Chapter 12
Zamir
We’re on the indoor field today in the practice facility running routes and trying to learn the offense with a new quarterback. It’s hard on all of us, including him, but it doesn’t help that he has some vendetta against me. And it seems to only be me.
I’m sure I didn’t help anything with the show I put on earlier when we were getting warmed up, but he had that coming. I’ve been convinced he’s into me, but there weren’t any sure signs… until I got up and peeked over my shoulder in time to see him rearranging his dick. So safe to say he’s into me. While I’m smirking to myself at the memory, I miss Nash’s snap cadence, and I’m off the line hella late.
1 The little fuck doesn’t hold the ball any longer, even though I know he saw me leave the line later than all the others. The ball goes sailing over my head, nowhere even remotely close to where I am now, but where I should’ve been.
I’m sprinting full speed back to his ass. I’ve had enough. “Are you just trying to make me look bad, Rookie?” I practically spit the last word into his face. I pause, seeing if he’ll answer; of course, he doesn’t, so I keep going. “Because the only thing it’s doing is making your dumbass look bad. You’ve been playing long enough to make that decision to either throw to one of the other receivers or fuck, maybe even run the ball.” That was a low hit for no reason, but I’m pissed the fuck off.
Oh, that hit him where it hurts. I see rage fill his eyes, and then he shoves me by both of my shoulders. I stumble back a couple of steps—the fucker is strong, but I can still hurt his ass if need be.
He questions, “What the fuck were you doing getting off the line so late?”
I step back into his face, grinding my jaw and talking through my teeth, “Push me one more time, Nash, and we’ll have a repeat of earlier. You know what that did to me.” I swear to god I see him think about it, but before anything else can happen, Coach blows his whistle and points at both Nash and me.
“You’re both done for the day! Shower and in my office! Not another fucking peep out of either of you!” Great, he’s pissed.
Dipshit and I are walking into the coach’s office. That practice could not have been worse. I haven’t argued and fought with a teammate like that since high school. It’s embarrassing. We couldn’t get a pass to connect to save our lives, and that last route and miss was just the icing on the cake. I’m thankful I didn’t crack his skull open with my bare hands. I don’t know how we’re supposed to make this work.
Opening the door to his office, I say, “Coach.”
“Both of you sit. Now!” This is going to be fun.
“I’m sor—” Nash is cut off by Coach throwing his hand up in front of him, signaling for him to shut the fuck up. Nash just nods and looks down. I don’t like him cowering, no matter how much he pisses me off.
“I’ve heard enough of the apologizing. You two have got to get along. There’s no way around it. You’re assigned roommates for all away games this year, and on the plane, you are to sit beside one another—and I want you to watch film together.” He looks between both of us, continuing, “I don’t care if that’s here or at one of your places. Figure it out and figure it out fast.” If steam could come out of his head, I know it would be right about now.
I’m going to fuck with him so hard in the hotel rooms at the away games. I really don’t want to be around him at all, but I do itch to know why he acts like someone shoved a stick up his ass with no lube. Maybe push him over the edge with the teasing.
“Yes, Coach,” we both say simultaneously. Maverick Whitlock was a three-time all-star quarterback but never won the big ring. He didn’t have the team around him to do so. That’s why he’s so big on his players getting along and everyone working together. He wants that ring just as much as we all do.
“The next time I see you two arguing or fighting like that, I’ll bench both of you. I don’t care if we lose every fucking game. That was pathetic. Now, both of you get out of my face,” he spits.
We both get up, heading back to the locker room to grab all of our shit. Nash breaks the silence first. “You can come to my place tomorrow night, and we can watch some film of the game last year against the Devils, maybe order in and relax with some beers?” Is he trying to be nice after the shit he said today?
“What is this, a date?” He immediately stiffens at my words. Ope found another thing to piss this boy off.
He did grow up in the South. Is he homophobic or something? Somebody make it make sense. He went to Palm, where I did, and it was pretty open-minded environment there. You wouldn’t think so, being in Florida, but they really ensured they accepted everyone no matter who they loved or what they identified as. “Chill, I’m just fucking with you; it looks like you’ve seen a ghost,” I chuckle while looking over at him. “That sounds good, though. Just text me your address.”
“I don’t have your number,” he blurts out when I turn, getting ready to walk away. I hold my hand out, waiting to get his phone. I add my number and my contact name under #1 Receiver.
That could have many meanings.
I smirk to myself, handing it back to him. He eyes me suspiciously, looks down, and busts out laughing.
“You are my #1 Receiver,” he says. Let’s test the waters.
Dropping my voice a little, I say, “You better watch what comes out of that pretty mouth.” He looks into my eyes, mouth hanging open. I tap his cheek twice and leave him with this. “I can stuff it too with it hanging open like that.”
1.Hate Me (feat. Loveless) - The Word Alive, Loveless