Chapter 3

Bryson's POV

The locker room erupted in a chaos of celebration that felt like it was happening in another dimension. I could hear Marcus's voice cutting through the noise—"Bry, that forty-yard pass was textbook perfect! Friday night, we're gonna tear those Timberwolves apart!"—but the words seemed to reach me through water, distorted and distant.

I mechanically pulled off my shoulder pads, letting them drop to the bench with a dull thud that nobody else noticed. Around me, my teammates were riding the high of our practice victory, their voices bouncing off the tile walls in a cacophony of masculine bravado and premature celebration. Someone—I think it was Jenkins—was already planning the post-game party, debating whose house had the best setup and whether we could convince the cheerleaders to show up.

"I'm telling you," another voice chimed in, "after Bryson crushes it on Friday, half the girls in the stands are gonna storm the field. Might need security just to get you to the parking lot, man."

I forced my mouth into something resembling a smile. "You guys are ridiculous," I said, my voice coming out with just the right amount of amused dismissal.

Zack appeared at my side, still half-suited in his practice gear, his face flushed with the kind of genuine joy that made these moments almost worth it. He clapped me on the shoulder, and I felt myself relax into the familiar weight of his hand. "That connection we had on the third play," he said, grinning like we'd just won the state championship instead of a meaningless Thursday practice. "If we can replicate that Friday, we're golden. The scouts are gonna lose their minds."

"Yeah," I agreed, and this time I meant it. On the field, at least, things made sense. "Golden."

But even as I spoke, my mind drifted somewhere else entirely—back to last week, to that suffocating night in my father's study. The memory hit me like a blindside tackle, and suddenly the locker room noise faded into background static.

——

One week ago. Thursday night. My father's study.

I'd known something was wrong the moment I walked through the front door and heard his voice: "Bryson. My study. Now."

Not "How was practice?" Not "Dinner's ready." Just that cold summons that made my stomach drop like I was ten years old again, waiting outside the principal's office.

His study was exactly as it always was—dark wood, leather chairs, walls lined with his trophies and framed jerseys from his own glory days. The desk was massive, imported mahogany that probably cost more than most people's cars, and he sat behind it like a judge at a sentencing hearing.

He didn't look up when I entered. Just kept staring at his computer screen, his face illuminated by the cold blue light. I knew the email header before he told me: "Academic Warning: Bryson Doyle - GPA 2.1"

I stood there in the doorway, my hands clenched behind my back, waiting. That was the game—he made you wait, made you stand there in silence until the anxiety built up enough that whatever he said next would hit twice as hard.

Finally, he turned his chair to face me. His expression was perfectly neutral, which was somehow worse than anger would have been.

"I assume," he said, his voice conversational, almost pleasant, "that you're aware your GPA has dropped to 2.1."

"Yes, father," I managed.

"And I assume you're also aware of what happens if it drops below 2.0." He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "The State High School Athletic Association has very clear rules about this. Any student-athlete whose core course average falls below a C is immediately ineligible for competition. Doesn't matter how talented you are. Doesn't matter how many scouts are watching. The rules apply to everyone."

He paused, letting that sink in, his eyes never leaving my face.

"We have money, Bryson. Quite a lot of it, actually. But money can't buy grade points. Money can't sit your exams for you or write your papers." His tone was still calm, still reasonable, which made every word cut deeper. "So tell me—what exactly is your plan here? To coast on your athletic ability and hope no one notices you're academically incompetent?"

"No, sir. I'm working on it—"

"Working on it." He stood up, moving around the desk with the kind of deliberate slowness that made my shoulders tense. "You've been 'working on it' for two years now. Your grades have done nothing but decline. Do you know what the Ivy League schools look for, Bryson? What Stanford looks for? Notre Dame?"

I stayed silent. There was no right answer.

"They want student-athletes. Student comes first. They want young men with 3.5 GPAs minimum, who can excel both on the field and in the classroom. They want the complete package." He stopped directly in front of me, close enough that I had to look up to meet his eyes. "And right now, you're not even a partial package. You're a liability."

The word hung in the air between us like poison.

"The NCAA scouts aren't idiots," he continued, his voice dropping lower, more intimate, more devastating. "They can spot a one-dimensional player from a mile away. You think they're going to invest in someone who might not even be academically eligible by sophomore year? You think any top-tier program wants to deal with that kind of risk?"

"I'll bring my grades up—"

"Will you?" He moved back to his desk, picked up something—a photograph in an ornate silver frame. My mother, wearing the Doyle family dress from some charity gala years ago, her smile bright and genuine in a way I barely remembered. "Your mother had very specific dreams for you, you know. She wanted you to be more than just another jock with good genes and a strong arm."

Something twisted in my chest, sharp and hot.

"She wanted you to be a man of substance. Intelligence. Character." He set the photo down carefully, almost reverently, but his eyes when they met mine again were cold. "She wanted you to honor the Doyle name—not just on the field, but in every aspect of your life. Academic excellence. Social responsibility. Leadership."

"Don't," I thought desperately. "Don't bring her into this."

"It's unfortunate she didn't live to see what you've become." His tone was matter-of-fact, clinical, like he was discussing a failed business investment rather than his dead wife's legacy. "I wonder sometimes what she would think. Whether she'd be proud of a son who can throw a football but can't maintain a B average in basic high school courses."

The pain that lanced through me was so sharp I almost gasped. But I'd learned years ago not to show it, learned to keep my face blank and my voice steady even when every word felt like a knife between my ribs.

"I'll do better," I said, and I hated how my voice came out—small, defeated, nothing like the confident quarterback everyone else saw.

"You'll do better," he repeated, and for the first time, something like contempt flickered across his face. "Do you know what I see when I look at you, Bryson? I see wasted potential. I see someone who was given every advantage—every resource, every opportunity—and who's squandering all of it because he can't be bothered to open a textbook."

He moved back to his chair, dismissing me with his body language before the words even came.

"I have two Ivy League recommendation letters in my possession. Direct admission recommendations—the kind that essentially guarantee acceptance. They're part of my privileges as board chairman." He picked up a pen, began reviewing some document on his desk as if I wasn't even there anymore. "But I won't waste them on someone who can't meet basic academic standards. You want my help getting into a top program? Bring your GPA up to 2.5 by midterms. Otherwise, don't bother asking."

"Yes, father," I whispered.

"And Bryson?" He still didn't look up. "Your mother sacrificed everything for this family. For you. The least you can do is try not to disgrace her memory."

I left without being dismissed, my legs somehow carrying me out of that study and up to my room even though I felt like I was going to shatter into pieces. I'd sat on my bed for an hour, staring at nothing, my father's words playing on repeat in my head.

Wasted potential. Academically incompetent. Disgrace her memory.