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I’d go to a law school of my own choosing. One that specialized in public interest litigation. I had no intention of staying in Georgia if I could help it. I also couldn’t stand the idea of attending Harvard and trying to live up to the expectations my family—and my father’s powerful political backers—had set for me.

And since I knew he’d never pay for it, that meant I needed perfect grades, perfect conduct, and perfect focus so I could try to get a rare merit-based scholarship to cover my tuition.

No big deal. Just add that to the stack of shit I wasn’t thinking about today.

Before I arrived at the stadium, even my father’s campaign manager was lighting me up.

Janine

I’m sending a car for you and Arden at six. We’ll have your tux at the venue and Arden’s mom is bringing her things.

Car for what? I have two papers due tomorrow night.

Janine

Fundraising dinner at Ivy Hall. Several members of the Atlanta Falcons will be there so we need you for optics. Sorry, this one’s mandatory.

To be fair, Janine had let me opt out of a few events over the summer when I’d been truly overwhelmed and overscheduled, but I was also aware that she tended to do it when the trade-off was also good for the campaign. Like when I skipped campaign events for volunteer work or to attend something at Arden’s father’s church.

The closer we got to Election Day, the more highly visible the events would be.

How the fuck was I going to write two fucking papers in one day? Yes, I’d started the Econ paper already, but I didn’t even have research notes yet for the Rhetoric one. And I also had to finish preparing my public speaking presentation for Monday.

I inhaled for eight seconds, held it for eight more, and then exhaled for eight. Focus. Block out everything except the game. East Mercier.

Trust the line to protect the kick. Forget about the rush.

See it. Set it. Send it.

I continued box breathing as I entered the stadium, making a point of focusing on the ground a few feet in front of my shoes.

See it. Set it. Send it.

That was my only job today, which was why I loved playing football.

“Ice Man in the house!” someone barked as soon as I entered the locker room.

“Gonna be a great day,” someone else said. “Kick those fuckers back to the sticks.”

I felt the slap of a hand on my shoulder and tossed an up-nod at J.J. King. “S’up.”

“In the zone already, McNeely?” the cornerback teased. “That’s what I’m talking ’bout.”

The familiar noise of the team washed over me with Pavlovian effect. My breathing regulated, my shoulders relaxed, and I moved easily into my game-day routine.

The positive impact of routine on kicker mindset was unassailable. Studies had been done on it, and whole books had been written about it. Predictability was a steadying influence, and kickers needed to be rock steady.

I am a rock. Solid. Grounded. Immovable.

Jacket off first, then tie. Belt. Shoes. Dress shirt. Pants. Socks.

Each piece was carefully hung in my cubby for after the game. My eyes traced the fold marks still visible on my shirt from where I’d taken it out of the package.

Vaughn had made fun of me when the clothes had been hand-delivered to the dorm the other day by someone on Janine’s staff.

“Must be nice pressing a button and having hundreds of dollars of clothes turn up in your closet,” he’d muttered.

“Thousands,” I’d corrected. “And fuck off.”