1
Avery
The problem with being the coach’s daughter is that everyone thinks it means I know how to follow rules.
I do.
That’s the worst part. I know them so well they’ve become a second skin, a set of invisible blueprints for how to exist without causing a scene. I can feel them before anyone says them out loud—a phantom weight on my shoulders that keeps my posture straight and my mouth shut.
*Don’t embarrass your father.*
*Don’t get too close to the players.*
*Don’t give people something to talk about.*
In a town that breathes college football, my father is less of a man and more of a local deity. That makes me his primary disciple. I’ve spent twenty-one years being the girl who never makes a mistake. I don’t get seen stumbling out of parties at three in the morning. I don’t cry in public bathrooms. I certainly don’t kiss boys behind dive bars or do anything that could make my dad’s phone light up before his first cup of coffee.
Be smart. Be careful. Be good.
I’ve been "good" for so long that sometimes I wonder if it’s still a choice or just muscle memory—the way a quarterback knows the pocket is collapsing without looking.
Which is probably why I let Sloane talk me into wearing this.
I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror: a black mini-skirt that hits mid-thigh, knee-high suede boots, and a top with a neckline that would make my father stare at the ceiling and ask God for offensive-line depth. It’s daring. It’s "not me." It’s exactly what I need.
An hour later, I’m letting her drag me into an off-campus hole-in-the-wall called *The Lineup*. The air inside is a thick, humid cocktail of spilled beer, cheap cologne, and the kind of bad decisions my dad has been warning me about since I hit puberty.
“This is a mistake,” I tell her, my voice barely carrying over the opening riff of a rock song that’s way too loud for ten p.m.
Sloane doesn’t even look at me. She’s too busy checking her lip gloss in the reflection of a neon Budweiser sign. “It’s not a mistake, Ave. It’s character development. You’re too static. You need a plot twist.”
“I don’t need a plot twist. I have a developmental psych quiz on Monday.”
“You have a social life emergency tonight.” She snaps her compact shut and turns, her dark curls bouncing against her shoulders. Her gold hoops catch the red light of the bar, making her look like a siren. “You’re twenty-one. You’re allowed to be in a bar. You're allowed to have a drink that isn't sparkling cider at a booster dinner.”
“I know that,” I mutter, adjusting the strap of my purse.
“Then stop imagining your dad’s disappointed face hovering over you like a football-themed ghost. Just for tonight, you aren't Coach Brooks’s daughter. You’re just… you.”
The bouncer, a guy with a neck the size of my waist, checks our IDs and waves us in. The second we cross the threshold, the bass rolls under my feet, heavy and hot, vibrating through the floorboards like a pulse. The bar is packed. It’s a sea of humanity—students, townies, girls in silk slips, guys in wrinkled polos.
And for the first time in my life, no one looks at me.
Not really.
On campus, I’m a spectacle. I’m the girl who grew up in stadium tunnels and had half the athletic department patting her head like team property. Here, in the dim, red-lit chaos, I’m just a girl in a black skirt. No last name. No history. No expectations.
For one long, shaky breath, I let myself enjoy it.
“See?” Sloane bumps her shoulder against mine. “You’re already healing.”
“I’m standing in a doorway, Sloane. Let’s not call the Vatican for a miracle yet.”
We squeeze through the crowd toward the bar. Someone spills a splash of something sticky near my boots; someone else yells over my head for tequila. The bartender looks like he’s been awake since the Ford administration and is only staying alive for the tips.
Sloane orders something pink and lethal-looking. I order a vodka cranberry, because even when I’m attempting a rebellion, I choose a drink that looks like it belongs in a health newsletter.
“This tastes like someone lied to a cranberry,” I wince after the first sip.
“That’s the taste of freedom, babe,” Sloane laughs, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward a high-top table near the edge of a makeshift dance floor. “Now, relax. Nobody here knows who you are.”
“That’s the only reason I haven’t bolted for the exit.”
For the first hour, it actually works. I drink slowly, letting the alcohol blur the sharp edges of my anxiety. I dance with Sloane when a song with a heavy beat comes on, losing myself in the anonymity of the crowd. I laugh when she makes dramatic eye contact with a guy by the jukebox and whispers that he looks like he "definitely owns a snake."
I’m fine. I’m normal. I’m not thinking about the fact that the team has practice at seven a.m. and half the roster is probably out there in the dark doing something that would give my father a stroke.
Then the front door opens.
And because the universe has a sick sense of irony, Wyatt Hayes walks in.
The atmosphere in the bar doesn't break, but it shifts. It’s a subtle displacement of air, like a predator entering a watering hole. The music keeps playing, but heads start to turn in a slow-motion wave.
Wyatt Hayes is impossible not to notice. Even if my father didn't spend half his life screaming his name—either in praise or pure, unadulterated fury—I’d know him. Everyone knows him. He’s the kind of guy campus turned into folklore before he even finished freshman year. Too talented to bench, too reckless to trust, and too goddamn pretty in that sharp, dangerous way that makes people forgive him before he even says sorry.
He’s tall, built with a lean, explosive strength that football didn't just give him—it seemed to sharpen him into a weapon. A backward black hat hides his dark hair, and a shadow of stubble defines a jawline that looks like it was carved from granite. There’s a fresh, purple bruise near his cheekbone and a tiny split in his lower lip.
My dad calls him *gifted* when he’s talking to scouts. He calls him a *liability* when he’s talking to me.
Wyatt walks in with Jace and Brady—two other starters. Jace is broad and somber, already looking like he’s calculating the bail money they might need. Brady is grinning, the kind of guy who would find a way to party during a natural disaster.
Wyatt doesn't scan the room. He doesn't have to. He just exists, and the room orients itself around him.
I turn away immediately, staring at the condensation on my glass.
“That was subtle,” Sloane says, her eyes locked on the door.
“I’m not doing this. We’re leaving.”
“Doing what? We just got here.”
“He plays for my dad, Sloane. He’s a walking disciplinary hearing.”
“He’s a walking sex symbol, Avery. Look at those cheekbones. You could start a fire on them.”
“My dad says Wyatt is either going to the NFL or state prison. He’s not sure which one will happen first.”
I risk one glance over my shoulder. Mistake. Wyatt is leaning against the bar, one elbow hooked over the wood. He’s grinning at something the bartender said—a lazy, sharp expression that says he knows exactly how much trouble he is and he doesn't care. A blonde in a tight dress is already sliding into his orbit, biting her lip like she’s reading from a script.
I look back at Sloane, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “He can’t see me here. If he tells the guys, and it gets back to my dad…”
“He doesn't even know who you are, Ave. You’ve never been to the facility when they’re practicing. You’re just a girl at a bar.”
“A girl at a bar wearing a skirt that shows approximately four miles of leg.”
“Exactly. Stop being a coach’s daughter and start being a twenty-one-year-old.”
I try. I really do. I stay for another hour, but the relaxed hum in my veins is gone, replaced by a low-voltage buzz of awareness. I can feel him in the room. He’s a dark star, pulling everything toward him.
Then, someone bumps into me. Hard.
My vodka cranberry sloshes over the rim, splashing cold and red across my collarbone and soaking into the fabric of my top.
“Seriously?” I gasp, stepping back.
The guy who hit me is tall, with a haircut that cost more than my boots and a frat-boy smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering on my chest a second too long.
“My bad, sweetheart,” he says, his voice dripping with a false, oily charm.
“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I snap, dabbing at my skin with a napkin. My skin crawls at the way he’s looking at me.
“Ooh, she’s got a bite,” he says to his friends, who are snickering behind him. He steps closer, invading my personal space. “Let me buy you another. Something stronger.”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Come on. Don't be like that. I’m just trying to be nice.” He reaches out, his hand closing around my wrist. It’s not a violent grip, but it’s firm. Controlling.
“Let go,” I say, my voice steady despite the spike of adrenaline.
Sloane steps in, her eyes flashing. “She said no, asshole. Back off.”
The guy ignores her, leaning into me. “Relax, babe. I’m just talking to you.”
“She told you to move.”
The voice is low, gravelly, and cuts through the noise of the bar like a blade.
The guy’s grip on my wrist slackens as he turns. I don’t have to look to know who it is. That voice has lived in the background of my life via my father’s speakerphone for three years.
Wyatt Hayes is standing two feet away. He’s holding a beer bottle by the neck, his expression completely blank. But his eyes—dark and predatory—are fixed on the guy’s hand.
“This doesn't involve you, Hayes,” the frat guy mutters, though he’s already stepping back.
Wyatt tips his head to the side, a slow, dangerous movement. “Funny. Seems like it might.”
The guy tries to save face, looking around at the crowd that’s started to go quiet. “Whatever. She’s a bitch anyway.”
Wyatt doesn't shout. He doesn't lung. He just sets his beer on the table and takes one slow step forward. Every muscle in his body is coiled. “Say that again. I didn't quite catch it.”
The guy pales, mumbles something incoherent, and disappears into the crowd like he’s being chased by a ghost.
Silence lingers in our little corner for a beat. I’m frozen, my heart doing gymnastics. Wyatt turns his gaze to me. Up close, he’s devastating. His eyes are a storm-cloud gray, fringed by lashes that are entirely too long for a man who spends his Sundays hitting people.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I had it handled,” I say, my voice a little more breathless than I’d like.
His mouth twitches. The split in his lip opens just a tiny bit, a drop of red appearing. “That wasn't what I asked.”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
He looks at my wrist—the skin is slightly flushed where the guy held me—and then his eyes travel up to my face. He lingers there, studying me with a terrifying intensity.
“You’re the first girl in this town who hasn’t swooned after I played the hero,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.
“Maybe I don't like the 'scary, protective felony-in-waiting' routine,” I counter, regaining my footing.
Wyatt actually laughs. It’s a rich, genuine sound that makes my stomach do a slow roll. “A felony-in-waiting? That’s a new one.”
“It’s accurate.”
“Is it?” He leans closer, so close I can smell the cool scent of beer and something like cedarwood and rain. “And what are you, then? Besides a girl who’s too smart for this bar?”
“I’m leaving,” I say, grabbing Sloane’s arm.
“You didn't give me a name,” he calls out as I start to pull her away.
I don’t look back. I can’t. If I look back, I’m afraid I’ll stay. “Good! Keep it that way!”
We burst out into the night air, the silence of the street a shock to the system. My skin is still buzzing where his gaze touched me.
“Avery,” Sloane says, her voice full of awe as we wait for our Uber. “Do you realize what just happened?”
“Nothing happened. A player almost got into a fight. It’s a Tuesday for him.”
“No,” Sloane grins, her eyes bright. “You just met the bad influence of your dreams. And he didn't look at you like Coach Brooks’s daughter.”
I look at the dark windows of the bar. I can still see his silhouette through the glass, standing where I left him. He’s watching me.
“No,” I whisper, more to myself than her. “He looked at me like I was a problem he wanted to solve.”
And for the first time in my life, I don't want to follow the rules.
