this year."

Bodie seemed more confident speaking about the team.

"I saw you guys practicing," I told him. "You looked good out there. I mean, like, the whole team looked—the team looks really solid. I know you guys had summer training back in August. Did Vaughn seem optimistic about your chances at making the championships?"

"Definitely," Bodie said. "I mean, he got back from this charity trip in Mexico right before camp, so you could tell he was tired—and he was sunburnt as shit—" he laughed, "—but he was in a great mood. I think he knows we're going to have a good season."

I looked up from my clipboard.

"Charity trip?" I repeated.

Bodie nodded. "Yeah, I think he said it was like a Habitat for Humanity thing. Building houses, that sort of stuff."

"You didn't go with him?"

I kicked myself as soon as I said it. I should've been asking who'd gone with him, to keep it open ended.

"No, unfortunately," Bodie admitted. "It was kind of a hectic few months. I was home most of the summer. I had some family stuff. My older sister just had a baby."

I jotted down a few notes, including B has older sister.

It wasn't relevant. I didn't know why I'd bothered.

"My editor had a couple quick-fire questions here, too," I said.

"Shoot," Bodie told me, folding his arms over his chest.

I knew, logically, that he wasn't flexing on purpose. But my eyes snapped to his biceps and hovered there for a half a second too long.

"Um, what's Vaughn's favorite food?" I croaked.

"In-N-Out."

I hummed in approval.

"You a fan?" Bodie asked, sounding a little amused.

"I could eat, like, a bucket of animal fries," I said matter-of-factly. Then I reprimanded myself for getting off track when I had a mission to accomplish. "Okay, next question. What's Vaughn's favorite movie?"

"Oh. Easy. The Godfather."

Here we go, I thought.

"Which one?"

"All three. He loves them. Like, to an embarrassing degree. Quotes them all the time—you know, I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse."

Bodie's impression sounded about as authentically Italian as the Olive Garden.

I couldn't help it. I snorted.

"What?" he demanded, feigning offense as he set one hand on his hip. "What's wrong with my Sicilian accent?"

"Is that what that was?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

It was an easy thing to do—like I was joking around with Andre or Hanna, instead of a boy who was inevitably going to be a first round draft pick.

"Now you're just being unprofessional," Bodie deadpanned.

"I apologize," I said, equally serious.

The corners of Bodie's mouth twitched with a smile.

I got it, then. Why everyone adored him. He made you feel like you were his friend. Like you had inside jokes and secrets and shared history. Like you were special to him.

But he didn't remember me from the elevator, I told myself. He's not my friend.

"As I was saying," Bodie resumed, oblivious to my inner turmoil, "he's a big fan of those movies. Vaughn goes sailing a lot, so he bought this boat a few years back and named it after the main guy. You know, what's his name—the Corleone guy?"

I'd known about the boat, of course, but now we had confirmation.

"I haven't watched the movies in years," I admitted.

"Me either. But I'm pretty sure he's Vaughn's idol or something. He told me that when he coached high school ball and they had to travel for away games, he used to book his hotel rooms under Don Corleone so when he ordered room service he could pretend he was the Godfather."

My pen fell out of my hand.

Ever the gentleman, Bodie bent down to scoop it up, giving me a moment to wipe the shock off my face.

Vaughn had used a fake name before—and not just any fake name. The same one that the hotel room in Cabo had been booked under.

Bodie held out my pen.

My phone buzzed on my clipboard three times, loudly and in quick succession. They were all texts from Ellison.

Done with Vaughn

Think he's looking for St James

Get out of there

"I think that's all I need," I blurted, hitting pause on the recording and shoving my phone into the front pocket of my jean jacket. I snatched my pen out of Bodie's outstretched hand. "Thanks so much for your time."

Bodie blinked, looking a bit whiplashed. He glanced around the training field. It was just the two of us, and a few stray student employees who were helping to drag equipment back into the building. The morning air was growing warmer by the minute.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, of course. My pleasure."

Bodie offered me his brightest smile.

He was, as Andre had phrased it, the nicest guy.

And he'd just unknowingly given us ammunition against his head coach.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked.

"No! No, I'm—I'm set," I insisted. "Um. Hit the showers. Or whatever."

Before Bodie could say anything else, I spun on my heel and started back across the field, towards the gate off to the side of the bleachers. It would've been quicker to walk through the training facility, but I didn't want to risk running into Vaughn.

Meet u at media center, I texted Ellison.

Just as I slipped through the gate, I looked back and caught a glimpse of Bodie St. James standing out on the field, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder and his hand shielding his eyes from the sun as he watched Truman Vaughn march towards him.

❖ ❖ ❖

While I'm here, I want to know what everyone thinks of Bodie St. James. Do you feel like you could visualize him? Do you think there need to be more physical descriptions/movements between dialogue on his end? Do we like him? Do we trust him? How are we predicting he'll react when he finds out that Laurel is going to use some of the things he's said against his head coach?

Also, how do we feel about Kyle Fogarty? Just wondering.

Your friendly author,

Kate