Finding the Neutral Zone (Baltimore Cobras #4)

Chapter 1

COOPER

The words “he’s going to rip you a new asshole” have been burned in my brain by my grandfather since I was a kid, and I’ve never truly understood what he meant.

It usually came as I was sneaking out of his house at the beach to join friends at a midnight bonfire.

I’d spend approximately five minutes opening the window in my second-story bedroom, pausing with each creak.

I always thought that if I did it slowly enough, he would think that it was just the thick beach wind blowing by.

I’d climb down carefully, cautious as can be, as I drop down to the sand beneath.

Unbeknownst to me, my grandpa was a scheming son of a bitch who kept track of every time I did it. How he knew, he took to his deathbed.

But I always knew that one day I would be ripped a new asshole, and as a kid, the thought was terrifying.

For as much trouble as I’ve been in, it never quite got to ripping me a new asshole level. Truthfully, maybe it should have.

But today, in this moment, I finally understand the term.

I should have known it would be bad from the way Coach’s head lifted slowly, his eyes usually warm—albeit usually disappointed—beady as they searched mine.

He wears a Baltimore Vipers baseball hat from his attendance a week ago when Leo threw out the first pitch, and my eyes focus on the light ring of sweat around the cap to avoid his gaze.

God, the man can sweat.

“What the fuck am I looking at?” he asks in that slow, calculated way he does when he’s getting ready to blow a fucking gasket.

My eyes drop to the papers in front of him. Fresh off the press this morning, dropped off by my publicist with a chuckle and a “good luck today, man.”

“It’s a contract,” I purse my lips, trying to figure out why in the world he would ask me something so stupid.

“It’s clearly a fucking contract, dipshit. What’s it for?” he snaps, his eyes blazing as he rolls back in his special desk chair meant for old men who can’t walk a mile without complaining about their ass cheek hurting.

I flinch at his tone. I’ve heard it before. We all have. I don’t think there’s a team in the league that hasn’t been cussed out by their coach, and we certainly give him enough reasons to do it.

A team of men—53 of them at least. Just the thought of it is enough to send someone’s blood pressure through the roof. Shit, having to deal with Leo is enough stress to turn a man gray in a month.

“It’s for that reality show that I talked to you about at the barbecue,” I inform him, wiping my clammy hands on my shorts.

Coach looks back down at the contract, his brows knitting together as his eyes narrow. “Reality show?”

I smile, “Yeah! It’s really interesting, and I think it’ll bring a lot of good to the tea—”

“Cooper, you have five seconds to get the fuck out of my office before I throw something at you,” he snaps, ending my little demented illusion that I was actually talking him into being interested in a reality dating show.

I take a moment, watching his face become a funny shade of red. “Well, you’ll sign it, right?”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out!” he growls, throwing his arms up as he points to the door.

I put my hands up in defense. “Can I at least plead my case?”

It was, very clearly, the very last thing I should have said.

“Cooper, I’m so incredibly sick of this shit.

You guys are going to give me a god damn aneurysm one of these days, do you know that?

I’m going to fucking die, and it’s going to be your fault.

You know what? No. I’ll give it to you. It’ll be a mix of you and fucking Warner.

” He slams his hand on the desk. “Jesus. Fuck! Are you kidding me? Can I get a single god damn year of peace? Was last season really my only damn year I was able to relax? Warner has his balls in a jar at home and for good fucking reason. Thank the Lord for that. I had a year of near peace, and you come in here talking about some damn reality show you want to go on? Why the hell do we have to sign off on it?”

“Well, they have to film—”

“Don’t you fucking dare open your god damn mouth and tell me that they have to film here. Do not tell me that’s what this is about, Henry.”

My head tilts to the side, “Well, they want to do some in-season footage. Follow me through the season like the other shows we allow to film. It’s kinda the whole point of the show.”

Coach is standing within half a second, the old man's chair flying behind him. I didn’t even know he was capable of moving so fast, honestly. “Henry, you have three seconds to get out of my fucking office before I sit your ass down for the next three seasons.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Try me.”

I scoff, but I watch as his dark eyes narrow, and something tells me he’s telling the truth.

I stand slowly, as if I spotted a bear in the woods.

“Now!” he screams, and I nearly trip on my chair trying to leave.

Coach starts counting behind me, and I don’t risk the time it would take to turn to look at him. Instead, I grab at the door, yanking it open only to fall flat on my ass as it doesn’t budge.

“What the fuck?” I mutter, grabbing for the handle to help me up. I yank it again as Coach snaps at me.

“What’s the problem, Henry?”

“Door won’t open, Coach!”

“The fuck do you mean?”

His footsteps feel like the tick of a bomb as my ears rush with adrenaline, my whole body growing hot. I tug on the door a couple more times, tears forming in my eyes as I know he’s going to quite literally tear me a new asshole if he gets over here. It’s going to hurt.

And finally, it budges. Swings right open, nearly punching a hole in the wall where the door handle hits it.

“Oh, thank god,” I mutter as I run out. The door slams behind me, and when I stop to catch my breath, I turn to look at it.

Only to find Leo leaning against the wall next to the door, a shit-eating grin spread across his stupid face.

I look from him to the door. “Did you do something to the door?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.

He shrugs, but says, “I would never, and I’m offended that you would even think that.” I watch him for a few more seconds before he cracks.

“You’re such an asshole,” I hiss, turning back around.

“You really want to do this thing, don’t you?” he asks, catching up to me quickly. Our steps fall into line with each other, and I can feel Leo staring a hole into the side of my face.

“I kinda agreed to it already,” I wince.

Of course, the show knows they need things signed off not only by the team but also by the league.

From what I gather, they already have the league's permission by positioning it as a hook to bring in an even wider audience. There have been shows that have done this in the past, following teams and players during their season. The only difference is that they’d be following my love life throughout the season.

All they really need now is for the team to sign off.

Which, well, isn’t exactly something I could see Coach loving. My asking him was a professional courtesy of sorts. I knew he wasn’t going to be happy with me, but I didn’t think it would go as terribly as it did.

While the shows exist, most teams hate being picked for them. Coaches don’t like cameras everywhere, and some even believe that they bring bad luck.

I am, however, my own good luck charm.

What I really need to do is butter up the owner and our General Manager.

But that can come tomorrow. I’ll get the boys together at my place, have some 10 pm mimosas and popcorn, and come up with a game plan. A boy's night.

“Sometimes I think I’m the biggest problem on this team, and then you go and do this.

” Leo chuckles, rubbing the back of his head.

It’s said with love. Back when Leo was spiraling out of control, the whole team took a hit.

No one knew what to tell reporters. Rookies had no idea who to look to for leadership.

Leo’s done a world of good for this team, but there were quite a few rough patches.

Did we enable it? Well, sort of.

But in the end, it all worked out, right?

Thanks to Briar.

I knew the second this idiot looked at her with his big ‘ol puppy eyes that he was a goner.

“What are your plans?” he asks as we turn into one of the lounges.

One of the nutritionists fills a water bottle across the room, and a trainer is in the other corner eating their bland chicken and rice.

The place is mostly a ghost town these days, with only a few players coming in for strength training and meetings.

I lift a shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s good exposure. You don’t actually find love on these shows, right?”

In truth, I’m bored. I was presented with a challenge, and I would be paid to do it. Of course I was going to say yes.

Leo eyes me suspiciously. “How would I know?”

“You have, well, women—” I motion all around him, “in your house; those girly shows have to be on at some point.”

Leo narrows his eyes. “They’re not girly shows, Cooper. They’re just shows. And I actually do like them.”

“Then why don’t you know?”

His head droops, a sigh escaping his lips. It’s one of those sighs where you can physically feel the weight of an entire story behind it—beginning, middle, and tedious end.

I wonder how much time I have left before my next meeting.

“My sister says that some of them are scripted,” he tells me with a kick of his foot.

“Do you know which ones?”

He shakes his head. “They all seem the same to me. But apparently, there’s a whole thing about how producers get involved, and things get messy.

Or it’s just all fake.” He throws up his hands in irritation.

“I don’t know. The drama is interesting.

There’s one show where they’re all cooped up in this big, open house in the Bahamas.

If you ask me, it feels more like the damn Stanford prison experiment. ”

I’m frankly surprised he knows what that is. My eyebrow raises.

Leo puts his hands up. “Isla said it! Spawned a whole rabbit hole for me to go down that night. Didn’t sleep until three in the morning.

I was literally just rolling over endlessly, phone in my hands, scrolling through video after video of douchebags talking about how fit the women were.

Briar kept hitting me in her sleep when the screen got too bright.

” He thinks for a second. “At one point she woke up and asked why it sounded like whatever I was watching sounded like someone learning to speak for the first time, and I had to tell her it was because the man had giant, horribly-white, brand-new veneers that took up half his face.” He shivers.

Leo’s sister, Isla, and our teammate, Owen, are still living in the apartment next door to Leo. I wouldn’t put it past him to force them into watching TV with him on nights that Elara has dance.

I grab a water and head to our usual table, and I’m met with the uncomfortable, unsettling realization that everyone is settling down.

Except for me.

I’m right where I’ve always been, doing what I’ve always done. Party, drink, sweat the alcohol out of my system, play football, rinse and repeat.

One of my best friends from years ago disappeared for a while, only to come back with a whole wife and dog. And where are they living now? In Seattle. A dog, mind you, with my name.

Isla and Owen have a million things going on and are two seconds away from marriage and maybe a kid or two, if Isla has anything to do with it.

Leo and Briar have their little family, and now Emmett and Heidi can’t keep their hands off each other.

I swear they’re like pre-teens with their tongues down each other’s throats the second they’re alone.

It makes me sick… in a wholesome way.

I love that their lives are moving forward. I love that all of their hopes and dreams are coming true. That in five years, their lives are going to be vastly different from what they are even now. Because once life starts moving, it seldom stops.

But I’m still here. Wishing that I could have the one girl I can’t have, no matter what.

The same girl that no one knows I even have history with.

The same woman I left behind.

If there’s anyone other than Coach who would tear me a new asshole, it’s her.