Chapter 31
F uck Joe. He can actually just go and fuck right off if he thinks I’ll ever listen to anything he has to say or follow his lead again.
I received not one, but two calls this morning.
It was the first one that really got my attention.
Lenox had me running out the door, and after meeting up with him and learning everything he had to share, Joe is lucky that I made it through pregame warmups and the first half of the game without causing a mutiny.
My team deserves better from me, and they’re the only reason I didn’t lose my mind until he tried to start calling plays that would not only cause our team to lose but make me look weak and scared.
“Hand off for every down.” That’s what he said into my helmet. “You’re not to throw the ball.”
“That’s exactly what the defense will expect me to do,” I spat back.
“I don’t give a shit, Reyes. You’re on my team, and you’ll do what I tell you to do.”
Fat fucking chance I was going to do that.
Especially when my throwing arm is in top condition. He forgot that it wasn’t my throwing arm that underwent surgery.
“You running this show?” Myers, my tight end questions when I get back into the huddle after completing that beauty of a pass.
“I am,” I state resolutely, meeting the eyes of my guys one by one. “If anyone has a problem with that, now’s the time to speak up.”
Silence.
“All right. Denver draw left to Myers. Ready… break!”
We all clap our hands, and then my guys run into position.
Ryder smacks my back, gives me a firm nod, and then I’m lined up behind him, calling out a dozen things to throw off the pace of the defense.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins like a delicious drug, honing my muscles, sharpening my reflexes, and tightening my focus.
I go through my motions and then yell, “ Hike. ”
The ball snaps straight into my hands, and then I’m stepping back in the pocket, reading the defense and searching for my receivers, looking in the opposite direction of where I plan to throw the ball.
I shift right, knowing my offensive line will do their jobs and keep me safe.
Myers runs his fade route left. I fake right and then let the ball sail in his direction, watching as he turns his head over his shoulder at the right moment, and catches my bullet with two hands.
Right in the end zone.
“Yeah!” I jump in the air and then get slammed by my guys who lift me and carry me all the way to the sideline.
The fans in the stands are going nuts, the sound a deafening roar.
And because I’m a child at heart and in practice, I throw Joe—who is glaring so hard his face is redder than a fire engine—a smug grin and then turn to face the field, dismissing him.
It’s funny; I almost wasn’t sure what I was going to do when Lenox spilled all the tea to me. There were a lot of mixed emotions. A lot of wayward, fire-enraged, vengeful thoughts. But nothing is sweeter than stealing the team out from under him without him being able to do a damn thing about it.
This may very well be my last game as a Boston Rebel. I could be suspended or traded or even cut tomorrow. But this is my moment.
And right now, I own this.
Wynter is somewhere behind me, but I haven’t dared look in her direction since I ran on the field.
I know she has questions. I owe her more answers than she’s even aware of.
This involves her too. More so than ever before.
But this isn’t the moment to lose focus. Not when we’re this close to victory.
She must sense that because she hasn’t come over to me since I took the field.
The extra point kick is good, and then I head back to the bench where my offense has congregated. Kneeling on the cold earth, I start going through plays and strategy, when the offensive coordinator comes over to me.
“Asher, what the hell are you doing?”
I glance up at him. “My job. Leading my team to a W.”
He shakes his head, his mouth twisted up. “You can’t go against your coach like that, man. It’s career suicide.”
“When this is all over, I won’t be the only one with things to answer for. Not by a long shot.”
And something about that seems to do the trick because suddenly, my offensive coordinator is coaching us up, running through plays with me, and that’s how we do things for the rest of the game. Joe doesn’t come near us. Not once. In fact, he keeps his mouth shut and his eyes on the field.
But I know better than to think that he’s declared defeat.
If anything, he’s resting up, recharging his batteries in preparation for our next battle. Only he has no clue what’s coming for him. None.
* * *
The game comes down to a field goal in the final seconds of the game.
We won, but there’s a heaviness in the air as we all trudge into the locker room, Joe leading the pack to give the illusion that he still maintains control.
I don’t answer any of the reporters’ questions, though they swarm me and Joe the second they’re allowed on the field.
I started a coup, and generally, that doesn’t hold so well in sports.
I search around for Wynter but don’t see her anywhere, and then I push my way toward the locker room, ignoring the questioning looks from my guys as we go. I will need to address this with them. With Wynter. With everyone.
I stop one of the trainers and ask about Leo. He tells me that Dr. Horowitz took him to the hospital, and that’s all he knows right now. I can only hope he’s okay.
Joe is nowhere to be found—evidently deciding to forgo his postgame speech—so I stand in the middle of the locker room and address my guys.
“I know you all have a lot of questions about today. I can’t give you answers yet, but I will. I promise. You all played a hell of a game out there today, and I want us to all send up a silent, healing prayer for Leo.”
The guys grunt and all circle around me, and then I head for the showers to get myself put together. The press conference is scheduled for after the game, and I know the press are already in there, waiting on me after what I pulled today.
In fact, I bet it’s standing room only with reporters. Hell, ESPN is less than a two-hour drive. I’m not sure what I’m going to say. I need to speak directly to Joe, and I need Wynter and the team owner, Randolph there for that.
I shower quickly and change back into the suit I wore here since the team has a dress code for us. Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I take a look and see I have dozens of missed calls and texts. But it’s the text from Wynter that has my breath stalled.
Ice Queen: Is this true?
There’s a link to an ESPN news article with the headline. “Asher Reyes Rare Mid-Season Trade Deal With LA Possibly Put On Hold With Leo Dodd Injury.”
Fuck. Chaos brews within me. I bolt up to my feet and head for the exit. How on earth did they hear about the trade? I can only imagine the thoughts going through Wynter’s head.
Me: Where are you?
The dots start to dance on the screen, and anxious relief swarms through me.
At least she’s still talking to me. I should have told her.
I should have talked to her this morning, but after meeting with Lenox, I ran out of time before I had to report to the field, and then I didn’t see her much, and I certainly didn’t have the opportunity to speak with her about anything this involved.
I couldn’t do that on the field. But I had planned to talk to her tonight. I was going to tell her everything.
What I hadn’t planned on was Leo’s head injury or overthrowing my coach or coming out publicly about my relationship with Wynter or her finding out about the trade from a goddamn news article.
She won’t understand this. I know she won’t, and I already know her mind is going to some very dark places.
Ice Queen: Answer my question.
Dammit . I run an agitated hand through my hair, gripping it by the roots. I plow through the door and straight into a horde of waiting reporters. Fuck! I hold up my hand and press through them, pushing toward the staff-only part of the building as they rapid-fire question after question at me.
About the trade. About Joe. About Wynter—who they refer to by name.
All of this is blowing up at once, and with it, there’s a very real chance I could lose my girl if I can’t get to her and explain.
“Ash? Where are you going?” Arnold the press secretary for the team questions frantically. “You’re expected in the press room. You have to give your post-game conference.”
I shake my head as I quickly type out a reply to Wynter.
Me: Yes, but it’s not what you think and it’s not how it looks. I can explain. Where are you?
Ice Queen: Not how it looks, and you can explain. Said by every man who was ever painted into a corner and guilty of their crimes.
Hell, if she isn’t right with that.
Me: That’s not how this is. I promise. Please, I have a lot to tell you. A lot you need to know and not just about this stupid trade. Where are you?
Come on, Wynter. Don’t do this. I know I fucked up, but don’t quit on me yet.
Me: I love you, and I swear on that love you’ve got the wrong idea on this. Please, my queen. I have so much to tell you and I was going to tell you everything tonight and then this blew up before I got my chance.
She doesn’t respond, but something tells me she didn’t leave the grounds either. She would have been mobbed, and I know that’s not what she wants right now. Plus, I don’t think she wants to run from me. I think in her heart she wants to trust me, and she wants me to tell her I didn’t let her down.
Me: Please. Tell me where you are so we can talk.
“Asher.” Arnold grabs my arm, forcing my gaze to snap up to his. “Now, man. It’s not a choice.”
Fuck!
Me: I’m being dragged into the press room. Don’t leave. Just watch the post-game conference and we’ll talk after. Please.
Reluctantly and with my stomach twisted into knots, I follow after Arnold, passing by the press and then up to the podium of the press room where I’m immediately inundated with questions.