Chapter 5 Mine

On Monday, ten a.m., they put me behind a podium in the press room under the stadium. There were a lot of reporters in the hall.

Behind me hung a long beige banner with the university’s motto printed in bold letters.

RIDGEMONT FOOTBALL: INTEGRITY. RESPECT. EXCELLENCE. 

I almost laughed.

Apparently, those were the three things everyone expected from me, except the people who had spent the last six days dragging my name through the mud.

Dr. Pruitt stood at the side of the room with her arms folded. Coach Briggs was not there. They had made sure of that.

"Ms. Mercer will read a brief statement," the media director said. "Then she will take three questions."

My statement was two paragraphs long and I had written it four times. It said that I was proud to wear number 7, and that I had earned my place on this team through work. It said nothing about the fact that in six hours, I would be handing in my helmet.

I leaned towards the microphone and began reading.

My voice was steady. I didn’t stumble over a single word, even when I reached the part about my commitment to the university.

When I finished, I folded the paper and placed it on the podium. “Thank you.”

The media director nodded. “We’ll take the first question.”

Then the first hand shot up.

In the front row, perfectly polished, her phone held out like a weapon: Callie Frost. The blogger whose posts had been picking my bones for six days.

"Quinn." Her voice was soft as a blade in silk. "The question everyone wants answered. Did you sleep with Dax Holloway to secure your starting job?"

The room held its breath.

For a second, I couldn’t hear anything. I felt the blood rush to my face.

My fingers tightened around the edge of the podium. “That’s—”

“Because several people have raised concerns about your relationship with him,” she continued, not giving me a chance to answer. “And considering the timing of your recent living arrangement, I think it’s a fair question.”

“Your question has already been asked,” the media director interrupted. “Please allow her to respond.”

But Callie wasn’t finished. “Are you denying that your relationship with Dax Holloway influenced your position on the team?”

I felt every camera lens turning towards me. I opened my mouth, but I had no idea what was going to come out of it. 

Just then back doors banged open.

"Sir, you can't—" someone started.

Dax came down the center aisle in his practice gear, helmet in one hand, a layer of grass still on his cleats. 

He did not look at the cameras, nor did he look at the reporters. His eyes were fixated on me.

He walked straight up to the podium, took the microphone off its stand, and turned to face the room.

My heart gave an uncomfortable thud.

"Her name is Quinn Mercer," His voice carried through the room without him having to raise it. "She has started twenty-two games for this program. She has thrown for three thousand yards, and she has never missed a single practice. She was the first one on that field this morning and she'll be the last one off it tonight."

I stared at him.

What was he doing?

“She has earned her position. Every yard, every touchdown, every opportunity. She worked for it, and she didn’t need anyone to hand it to her.”

Someone in the back whispered, but Dax ignored them.

"She doesn't owe any of you an explanation. But since you want one, here it is." He looked straight into Callie Frost's lens. "She is not sleeping her way into anything. She's mine. She has been mine for a long time. And anybody who has a problem with that can take it up with me."

The silence lasted three full seconds. Then the room exploded.

“Are you confirming a relationship?”

“How long have you been together?”

“Does your coach know?”

“Is this why you’re living together?”

The questions came from every direction.

Flashes went off so quickly that I had to blink several times. Callie was already typing furiously on her phone. The media director was trying to regain control of the room, while Dr. Pruitt stood at the side with her mouth slightly open.

And me?

I stood behind the podium, staring at the boy I had known since I was twelve years old.

He’d just said that in front of forty reporters and, judging by the number of cameras recording, probably half the country.

Dax finally turned towards me.

There was no smirk on his face. His expression was serious.

I didn’t know whether to slap him or ask him what the hell he thought he was doing.

Before I could decide, Dr. Pruitt stepped forward. “That’s enough. This press conference is over.”

The media director immediately moved between us and the reporters.

Dax placed the microphone back on the stand, then leaned slightly towards me. “Come on.”

He reached for my hand, but I pulled it away. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. He simply stepped aside and let me walk ahead of him.

Behind us, the reporters were still shouting questions.

I didn’t look back.

————————————-

The suspension was lifted before lunch.

“The university has reviewed the available information,” she said, looking down at the documents on her desk. “We have found no evidence that your starting position was obtained through favoritism or that you violated the athletic department’s conduct policy.”

I sat opposite her, my hands folded in my lap. “Then why was I suspended?”

“It was an interim measure while the allegations were being investigated.”

“An investigation that took less than a week?”

Her lips pressed together. “Ms. Mercer, I understand that you’re frustrated.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

She ignored that. “The committee has decided to withdraw the interim suspension. You are reinstated, effective immediately. You may return to all team activities.”

I should have jumped out of my chair and screamed. The title game was still within reach.

But I did none of those things. I walked out to the parking lot with my head high, climbed into the passenger seat of Dax's truck, and slammed the door so hard the whole cab shook.

“What the hell was that?”

He started the engine. “You’re welcome.”

I stared at him. “You’re welcome?”

“You’re reinstated, aren’t you?”

“Dax!”

He finally looked at me. “What?”

"You lied to everyone."

"I told the truth."

"You told the entire country I'm your girlfriend!"

"I told them you were mine." He gripped the wheel, staring straight ahead. "There's a difference."

"Not a good one!"

"It worked, didn't it?"

"You don't get to decide that for me!" My voice cracked. "You don't get to walk in there and write my story because you've decided I can't survive it. I've been fighting for this job since I was fifteen. Don't you dare do it for me."

He was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "Then tell me to take it back. Right now. I'll walk back into that building and do it myself."

I opened my mouth but the word wouldn't come, because the truth was that it had worked. 

"Until the title game," I said at last. "Then it ends."

"Whatever you say, Tadpole."

"And you don't touch me."

A corner of his mouth lifted. "Define that?”

"Dax."

"Fine." He started the engine. "Rules acknowledged."

We pulled up to the house at dusk. The porch light was already glowing and the swing creaked in the wind. I climbed out of the truck, and for about four seconds, everything felt almost normal.