I peel away the circle of plastic around the mouth of the jug and pop it open.

“Isaiah,” I stop Brookes as he turns to leave, my pale hand wrapped around his dark forearm. He flexes his fingers into a fist, and I let him go. He might be a little more pissed than I thought. “I’m sorry, man. It was just one of those weekends. I’m good.”

He walks to the door frame and lightly raps his knuckles against it a few times. “I’m not really the one you’re hurting, Silas. Just be glad we already took our drug tests when we reported on Friday.”

Fuuuuuck. Yet another thing I hadn’t thought of. The chances of Coach popping another drug test on us now are almost zero, but still . . .

He leaves, and I do as he says, starting with the shower. I drink the full jug of water and try to get some sleep.

Try being the key word.

I mostly lay there, resisting the urge to scream obscenities loud enough to wake the whole house.

I go for a run, but a hangover has already started creeping over me, and the nausea makes me feel like my organs are shifting with each stride. I call it quits and walk the rest of the way home, knowing I’m going to be a f**king wreck at practice in six hours.

I take another shower. I think about jacking off, but as soon as I picture Dylan draped over my lap, her hair falling out of that braid, the feel of her against my hand—a bass drum pounds in my head. I brace my hand against the tile, let the water pelt my face, and try not to throw up.

I chug some more water when morning comes, and think again how damn lucky I am that we did our drug tests when we reported on Friday. Not that there aren’t ways to beat them. I learned plenty of tricks freshman year, but none of it is foolproof.

I remember Torres being scared shitless last year when his name came up for the random test. We taught him all the things that gave him a better shot at passing (which he did), and all the dude talked about for the week afterward was that he was scared the Midol we had him take was going to give him manboobs.

I’m sitting at the table, plowing through a mountain of toast, when Torres hurdles down the stairs.

“Look who’s alive.” He grins, grabbing a protein drink from the fridge. “Zay sort you out?”

Brookes enters the kitchen from the living room. “I just brought him water.”

I finish my toast, have a little more water and a few pills. And that’s as good as it’s going to get.

I opt to take my own truck instead of riding with the disgustingly cheerful duo. I don’t even make it to the locker room before a voice reaches me from the coaches’ office.

“Moore!” It’s Coach Oz, the team’s strength and conditioning coach.

“Yes, sir?”

“Coach Cole’s office. Now.”

And . . . f**k.

Just f**k.

I could probably live the rest of my life only using that word and it would sum things up fine.

I step into the office and every coach inside turns to look at me. I nod at the first few, but then I’m stuck doing this stupid head bob that makes my headache worse. So, I give it up and head straight for the door to Coach’s private office. The door is half open, so I poke my head inside.

“Sir?”

He looks up from his computer, looks back at the screen, and types for a few seconds longer.

“Come in, Silas.”

And . . . another f**k. Coach only uses first names when shit is serious. I sit down, and the silence freaking swallows me. He takes a sip from a coffee mug, sets it back down, and waits another few seconds to look at me. Then he just stares. Straight face. Blank. Almost expectant. This must be what it’s like to have a parent around to piss off all the time.

“How was your weekend?”

Damn. Who told? I start running through the names and faces of who was at the party. No one saw me high that I know of, but they could have just told him about the party in general, and it was at my place.

“Fine, sir.”

“Fine.” He repeats, nodding. “Fine.” He draws the word out a little longer the second time. “Then explain to me why I heard from a friend in the sheriff’s office Saturday morning.”

I close my eyes and drop my head back. I didn’t even think about that. I’d assumed since Levi didn’t press charges that I was in the clear.

Wrong.

“It was all taken care of, Coach. They only held me for a couple of hours or so. Nothing will show up on my record.”

“I don’t care about your record. What the hell were you thinking, kid?”

“I’m sorry, sir. Levi just got under my skin, I guess.”

He stands up and plants a hard fist on his desk. “Then get thicker skin.”

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

He stands straight and paces behind his desk.

“You’re a good football player, Silas. And I see it in you when you play . . . I know what this team means to you. But your grades are mediocre. You have a temper. You have a tendency to make poor decisions.” Goddamn it, talk about a broken record. I get it, world. I suck. It’s pretty clear now.

Coach continues, “I want to trust you . . . I do. You wield a great deal of influence over this team, and I want to make sure it’s a positive one.”

“I understand. I want that, too.”

“Then stay the hell away from Abrams. He’s banned from school property, but I don’t want him poisoning this team from the outside.”

“Done. I promise.”

He surveys me, almost like he doesn’t believe me.

“I need you to step up. I need you one hundred percent in this.”

“I am. One hundred percent.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and continues studying me.

“Then you won’t mind proving it by getting a head start on practice. Get dressed. Coach Oscar will meet you on the field for sprints while I meet with the rest of the team.”

Of course. Just what my body needs right now. Something else to make me feel like vomiting.

“How many, sir?”

“Until I feel confident that there will be no more calls from the sheriff’s office.”

In other words, until I damn near die of exhaustion.

THEY CALL THESE sprints suicides for a reason. You start at one end zone, sprint to the first ten-yard line, and back to the end zone. Then the twenty-yard line and back. Thirty. Forty. And on and on.

Coach Oz even has a little special twist he likes to add, in case you weren’t already tempted to spill your guts all over the grass. He’s one of the youngest coaches on staff, and as such feels the need to be a complete hardass so we take him seriously. So being the sadistic bastard that he is, he makes us do twenty push-ups every time we return to the end zone.