Page 127 of The Jack*ss in Class

“Flynn,” he said, gripping the back of my neck. “They’re gonna come for you next. I feel it.”

I nodded, pretended to be excited.

The TV screen flickered. I heard someone shout, “Trade alert. Mustangs just traded up. They’re picking number sixteen.”

Every eye in the house turned to me. With a trade like that, right after Gryff just got drafted to LA, were the Mustangs making a play for me?

My stomach flipped.

There were three more picks before them, but none were teams who’d expressed more than a passing interest in me. The Kansas City Chefs, the New England Rebels, and Miami. I did have a call with the Hammerheads, but no one had pressed like the Bandits and the Mustangs. I was seventy-five percent sure I was going to either one.

The Chefs picked a quarterback out of Texas, and theRebels grabbed a running back from Bay State University. Miami was up next, and then the Mustangs.

Then my phone buzzed.

Everything stopped. Not in the room—in me. I looked down. Unknown number. Area code... 213.

California.

Not Colorado.

I stood up, heart slamming.

Tempest was suddenly beside me, eyes wide. “Flynn?”

I answered, barely breathing. “Hello?”

“Flynn Kingman?” a familiar voice said. “Coach Reid with the LA Bandits. We’re on the clock here and want you in black and silver. Are you in?”

My mouth was dry, my whole being was dry. My fucking soul was dry.

“Sir,” I said, my voice just this side of cracking, “you said you’re on the clock soon, but the Mustangs traded up to pick after the Sharks.”

I could feel everyone staring at me, but my vision was going dark around the edges and all I could do was stare at Tempest, her pretty pink lips, her soft brown skin, the warm eyes I could get lost in.

Someone or several someone’s in the room gasped and I heard some Kingman voice say, “Trade alert.”

Coach Reid chuckled. “We just traded with the Sharks to move up. Word is, Coach Shenanigan was circling, but we’re not giving him the chance.”

The world blurred.

“We’re about to make you a Bandit, son.”

My knees gave out and I dropped back into the chair.

The TV thundered with the commissioner’s voice. “With the fifteenth pick in this year’s League Draft, the LA Bandits select... Flynn Kingman. Defensive lineman. Denver State University.”

The living room erupted into chaos—hugs, shouts, Jules leaping onto the couch and nearly taking out a cameraman with her flailing arms. Dad gripped the back of my neck, his eyes suspiciously bright.

“Both my twins,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “Both of you to the Bandits.”

I tried to process what was happening as cameras swung from my face to Gryff’s, capturing the moment for all of America to see. The Bandits. Not the Mustangs. Not the family team where our brothers had built a dynasty.

LA, not Denver.

Chris was the first of my brothers to reach me, his quarterback arms practically vibrating with suppressed emotion.

“The damn Bandits?” he growled, but the ferocity in his voice didn’t match the pride in his eyes. “Of all the teams in the League?”

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