The End Zone (San Francisco Wolves #18)

Chapter 1

touchdowns and tantrums

Jax

The San Francisco Wolves were down by three, the block was ticking down faster than what feels real, and I am pissed.

No. I’m not pissed at the game. Nah, I live for the chaos of the game. The unexpectedness of what can happen in typical sixty minutes of true playing time. No, I’m not pissed at the game. I am pissed off at myself. I am pissed at the fact that the ball hasn’t touched my hands all fucking quarter.

I’m not a god damned mascot, I’m the fucking tight end. I’m not a bench warmer. My cleats tear into the turf as I sprint down the field with the roar of 68,500 fans vibrating through the stadium.

This is my stage. My Spotlight, and I am about to remind everyone why the chant my name.

Danny “the arm” Jones, cocked back and let the ball fly — a perfect spiral slicing through the night air.

I tracked the trajectory like a hawk as I started my run.

The defender was on me, a shadow with grabby hands, and if I remember correctly, bad breath, but I don’t flinch.

I explode upwards, all six-foot-three of muscle and stubbornness, snatching the vall mid-flight.

My feet settle down with a thud on the turf and I spin and take off as the crowd loses it’s collective mind.

I shed the defender and zero in on my target.

The end zone is twenty yards out, a promise of glory.

I can feel the defenders fingers brushing my jersey, the huff and puff of his ragged breathing.

He’s desperate, but so am I. I am a freight train with a temper and a point to prove.

I power through, legs pumping, my heart slamming until I cross the line, ball hugged tightly to my chest.

Touchdown. Game over. Wolves win.

The stadium erupts, a tidal wave of noise crashes over me.

I spike the ball, then rip off my helt, letting my sweaty dark hair free.

I grin, a cocky, lopsided grin that said — Yeah, I’m that good — and soaked up the chaos.

Fans scream my name, teammates mob me, and someone in the stands there is probably some hot chick holding a sign asking me to marry her.

Another day at the office. However, as I jog off the field, chest heaving with the high beginning to fade.

Winning is sweet, of course, but it doesn’t erase the whispers.

The ones about my attitude problem. The ones that follow me like a bad small, no matter how many games I crush.

No matter how many times I score, no matter if I do something good.

The whispers of my temper never fade. I should be more apologetic, but I don’t have the time to change who I am. Besides, do I want to?

Post-game locker room vibes were a mixture of sweat, Gatorade, and a lot of testosterone.

I lean against my locker, peeling off my pads, still winning from the winning touchdown.

My phone was vibrating against the top of my locker— texts from friends, a flirty emoji from some random chick, and a stern “call me” from my aent.

I ignore the past one. Mike can wait, I want to bask in the celebration for a little while longer.

“Jax! Media’s waiting!” Coach bellowed from across the room, his voice a gravelly nark that could shake the ground.

I groan and toss my head back. “Can’t they write their little stories without me holding their hands? They watched the game, they know what happened.” I ask, loud and dramatically.

Coach shot me a look, the one that could sever limbs and I sigh.

I quickly wipe a towel over my head and face and put my jersey back on.

I grab a hat from my locker, slip it on, and drag myself toward the hallway as if I’m a child being forced to do something.

I know the drill: smile, say something charming, and dodge the dumb questions. Easy. Except it rarely is.

The second I stepped out, the vultures descended. Recorders clicked on, cell phones raise, and my name is being called in all directions by a dozen voices clamouring for my attention. I force a grin, all teeth and zero warmth, ready to play as I settle behind the podium.

“Jax! You killed it. Any thoughts on how the second half differed from the first? You seemed on fire in those last minutes.” One of the reporters asked.

“Thank you for that, Beth. I think our first half, we kept pace. We knew going into the second half that we needed to get our butt moving a little more swifter to gain the lead. I set myself a goal to get one more in, and what do you know, goal accomplished and game won.” I reply with confidence.

“Jax! Did you guys have a meeting of the minds on the sidelines to discuss what we could see as frustration of the ball not making it to you until the end there?”

“Honestly, John, when we’re out there on the field, everything happens so fast, it’s purely luck of the draw.

Some plays work, some are changed last minute due to player availability and if their open.

I happened to be wide open at that moment and Danny made the pass.

It takes more than a play to score a goal.

” I reply, ignoring that he mentioned that I was visibly frustrated.

Then he spoke.

“Jax, great game, but can we talk about the rumors? Word is your temper’s tanking your performance Any comment on that?”

I freeze. My grin slips like a bad date.

The reporter, a swarmy dude with a notepad and a smirk, stares at me, pen poised like a weapon.

He’s unlike any of the other seasoned reporters in this room, old-fashioned and looks like he smokes a couple of packs a day.

The room goes quiet, everyone waiting for the explosion and they aren’t wrong for expecting it.

“My performance?” My voice is low, dangerous, the kind of tone that often gets me in trouble.

“I scored the winning goal. The touchdown ended the game today. Were you not there, asshole? I think my performance was just as good as ever. What’s your excuse for sucking at your job?

Who are you anyways, are you even allowed to be in here? ”

The reporter blinked, caught off guard, but recovers fast. “Sure, but off-field stuff, for instance bar fights, social media rants, your attitude for example just now. People say it’s a pattern. You’re a liability, Jax.”

Fuck this asshole. I lean in on the podium and glare at the guy.

My fists grip the wood hard, my knuckles turning white.

“You wanna talk patterns? How about you hack-types chasing my down every week, twisting every word I say into some soap opera, misconstruing a silly meme that I post into an essay, that kind of bullshit? I’m here to play football, not star in your reality show. ”

“Jax—!” Another reporter tries to cut in, but I wasn’t ready to let this asshole go, not yet.

“Hold up, Ashley. I’m sorry. I will give you ample time, but I want to address this sack of shit first. What’s next, sir?

Gonna ask me my favorite cereal, then shit in it, because there’s a bit of sugar in it?

My star sign? Maybe how I like my eggs? Newsflash: I don’tgive a shit what you think.

Write whatever you want. You should have watched the game, and you know what, that’s what you should be writing about it you are a so-called sports reporter.

I will still be out there winning while you’re writing your garbage. ” I growl.

The douchebags eyes light up, he is practically salivating at this back and forth. “So, are you saying that the reports are exaggerated?”

“Sir, I’m saying stick to sports reporting, if that’s really what you do. Not drama. I’m saying that anything that happens when it’s off the field and not in a stadium is my damn business, and not yours. Now, enough of you. Ashley, I believe you had a question.” I offer her an apologetic smile.

“Thank you Jax. My question is simple. How do you feel about the teams rivalry against the Colorado Cougars? You guys play them next week.” She asks.

“A good rivalry is always good. It gives us something to work towards. I’m excited to match up with them again. And just maybe, we’ll win that one too.”

“Jax, speaking of the rivalry. You and their tight end had some choice interactions in the past, is that still active?” The swarmy guy asks.

“No more questions, especially from you.”

“But Jax-.” The guy whimpers, upset that I’m not addressing his question.

“Get out of my face before I make you a story.” I pierce him with a look.

“That’s it’ folks, that’s all I have for you today.

Thanks for coming.” I spin around, and storm out of the room and back through the door of the locker room.

The room is silent, nobody says a word, but all eyes are on me.

I pull my jersey off, strip out of my pants.

I toss everything on the floor, and redress quickly.

Grab my bag, my chest heaving, and mutter to myself, “screw this.” I’ve just left the locker room when my phone buzzes in my hand.

I turn my palm and see it’s my agent calling.

Yeah, this isn’t going away.

The conference room smells like leather and regret.

Something that I’m quite used to. I slouch in the chair, my arms crossed and I’m glaring at the table.

I’m pissed at myself. I fed right into that asshole, and now, I’m getting a talking to, like a child.

My agent, Mike, sits beside me, fidgeting with his tie, while our teams general manager, Mr. Thompson sits across from us.

The guy looks like he was born to be a businessman. Gray suit, gray hair, gray skin.

“Jax,” he starts, his voice smooth but edged, “you’re a hell of a player. Nobody is denying that. But this —” he slides a tablet across the table, a headline in bold Wolves’ Star Tight End Snaps: Carr’s Temper Strikes Again! “—this is a problem.”

I barely glance at the tablet, I didn’t need to. “That reporter was a class-action dick. He had it coming.”

“Maybe,” Mr. Thompson said, unfazed. “But it’s not just him. It’s the bar fight last month. It’s the post on your social media ranting about the ref being a ‘blind jackass.’ The list goes on, and the board’s done playing nice.”

My jaw tightens. “So what? Are they gonna bench me?”

Mike jumps in, trying to play peacemaker, as usual. “Nobody is benching anyone. Jax, we just need a pan. Right, Mr. Thompson?”

Mr. Thompson leans forward, “a plan is a way to put it. Here’s the deal.

Your talent is keeping you here, but your attitude is dragging you down, it’s dragging us down.

It’s putting a bullseye on you at every opportunity and that won’t stop.

The team’s image is taking hits, just as much as yours is, and the sponsors don’t like drama unless it’s scripted.

You’ve got one shot to fix this, or we’re looking at a suspension. ”

“A suspension?” I sit up straight in my chair. “For what? Having a spine?”

“For conduct detrimental to the team,” Thompson shoots back, his tone slicing through the air. “You’re a loose cannon, Carr. Shape up, or you’re out.”

The word out sucked punched me. I love football — I live it. I breathe it. Losing it all is not an option. But my pride, that’s important too. However, my pride would be fucked if I was out.

Mike leans in, voice low. “What if we slipped the narrative? Showed the public that Jax was turning a corner?”

Mr. Thompson raises an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“Like, what if he started dating someone?” Mike said, gaining steam. “Someone steady, respectable. A good influence. It’d sell - bad boy gone good.”

My brain kicked into gear, and suddenly there she was: Morgan Stevens.

My childhood best friend, the one person who’d ever called me on my crap and lived to tell the tale.

She is a marketing shark now, all sharp edges and sass, with a smile that could charm a snake.

If anyone could fake this with him — and maybe fix him for real — it was her.

“I’ve got someone,” I say, leaning back, a spark of hope flickering in my gut. “Morgan Stevens. She’s a marketing consultant, knows her shit. And she’s known me forever. We could play the couple thing, spin it into gold.

Mr. Thompson’s stern mask cracks, just a little. “Interesting. But it’s gotta stick, Jax. The media’s got magnifying glasses on you.”

“I’ll make it work,” I said, my voice firm with confidence. “She’s in, I’m in, we’re golden.”

I wasn’t sure if Morgan was in, not yet.

But I would figure that out. She owed him for the one time that he saved her from a bad date last year.

I stood, my adrenaline buzzing. I had a phone call to make with th woman who could potentially save my ass or kick it into next week. Morgan Stevens, prepare yourself.

I pace the parking lot, the phone pressed to my ear, waiting for her to answer. One ring. Two. Three. Come on, Morgs. Finally—.

“Jax Carr, to what do I owe the honor?” her voice was all sunshine and sarcasm, and damn if it didn’t make me grin, despite everything.

“Hey there, Sunshine,” I say, leaning back against my truck. “How do you feel about being my fake girlfriend?”

A beat of silence. Then laughter, loud and way too amused. “Oh, this I’ve gotta hear.”

And just like that, I knew I was in for it. Game on.