Jacob lets out a low whistle as he sits across from me. “So I heard. Breaking some of my records too, you little shit.” He grins, but there's pride behind it. “That throw against Covey U last week? Pure art, man.”
“Thanks, that means—”
I stop when someone clears their throat next to our table. “Really? You guys too busy talking to say hi?”
My pulse jumps when I realize who’s here.
Drew McCallister.
Drew McCallister strolls in like he owns the place. Which, considering the level of money dripping off this sports bar—private booths, floor-to-ceiling TVs, leather everything—he probably could. Pro Bowler in his first season and the face of the Santa Monica Rattlesnakes. The guy’s start to his career is everything I dream of.
“Sorry I’m late,” Drew says with an easy confidence rolling off him. “Traffic was hell.”
Jacob stands and claps him on the back. “Drew, meet Zach Evans. The kid I was telling you about.”
“Oh, I know all about him,” Drew says, taking me in.
Jacob gestures between us. “Hope you don't mind—I invited him since he’s only in town tonight. Figured it’d be okay.”
I knew they were friends. Reese told me as much when I started at St. Michael's, but I didn't realize they were,“let's have dinner for my only night in town”close.
“Sure,” I say, wondering how I got so fucking lucky to be able to have dinner with two of the best quarterbacks in the league.
I nod my head vigorously, ready to stand again. “Of course. Mr. McCallis—”
Drew raises his hand. “Drew. Mr. McCallister makes me feel as old as Coach Summers, and that guy’s ancient.”
Jacob lets out a little laugh. “Glad I didn't invite him for dinner tonight as well, then.”
Drew shakes his head. “I think Coach Summers would rather walk on hot coals for the rest of his life than ever have to see my pretty face again,” he drawls out sarcastically.
I tilt my head. “Did you guys end on bad terms?”
“Something like that,” Drew says, and it’s clear that’s the end of the conversation.
The waitress swings by, and Jacob doesn’t even let me open my mouth. “We’ll take three steaks—medium rare. And watersall around.” He shoots me a wink. “Trust me, rookie. Best thing on the menu.”
As the waitress leaves, Drew leans in, his green eyes sharp with intensity. “You thinking about the draft?”
“Trying not to,” I admit, forcing my focus back on them instead of checking my phone to see if Honey has sent me any more messages. “Summers says just win games and everything else takes care of itself.”
Drew snorts. “Classic Summers. Guy talks like a motivational poster. But he’s not wrong.” His tone hardens. “Still—you need to start prepping now. The process is brutal.”
“How brutal?” I ask, leaning in despite myself.
For the next half hour, they strip away every fantasy I had about it. Psych tests designed to mess with your head. Interviews where they throw out questions like whether you’d fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses—and actually expect a serious answer. Combine drills where one off day can cost you millions.
“The league’s changing too,” Jacob adds as the waitress sets down plates big enough to feed a family. He grins. “Teams want quarterbacks who can extend plays. Make something out of nothing when the pocket blows up.”
“Which plays right into your strengths,” Drew says, pointing at me with his fork. “I’ve watched your tape. You know when to bail, when to hang in. That’s instinct. Can’t coach it.”
“Summers drills pocket awareness into us constantly,” I say. “Tells us if we don’t feel pressure coming, we’ll be eating turf sandwiches all year.”
Drew laughs. “Sounds like Summers. Man's got a way with words.” His expression shifts slightly. “How is the old bastard anyway?”
“He's good,” I say carefully. “Tough as hell, but fair.”
“Yeah, real fair,” Drew mutters, glaring at his plate.