Chapter 33 Sydney
THIRTY-THREE
SYDNEY
“Yes. I’m leaving in like, ten minutes. I just have to feed Angus, and I’m out the door,” I say into the phone as I put the finishing touches on my hair.
The Renegades play at home today, and I’m running about an hour late thanks to Steele waking me up in the middle of the night for a ninety-minute bang fest. I’m not complaining, but the resulting nap I took after he left for the stadium—paired with my inability to wake up to my own alarm—is the reason I’m probably going to miss kickoff.
I officially start my new position as the team’s social media manager next week, so no more hitting the snooze button on game day.
“Okay, hurry,” Liv replies. “And answer Dad’s text before he calls your building and figures out that you aren’t there.”
“I will. I’ll see you in a few.”
We end the call, and I rush to the kitchen, where Angus sits by his food bowl with a very judgmental look on his tiny face. It’s been about two weeks since we brought him home, and he’s settled into his new schedule swimmingly, which is why he’s in here wondering where his breakfast is.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” I tell him, setting my purse and phone on the counter as I scurry toward the pantry to get his food. Filling the bowl at lightning speed, I bring it to his bone-shaped place mat, setting it down as he wags his tail excitedly. “Your breakfast, Prince Angus.”
His head is buried in the kibble seconds later, small snorts coming from his little nose as he eats.
His food insecurity is all but nonexistent now, which I’m guessing is due to the fact that he’s the only dog in the house.
He gets fed twice a day, with plenty of homemade treats in between, and he’s as happy as I’ve ever seen him.
I’m so grateful that Steele agreed to take him in, although with the way they’ve become so buddy-buddy, I’m not sure our plan to have him live with me will actually happen.
That’s fine by me, though. I like being here just as much as Angus does.
I wait for him to finish, pulling open the back door and watching as he goes outside. As always, he takes forever to find the perfect place to poop, so I grab my phone and fire off a quick text to my father while I wait.
ME:
Hey. Sorry, I missed your texts. I overslept. I’m heading toward the stadium soon, though. See you there.
DAD:
Okay, honey. I might be down on the field when you get here, but I’ll meet you in the suite later on. Love you.
ME:
Love you.
Angus does his business, trotting back toward the house like he has all the time in the world. To be fair, he does. I’m the one who should’ve been somewhere almost an hour ago.
Oh, to be a dog. No bills, no responsibilities, and infinite head pats whenever you want them.
“Be good,” I say, crouching down and scratching behind his ears. “If you’re going to pee in the house, make sure you do it on Steele’s shoes, not mine.”
He stares up at me with his tongue hanging out of his mouth as I stand to my full height, grab my things, and head out the door.
It’s a chilly late fall day in Cleveland, perfect for football.
I remember getting all bundled up to watch my dad coach when I was a kid, sitting in the stands with a blanket wrapped around my body to combat the frigid weather.
Even back then, I had no idea what the rules were or how many points a touchdown was, but I loved being there. Just like I do today.
We’re a football family. Always have been, always will be.
I pull the front door closed, double-checking to make sure it’s locked. But as soon as I turn toward my car, I’m stopped in my tracks, a sharp gasp leaving my lips when I take in the terrifying sight in front of me.
“Can I help you?” I ask the two men standing between me and my vehicle, both dressed in all black with ski masks pulled over their faces.
They’re big—much more powerful than I am—the soles of their black combat boots adding another inch to their already-towering height.
I try to remain calm, but my heart is hammering in my chest so loudly that even if they did answer, I don’t think I could hear them.
It feels like there’s ice in my veins, and even though the voice in my head is telling me to move, I can’t.
Fear has me frozen, my feet rooted to the ground for what feels like a lifetime before my fight or flight kicks in and I turn back toward the door in a hurry.
I stab at the keypad in an attempt to disengage the lock, but I’m trembling so violently that I’m not hitting any of the right numbers.
A second later, I’m yanked away by a hand gripping the back of my hoodie while another holds a sweet-smelling cloth over my nose.
Kicking and screaming into the thick fabric, I fight to break free, my limbs growing heavy as everything around me slowly goes out of focus.
“Steele,” I say, using every ounce of remaining energy in my body to call out for him…but it’s nothing more than a choked whisper as I finally succumb to the darkness and fade away.
STEELE
“Alright, boys,” Maddox says through his mouthguard. “There’s only one first down standing between us and another victory. What do you say we go ruin someone’s day?”
“Fuck yeah!” I shout, bouncing on the balls of my feet as excited energy flows through me.
We’ve dominated this entire game, throwing Tampa Bay’s defense into a confused frenzy, thanks to a handful of new plays Livvy drew up for us last week.
It was a risk to try them with so little practice, but if the scoreboard is any indication, I’d say it’s paid off in spades.
We’re up by fourteen with a minute left on the clock, and all we need is another seven yards to make a comeback impossible for the Copperheads.
“Okay,” he says, leaning into the huddle. “Twenty-three, monster on two. Twenty-three, monster. Got it?”
We all nod in understanding, clapping in unison before we head to the line of scrimmage.
It’s a run play—one that Liv designed specifically for me—and it might be one of my favorites of all time.
It’s honestly nothing the defense probably hasn’t seen before—just a downhill run to the A-gap.
But with the power I’m able to put behind my legs and the strength of our offensive linemen, this one has the potential to gain a lot more yardage than it should.
If they can create a lane, I can push my way to the other side of it.
“Blue, forty-two! Blue, forty-two! Hut, hut!”
The ball is snapped into Maddox’s waiting fingers, and he immediately hands it off to me as the center and guard begin pushing in opposite directions to give me space.
As soon as the gap is wide enough, I take off, lowering my center of gravity as I shoulder my way through.
My feet pound against the turf, harsh puffs of air bursting from my lungs with every step.
One yard turns into two, and before I know it, I’ve blown right past the first down marker.
The crowd goes wild, their boisterous cheers echoing through the cold air as I eat up the space between myself and the end zone.
But as much as I want a touchdown, I know I can’t, because that would give Tampa another chance to score.
So, I gain as many yards as I can, ensuring a few extra points for all my fantasy football team owners, before dropping down to the ground inside the ten-yard line.
“Hell yeah, Harlow!” Jett yells as he yanks me off the grass, the rest of my teammates rushing up to celebrate.
We’re officially one win closer to a run at the playoffs, which is something I only dreamed about when I arrived in Cleveland.
I was an asshole, not giving these men the respect they deserved, but they showed me the true meaning of the word family.
I may not have wanted to be a Renegade at first, but now, there’s not a single team in this league I’d rather play for than this one.
I belong here, and I’ll do everything I can to prove that until the day I hang up my cleats.
We return to the line of scrimmage, getting into victory formation one last time as the clock runs down to nothing.
I glance up at the WAGs’ suite, my heart flipping in my chest when I think of Sydney witnessing this win firsthand.
I hated leaving her this morning, hitting the snooze button twice because I didn’t want to let her go.
I’m dying to get her back home, so we can spend tonight and tomorrow cuddled up on the couch with Angus, watching whatever boring-ass chick flicks she chooses.
And I’ll love every goddamn minute of it, because she’ll be pressed against me the entire time.
I hurry through my post-game shower, fulfill all my media obligations, and head out the door, hoping for a glimpse of my girl in the hallway. But she isn’t there with her sister and friends, raising a million red flags as Livvy runs my way with worry written all over her face.
“Have you talked to Sydney?” she asks. “She didn’t show up today, and she’s not answering her phone. I know she was at your house, but it’s not like her to ghost when she said she’d be here.”
My brows bunch in confusion, and I reach into my bag, digging around for my phone.
She’s right, it’s unlike Sydney to not return texts if her plans have changed, especially when other people are expecting her.
Maybe her phone died, and she’s stuck in traffic, or she just lost track of time, but I’m riddled with anxiety at the thought of her being hurt when she’s all alone.
I find the device, pulling it out and hoping to see a message from Sydney. But what awaits on the screen has me even more confused as I scroll down what feels like an endless amount of missed calls…from my brother.
“What the fuck?” I grit out, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. I don’t even give a shit that I’m in a hallway full of Renegades family members, my teammates slowly funneling out of the locker room behind me.
My instinct is telling me that something is very wrong, so I immediately hit the callback button, nervous energy flowing through my veins as it begins to ring.
It feels like hours go by as I wait, everything around me coming to a grinding halt when Styles finally picks up.
“Steele!” he says frantically, his voice shaking. “I’m so fucking sorry, man! I’m so sorry. I swear, I didn’t tell them! I don’t know how they found you!” He sobs, hyperventilating as I try to make sense of his words.
“What the hell are you talking about? Who found me?” My heart is in my goddamn throat, anxiety crushing my chest like an anvil.
“Delano,” he rushes out, sucking in a big, shaky breath.
Delano is the asshole who talked Styles into becoming a bookie in the first place.
They were partners in high school, taking bets out of my family’s basement until they had a falling out during my sophomore year of college.
Delano accused Styles of pocketing money so he’d have a bigger cut of their profits, which my brother vehemently denied.
They ended up going their separate ways after that.
Styles fell deeper into his addiction, while Delano made a name for himself as Miami’s biggest underground bookie.
He’s worth millions now and has a reputation for dishing out brutal punishments to anyone who crosses him.
He’s gone as far as having someone killed over a fifty-thousand-dollar bet, not that it could ever be proven with the number of cops he has in his back pocket.
Most of the Miami PD is on his payroll, and they’re all too happy to make a little extra cash on the side by turning the other cheek to his crimes.
“Steele,” he says, pulling me back to the here and now. “He has your girl.”