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"...and then I pushed him into the lockers because I wanted him to feel small. I knew he was telling the truth about the assault, but it was fun to call him a liar—a pretentious little fuck.”

The stadium shifted from a deafening roar to a haunting, suffocating silence. Thousands of eyes moved from the screen to me. Suddenly, the feed switched to a live camera shot, capturing my pale, horrified face on the giant board as my voice looped the confession over and over.

In the front row of the student section, Sig sat leaning against the railing with a tub of popcorn in his lap. He wasn’t cheering; he was watching me with a look of clinical interest. As the audio reached the part where his AI-edit made me sob about my own cowardice, Sig winked.

He had known Dean would protect a donor’s son. He knew the team thought they needed me. So, he had bypassed the administration and aimed straight for the court of public opinion.

In the VIP boxes, the NFL scouts began closing their notebooks. My head coach turned his back on me, signaled for the second-stringer, and pointed a trembling finger toward the locker room.

“Coach, it’s not true. It’s all AI.”

“It doesn’t matter, Brooks. Get off the field,” Coach ordered, without a second glance toward me.

In seconds, Santiago had made me a social pariah, a PR nightmare, and a massive liability.

By the time the staff forced the audio down, my career was evaporating in the heat of ten thousand judgmental stares. My world was ending, yet my eyes could only hold his, those proud, golden eyes that thoroughly enjoyed seeing me destroyed.

“George, what the hell is happening?” Sam followed me into the locker room, his voice echoing off the tile. I kept my head down, trying to hide my face from the teammates and staff who were still staring.

“Nothing I didn’t deserve,” I exhaled, my back hitting my locker with a heavy thud.

“Fuck that! You didn’t deserve this. You apologized, and he’s being a fucking prick.” Sam’s face was flushed with anger. “You didn’t sexually assault anyone, George. Sig manipulated you. He trapped you in a room until he had enough audio to twist into whatever he wanted to hear, and now he’s playing God with your life."

I didn’t answer. I just stared at my own tremendous hands, the hands that were supposed to be my bridge to the NFL, they were shaking. “Even if I didn’t say those exact words, Sam... it was my truth. He just made me face it.”

"I don't give a shit about the philosophy of it!" Sam roared, pacing the narrow aisle. "We’ve been together since freshman year of high school. I saw you put in the work while everyone else was partying. I saw you take the hits. You’re the best Left Tackle this university has ever seen! Don’t fucking throw your career out the window for that smug fuck.”

“Don’t call him that,” I snapped, my eyes flashing as I glared at Sam.

Sam paused, letting out a long, jagged sigh. “I get it. I saw him in the gym earlier, he fell off the treadmill.”

“What? Was he hurt?” I didn’t know why it pained me, why I felt the sudden, desperate need to run to Santiago and ask if he was okay.

“Brooks, the point is, it doesn’t matter how innocent or like a wounded bird Santiago looks, he is trying to ruin you. Right now, you need to pull yourself together. Hell, dig back into that bully side of yours if you have to, and teach him a lesson. Don’t fall for his innocent face. He is your biggest enemy right now. Stop him before he finishes you.” Sam spat on the floor before stomping off toward the shower stalls.

I sat there in the sudden silence, the frown deepening on my face. Sam was right. I had worked my entire life for this moment, for the draft. I had offered a sincere apology, and Sig had responded with a public execution.

I couldn’t let him walk over me. It was time I stopped him.

We lost the game, but no one was really watching the field; their eyes were fixed on me, even though I was sidelined. Outside by the athletic complex, I found Sig waiting near his car. I fisted my hands as I walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps. My massive frame cast a long, jagged shadow across the asphalt. As I approached, Sig leaned back, placing his weight against the driver's side door, his neck craned up to meet my eyes. Then, he smirked.

“I hear apologizing lifts the weight off your chest. So... did it?” He batted his eyelashes mockingly.

“You know, this whole façade, you trying to damage my career, it only throws you further into the pit you’re trying so desperately to crawl out of,” I spat, my voice trembling with suppressed rage.

Sig tilted his head, the moonlight catching the shimmer of his eyeliner. “If I were you, George, I’d be more worried about the pit you are going to spend the rest of your life in.”

“You tried to throw me off the team with your AI trick. Bad news for you: it didn’t work.”

“Oh, it worked.” Sig stepped closer, his smile thin and sharp. “Do you think after hearing you on that Jumbotron, anyone is going to draft a 'confessed' bully?”

“They will, once they know that tape was nothing but a fake.”

“Is that what you tell yourself? Pretend to be innocent? What do you see when you look into the mirror? A pretentious football star or the real George Brooks? The fucking bully.”

My hand shot out and clutched his neck, my face inches from his. My palm was nearly wide enough to wrap around his entire throat. I didn't squeeze, not yet, but the sheer weight of my arm forced his head back against the cold glass of the car window.

“Be careful what you wish for. If you bring out the bully in me, you’ll be the first one to fucking regret it,” I snapped.