Chapter One #2
“What is your problem, dude?” He shakes off his friends and steps into my space. I have a few inches on him, but I have to give him props for trying.
“Have some respect.” I shake out my hand. “Don’t speak about a woman like that. Especially not that woman.”
“Whoa.” He sways a little as he holds up his hands. “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. I was just making a comment.”
“A disrespectful one. Get the fuck out of here,” I growl. “Now.”
The douche in the boat shoes looks like he wants to argue, but his friends pull him away. They yell and shout their distaste for me as I watch them go, standing in front of the entrance to Pat’s with my arms crossed over my chest.
Fuckers.
I shake out my hand again. Goddamn, that went too far.
I bend down to pick up my cap that fell off during the scuffle, and when I look up, I see the camera pointed my way from across the street. It flashes a few more times as I shove the cap on my head again and walk down the sidewalk toward my car.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
***
I flex my hand, opening and closing my fist. The skin across my knuckles tightens, and pain shoots through my nerves.
It’s angry and red, and the open wounds haven’t even started to heal over.
I sigh, pulling the bandage tape from my bag and tugging at the end.
A little clumsily, I wrap the tape over my knuckles and around my hand.
I tear it off, tucking the end away to secure it.
I flex again, feeling my range of movement. Restricted but good enough.
I look up, scanning the room and looking around at my teammates. No one is paying me any attention as they duck in and out of the locker room, getting ready for practice. I flex my fingers for the third time before shaking my hand out and getting to my feet.
I was an idiot to have gone out last night. My head is pounding, and my stomach turns at the idea of the next four hours of running drills and catching a ball. The image of the guys across the street, snapping pictures, haunts me.
And I busted up my fucking hand.
Goddammit.
I turn into my locker, pretending to prepare my pads and practice jersey before slipping it over my head.
I squeeze my eyes tight as I block out the dumbass decision I made last night after leaving the bar.
I didn’t even drink that much. A beer with my burger, sitting in my favorite corner booth with my head bowed and my eyes trained on the film tapes I had saved on my phone.
A few glimpses at Katie. A little flirting.
That’s all I wanted from the evening.
But when I heard the way that guy was running his mouth, I just snapped.
Fuck.
I am so screwed.
I snatch up the gloves sitting on my seat and storm from the locker room.
As I move through the tunnels, I feel the familiar mask slip over my features.
I smile and nod to everyone I pass. I laugh as one of the social media girls asks me my favorite band at the entrance to the practice field.
I answer, flashing a cheeky grin and throwing a wink to the camera before stepping onto the grass.
Football is everything to me.
This.
The field. The team. The game.
I thrive on the energy it gives me. I study my game tape and my playbook like they’re the most interesting things in the world. I eat well and I train hard. I play hard. I want to be great.
I am doing everything I can to be great.
I shake out my wrapped-up hand and flex the fingers once more before slipping a glove over the bandage as I approach Scott, standing in the middle of the field.
“Hey,” I say as I get closer. He jerks his chin up, not breaking his focus as he takes the ball held out by one of the assistant QB coaches and throws it down the line.
A running back, one of the rookies, is there to catch it.
He does so effortlessly, tucking the ball into himself as he side steps a defender and goes for a touchdown.
It’s clean, smooth, and exactly what the playbook outlines.
I shake out my arms, then my legs, trying to loosen my muscles.
Scott glances at me before taking another football and spinning it on his palm.
I stretch out my legs, leaning to one side and then to the other.
Rotating my arms, I groan at the way my hand throbs with the movement.
I sink into a squat, stretching my hamstrings out.
“You look like shit,” he says before throwing the ball down the line. I swallow the guilt clawing up my throat and plaster my best smile across my face.
“So sweet to me, Harvey.” I clap a hand to his shoulder. He grunts and shrugs me off.
“Warm up,” he grumbles, twisting another ball between his palms. “Let’s run some plays.”
I hesitate for only a moment, letting my grin slip just a little as I think about my bruised and battered hand. Before I can talk myself out of it, Scott calls the play, and I’m sprinting down the field.
My legs burn under me, but I ignore it, pumping them fast as I keep the ball in my sight. It sails through the air, and if I get there, it should tuck into my waiting hands just as I get into the end zone.
I’m a step or two off. My fingers tip the ball, and I slip, unable to grab it as pain shoots up my fingertips and ripples through my injured hand.
Fucking hell, that hurts.
I catch the ball on the bounce and slow down. I look up to see Scott glaring at me from thirty yards away. I drop his gaze and toss the ball to the side, jogging back over. I position myself to his left, crouching on the line.
“Again,” I grunt.
I sink into my zone. My knuckles are probably rubbing raw against the bandages, and my glove won’t be helping, but I can’t bring myself to care. The look on Scott’s face when I fumbled that pass, an easy fucking pass, was a punch to the gut.
So I block it out.
Last night. Katie. The comment. The asshole. The punch. All of it.
I focus on football, and the next pass that flies through the air, I catch it.