CHAPTER 47 Dex Bradley
A Shitty Practice
She really left. She really went home to Chicago.
When she said it, I guess I didn’t think she was serious. But she’s on a plane right now, at least according to Desi, who’s been in touch with her.
She didn’t text me to tell me she got a flight, but I guess it’s no longer my information to have given our situation.
I would’ve taken her to the airport. I would’ve given her a little extra time with Jack—which I know she would have wanted.
I see the way she looks at him like he’s hers, and in many big ways, he is.
She stepped into the role of his mother when he no longer had one, and I treated her like the hired help.
I’ve been such a dick.
But if I could do it all over again, I’m not sure I’d really do anything differently. I wouldn’t know how to do anything differently. I’m fumbling my way through all of this.
Friday practices are usually lighter ahead of game weekends, but I’m not going any lighter as we run game scenarios on the practice field before lunch.
My job is to rush the quarterback, and Asher’s job as the tight end is to stop me in the play we’re running.
Only, he doesn’t. I plow him down, and when I help him up, he glares at me.
“What the fuck was that?” he demands.
I hold up both hands. “I’m just doing my job.”
“We’re going light, man. Chill the fuck out.”
His words set a fire under me. I realize he’s my friend off the field, but in this moment, he’s the enemy. Friday practices might be lighter, but if we’re running game scenarios, he’s my opponent. My single job is to get to the quarterback and take him down.
The quarterbacks rotate during practice, and the team’s second backup quarterback, Brandon Fletcher, is in for this play. Asher stops me from getting to him again, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe what I’m doing.
I’m just practicing.
On the next play, Maverick Jennings rotates in.
He’s brand new to the Aces, acquired in a trade from Dallas during the draft, and he’ll be our starter this year.
Our other starter, Miles Hudson, has been having issues with the ACL he tore a couple years ago, so Maverick will be stepping up to the plate.
Mav has been around a few years and has killer instincts, and I’m frankly shocked that Dallas let him go in the deal.
He’s an incredible quarterback and competitor, and I’d rather play with him than against him.
But he does things his way. He doesn’t listen to anybody, and he’s polarizing.
He makes as many headlines off the field as he does on it, but Coach Nash is confident he can turn this guy around.
Nobody is quite sure how he’s planning to do that, but if anyone can do it, it’s Lincoln Nash.
This time when we run the play, I barrel over Asher, and I try to stop myself, but my momentum is too great.
I plow right into Maverick, who lets out a grunt as I take him down.
I don’t mean to take him down. He’s fully padded under his red jersey that signifies not to hit the player, but my instinct to take down the quarterback took over.
“Fuck,” Maverick hisses as he gasps for breath, and his hand goes immediately to his ribs, which I plowed into shoulder-first. Always shoulder-first. Never helmet-first. We’ve practiced that enough over the years that I know it was my shoulder.
But shoulders can bruise and break ribs just as much as helmets can, and the way Mav is clutching his ribs and wheezing…it’s definitely broken ribs.
“What the fuck was that?” Asher yells at me.
I turn toward him. I already feel bad enough about whatever I just did to Maverick, and now he’s laying into me, too?
“I had too much momentum after taking your ass down,” I say to him.
“I told you to take it down a notch!” He’s still yelling at me.
Lincoln comes between us a second later—literally. He walks right in between our fight to check on Maverick, who I’ve clearly just made an enemy of, and then he looks up at me.
“In my office. Now.”
His voice is eerily calm, and I know I’m in for a punishment far worse than stadium stairs.
I follow him to his office, and he slams the door shut behind me as I slide into one of the chairs across from his desk.
“What the fuck are you doing out there, Dex? I thought you were pulling yourself together, and now you’re plowing down Asher and taking out Maverick? You don’t hit the quarterback in practice. Ever.”
It’s ribs, which will be four to six weeks recovery at most. I feel bad about it, but it’s a risk that comes with playing the game. We’ve been trained not to feel bad when we take down our target.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“You know Fridays are light. Why’d you mow down Asher?”
I take a breath—mostly because I’m about to say something really stupid about how he probably wouldn’t care if it was Austin Graham or some other tight end that’s not his brother, but talking back right now isn’t going to earn me any favors, so I shut my trap.
“Well?” he prompts. “Why?”
“I couldn’t go light. I needed to get my anger out, and football is the outlet.”
“If I say practice is light, that means the goddamn practice is light. It does not mean you get to do what you want. You put at least two players in danger and injured one, and that’s absolutely unacceptable, Dex. You’ll stay here while the rest of us travel to New York.”
“Coach, no! Don’t do this. You need me. You know you do.”
He shakes his head. “No. I need a team player. Someone I can trust. Someone who will put their personal shit on the back burner and focus on the task at hand. And right now, that’s not you.”
“I’m sorry. What can I do to change your mind?” Why do I keep asking people that? They’ve already made up their minds. Nothing I say will change it, so why even bother?
“Nothing. Don’t do anything stupid this weekend. I’ll expect you in here Monday morning, win or lose, ready to run extra solo drills.”
I clench my jaw. “Yes, Coach.”
“You’re dismissed from practice today.”
I grind my teeth, but I don’t say anything at all. Instead, I get up and walk out of his office.
Well, that was a shitty practice. Maybe the shittiest one of my life.
I head to Asher’s place to pick up Jack since Desi’s watching him, but I text her ahead to let her know I’m on my way and I left practice early.
It’s not like I can stay at their house this weekend when I’m in town and Asher isn’t, so I grab my kid and head home. I’m sure Asher will fill her in on the stupidity that landed me here.
It was my fault. Again. It’s all my fault lately.
And as I get Jack out of the car seat once I’m back home in my parking garage, a new realization dawns on me.
I’m glad I get a little extra time with Jack. It’s rare it’s just been the two of us, and while I know I’ll struggle my way through it, it’s good for me. But the truth is, we shouldn’t have this time. I should be packing for New York, and I’m not.
I don’t just need to get my shit together. In order to do that, I need to figure out exactly what my shit is, and I need to figure out what it is I want out of life.
Because this right here? Getting suspended from the first game of the season as a direct punishment from my coach and not getting to travel with the team…this isn’t it.