“So you did.” I find the sheet coach gave us of players to watch for and find Jack’s number. I punch that into my contacts. If Ellie doesn’t give me her number tonight, I’ll have to get it from her brother. “You still hungry?”

One dinner a night doesn’t really satisfy anyone’s appetite, not when you’re working out three to four hours a day.

“You know it. What you got?”

I rummage around in the freezer. “Burritos?”

“Hammer having a party tonight?”

We look at each other and then the burrito. I toss it back into the freezer. “Right. Nothing says sexy like ripping one while you’re trying to close the deal. Hot Pocket?”

“Yeah, I’ll take two.”

I throw two in the microwave. “Three minutes, bro. Be right back. I’m calling my brother. You need anything else?”

He throws his feet onto the coffee table. “Nah, I’m good.”

I shut the bedroom door and flip open my computer. My brother, Ty, answers the video call on the first ring. He must be watching porn or game film on his laptop.

“When’s your bye week?” I minimize the video screen and open a browser window.

“Not until Halloween. Trick or treat, dickhead. Why?”

“Shit, that’s nine weeks away. Maybe I can come up there. We’ve got a bye at the end of September.” In the search box, I type Ellie's name. She’s on the second page of results. Her header is a picture of her and Jack, and her profile picture is the back of her head. Her profile is locked. It tells me nothing other than she was born in February. She must be twenty with Jack twenty-one.

“Sucks that you have one so early,” Ty says. Later in the year, byes are better for our bodies and our teams. We get an extra week to heal, take a mental vacation, and come back ready to fight a major opponent. Instead, we got a fourth week bye. Sucks, but it is what it is. “Why do you want to come up anyway, and what the hell are you looking at?”

“I’m checking out a girl’s Facebook profile. It’s locked, though.” I send him the link.

“Eliot Campbell? Is that a guy?”

“No, her brother is the guy in the picture. She’s the one with the ponytail.”

“What kind of name is Eliot?”

“She’s the one, bro.”

“The one what?”

“Dude.” I frown. “The one.”

“Oh, shit. Did she pass the test?” His eyes get comic book wide.

“No, I haven’t run it yet. She’s new, a transfer student. I was running in the stadium today, doing my early morning routine.” Ty winds his hand for me to speed up the story. “Her brother is our new transfer tight end from that juco program out west.”

“If she didn’t pass the test then she ain’t the one.”

“I’m telling you the Earth shifted when I met her. I got pissed off that she’d interrupted my workout, and then she started talking about football like it was her religion. She’s got a scar on her knee.”

“Knox, man, you’ve got a weird fetish for chicks with scars.”

“One other girl I thought was hot had a scar.” I close the browser. “It’s a sign she’s athletic. Not scared of getting hurt. Pursuing life with both arms fucking wide open.”

“Or it means she’s fucking clumsy.” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest.

“This is useful,” I gripe.

“Look, the earliest we can get together is your bye week. You think you can keep it in your pants that long?”

“Shit. I don't know. I practically mauled her on the football field this morning. Her T-shirt got a little wet and even though I couldn’t see a damn thing—fucking sports bras—” Ty gives me a thumbs up in agreement— “I wanted to take her to the turf in front of God and everyone. At dinner, she sat by her brother, and I had to sit on my hands from reaching across and ripping his fucking arm off when he draped it across her seat. I don’t know if I can keep my hands to myself. I know I can’t ignore her. She's too fine. Some other guy will swoop in.”

“Jesus, Knox, you’ve kept it together for twenty-one years, and you’re throwing it away on a girl you’ve known for less than a day.”

“It sounds crazy, but isn’t the whole concept of the one crazy? Isn’t the test that we Masters have based on metaphysical bullshit that could never be proven? We accept it on faith. You believe it and so do I.”

“I don’t believe it like you do,” Ty grumbles and looks away.

“Bullshit. I know you believe in it or you wouldn’t have broken up with Marcie.” Marcie and Ty were high school sweethearts everyone expected to marry, until she tried to climb into bed with me one night. She claims she didn’t know the difference. It would’ve been better for her if she confessed she’d done it intentionally. Once Ty heard her say she couldn’t tell us apart, he dumped her. He hasn’t had a steady girlfriend since.

Ty flicks me off but doesn’t argue. Someone shouts in the background.

“Hold on.” He gets up and slams out of the room. “I’m fucking talking to my brother, you assholes. What is the problem?” More yelling takes place. I can’t make it out. Ty returns looking hassled. “Aw, fuck. Gotta run. Someone’s hazing the freshmen even though we told them not to. You’ll regret it if you don’t make her take the test. And pictures don’t count.”

I don’t think I’ll regret shit when it comes to Ellie, except not making a move when the gap is open. I’m nothing if not an opportunist. The time between beating the tackle off the snap is a millisecond. You see the opening and go, or you’re dropped on your ass and some lesser talent posterizes you, putting you on ESPN for all the wrong reasons.

I’m not sitting on my thumbs waiting for anything, especially not Ellie.

7 Ellie

The party at Hammer’s house is exactly how it was back in junior college—lots of beer, scantily clad women, and jocks standing around evaluating the talent. Even though classes haven’t officially started, there’s a sizable number of students hanging on the porch by the time Jack and I arrive. I don’t even want to think about how many there will be once the season gets in full swing. Saturday night after a game? This whole place will get overrun with people.

Inside, though, it’s quieter than I expect. Likely, the sultry late summer temperatures are driving people outdoors. The minute we walk inside, Jack gets pulled away by Ahmed.

“Hey, man, come and see this sick play that Hammer pulled off on Madden.”

“I need to get Ellie a drink,” Jack protests.

“The keg’s in the back, or if you want a mixed drink, hit the kitchen.” Tyrell points vaguely toward the back of the house. “Just tell the guys in the kitchen that you’re Campbell’s sister.”

And this is yet another reason I don’t want to date a football player. It’s bad enough being Jack Campbell’s sister, but to date someone where your entire identity gets subsumed by that? No thanks. Jack hesitates. I give him a push.

“I’ll be fine. Really,” I insist. “New tribe and all.”

The new tribe bit is bullshit because this is a football party. I should have stuck around the apartment and found out what Riley planned to do tonight, but Jack insisted, said that once Masters laid down an edict, he had to follow it for team unity and all that hogwash.

Yet, I bought into it, too, because here I am, at a party full of football players, gridiron groupies, girlfriends, and wannabes. I need to find a nice quiet corner where I can hide for two hours or so until I can convince Jack I should go home.

“She’ll be fine,” Ahmed repeats, and with another shove from me, Jack allows the running back to lead him off to see whatever amazing exploits are going on in a video game of fake NFL players.

In the kitchen, I find a lanky guy with an acne problem pouring drinks. I don’t recognize him, but given the shit position of playing bartender, he must be a freshman.