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Sig didn't flinch. He didn't claw at my fingers. He just looked up at me, his pulse thrumming frantically against my thumb, a sharp contrast to his dead-calm expression.

"Go on," Sig whispered, the words strained but clear. "Give them the sequel. ‘Football Star Bully Strangles Victim in Parking Lot.' It’ll go viral before the ambulance even gets here."

"You think this is a game?" I growled, leaning in until our foreheads almost touched. My shadow swallowed him whole. "You think you’re some kind of martyr, Santiago? You’re a parasite. You’re feeding on a mistake I already paid for."

"You think you paid for it?” Sig’s eyes flickered to the side, toward the dark corner of the lot where a few lingering students were staring, phones already out. He had planned for this. He knew his instigation would work; he wanted the bruises. “That’s right. I’m not a martyr, George," he rasped, a tiny, twisted smile touching his raspberry lips. "I'm the mirror. I’m showing the world exactly what people like you do when you don’t get your way. You use your size. You use your strength. Your football star status. Just like the fucking bully you are.”

My grip tightened instinctively. I could feel the ridge of his windpipe. One sharp move, one moment of losing my temper, and I wouldn’t just be a PR nightmare, I’d be a criminal. The NFL, the money, the legacy; it was all hanging by a thread held in place by my fingers around his neck.

"You're pathetic," I hissed, my voice shaking with the effort of not snapping. "You're so obsessed with destroying me that you've turned yourself into a paparazzi drama. You have nothing but this. No future, no talent. You’re clinging to me because you have nothing else.”

I shoved him back against the car, letting go so abruptly he stumbled. I didn't hit him. I didn't give him the bruises he was fishing for. I stepped back, looming over him, feeling the cold night air rush between us.

"The audio? It’s a lie. But this?" I gestured to the people watching us, then back to his smug, pale face. "Everyone just saw you try to provoke a man who could kill you, and they saw me walk away. Who looks like a psychopath now, Sig?"

Sig’s face transformed in a heartbeat. The smug, razor-sharp grin vanished, replaced by a mask of sheer, unadulterated terror. He buckled at the knees, sliding down the side of his car as if his legs had turned to water.

“Sig,” I bent forward to catch him, suddenly worried I had genuinely hurt him.

“Please!” Sig shrieked, his voice cracking perfectly to reach the ears of the students hovering fifty feet away. “George, please! I’m sorry! Just don’t hurt me again!”

The silence of the parking lot was shattered not by a blow, but by a sound that made my blood run cold: a sharp, jagged sob.

I froze, my hand still mid-air. “What the hell are you doing?” I hissed, but the words were drowned out by his next outburst.

Sig scrambled up, his breathing coming in ragged, hysterical hitches. He looked at the group of students, his audience, with wide, glistening eyes. He looked exactly like the wounded bird Sam had described. He looked fragile and broken, while I stood over him in my padded uniform, looming in the dark.

“He’s going to kill me!” Sig screamed, his voice carrying across the asphalt like a siren. “He said he’d finish what he started in high school! Someone help!”

Before I could even find my voice to defend myself, Sig bolted. He didn't just walk away; he ran as if the devil was at his heels, his frame disappearing into the shadows toward the dorms, leaving the echo of his desperate crying behind him.

The weight of the silence that followed was heavier than any hit I’d ever taken on the field. I turned slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The students weren't cheering anymore. They weren't even whispering. They were just staring at me with a volatile mixture of disgust and genuine fear. Their eyes were pinned to my hands, looking for Santiago’s blood, the exact hands my dad always swore were engineered for the NFL. But looking at them now through the eyes of everyone else in this lot, they weren't tools for a career. They were just weapons. My massive frame wasn't an asset anymore; it was a threat.

“You fucking monster!” one of the students shouted, throwing a soda can toward me. It landed near my foot with a terrifying, rhythmic click-clank as it rolled away.

I stood there, in a gladiator’s uniform, framed by the harsh yellow glow of the parking lot lamps. To the students with the phones, I wasn’t a human being; I was a monster they’d just caught on camera.

As they started to disperse, throwing nasty glares over their shoulders, a heavy hand landed on my shoulder pad. I spun around, ready to swing, but it was Sam. He was still in his grass-stained jersey, his face grim as he looked from me to the empty space where Sig had just been.

"I saw the end of it," Sam said, his voice low and tight.

"He's lying, Sam. I didn't... I didn't hit him. I just..." I trailed off. Suddenly, it felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the lot. My lungs were seizing up.

“Calm down. It doesn't matter what you did or didn't do," Sam hissed, grabbing my arm and hauling me toward the locker room entrance.

We made it inside the concrete tunnel, the air suddenly cooler, the sounds of the night cut off by the heavy steel doors. Sam let go of me and leaned against the wall, dragging a hand through his sweat-matted hair. I imitated him, leaning against the opposite wall.

"He fucking played you," Sam exhaled, sounding more exhausted than angry now. "He knew you’d come for him. He planned the whole fucking thing.”

"He called me a bully,” I whispered. The adrenaline was finally fading, leaving a hollow, freezing void in its wake.

“He’s trying to play with your damn head, George. Don’t let him.”

“He’s right, though. The scouts saw the Jumbotron. Their bosses are going to see that video of him screaming for his life. No NFL scout is going to even shortlist me. It’s not like I’m a quarterback with an undeniable record. I’m not Michael; he’d probably get away with murder. A Left Tackle is replaceable. No one notices when we disappear.”

Sam looked at me, and for the first time since high school, he didn't have a motivational speech ready. He looked at the floor, then back at me, his eyes hard.