I shake off his comment and close my locker. There’s only one thing he could be wanting to see me about: my moving out of the dorm. He’s only been with the team for a couple of months. I’m guessing he sees the writing on the wall of his impending firing, considering the barren state of his office.
“Close it, will you?” he asks, shuffling through a stack of papers on his desk. He’s young, maybe thirty, with blonde hair and a short beard and mustache.
I catch Hudson’s furrowed brow. I shake my head, to assure him I’m not concerned before closing the door. I circle to the seat opposite of Krueger’s desk and take a seat.
He stops rifling through the papers and scratches his eyebrow. “Jamie went through the contracts and told me you aren’t living on campus this year.” Jamie is one of the many assistant coaches on staff. Recently, he’s been Krueger’s right-hand, assisting him with the shit tasks Peters keeps dumping on him that would normally be outsourced to lower coaches.
I nod. I read through the form four times, ensuring I understood the details that required me to provide the address I would be staying at in case of emergency. It didn’t require me to verbally inform anyone, so I didn’t.
“You’re living with your … sister?” he reads from the form I filled out.
I nod again.
“You know why the university wants the team living on campus, right?”
Krueger was a beast in his day, a fellow running back who played for Penn State. Regardless of his brief time in the spotlight, he’s here, dealing with a low-level task when he’s good enough to best most of the guys in our locker room.
“Good intentions,” I say.
Krueger’s gaze flashes to me, staring at me for a full minute. “Greyson Meyers has caught a lot of attention after last year.”
I lean back in my seat, waiting for him to connect these two unrelated points. “He’s a hell of a player.”
Krueger nods. “And one of the hardest working players on the team.”
I tip my chin with a nearly imperceptible nod, realizing where this conversation is going. “Moving doesn’t change my commitment to the team.”
Krueger’s eyebrows shoot up and then fall back in place nearly as quickly. “You and McKinley play well together. You could be a dark horse this year. Every team is planning their defense with the anticipation he’ll be looking for Meyers,” he always calls Hudson by his last name, never by Hudson as the rest of us do.
“It should be a good year. We’ll see how things go. Did you need me to confirm anything else?” I grasp the arms of the chair and lean forward, preparing to stand.
“You know, distractions can kill your dreams faster than an injury.” His stare is hard and unforgiving, a warning.
I meet his stare. “That’s why I asked that the insomniac who had the room beside me from the soccer team be moved.”
He lowers his attention to the damn mess of papers again. “I know what it’s like to be in your shoes. The girls, the parties, the excitement…”
“For the past two years, my life has consisted of classes, summer school, practices, and weight lifting.” Instead of waiting for him to dispute me, I stand up. “I’m living with my little sister, Coach. Trust me, the distractions will be kept to a minimum. I’ll still be here at the facility eight hours a day.”
He remains in his seat but turns to watch me head for the door. “You’re a damn good player, Payne. You could be great.”
I clench my jaw, knowing exactly what he’s trying to do, and refuse to let him get in my head. “I could be a lot of things.”
The guys are waiting for me, dressed in street clothes rather than team attire. Nights before a game we have a strict curfew to ensure we’re well-rested. When we’re on the road, assistants go to each hotel door, ensuring we’re in our rooms. Here, they don’t have to because our keycards prove we’re inside. A hint of victory races through my thoughts, realizing they won’t have that on me. They have no idea where I’ll be, and I wonder if Krueger is keeping my moving to himself or if he’ll tell Peters.
“Everything okay?” Hudson asks, grabbing his sports drink. Forty-eight hours before a game, everyone’s focus turns to hydration. Here in the South where it’s still hotter than hell, it’s even more essential.
I nod. “He just wanted to clarify my address.”
“They finally looked through your packet?” Palmer asks.
I nod again, gathering my things, and follow my friends through the halls of the facility, a place that when I slow down, still amazes me. It was designed for every perceived need from trainers to the expansive gyms to the equipment.
“Gentlemen,” one of the nutritionists says, handing each of us a smoothie and box of food as we exit.
“Thanks,” I say, accepting the drink and cardboard box.
“Was that all Krueger wanted?” Hudson asks.