Stealing His Thunder (Toronto Thunder #2)

Chapter 1

The wind was steady, the tape attached to the top of the goal posts fluttering in it. Dawson lifted his head, letting it wash over him. Cataloging every minute brush of the air against his skin.

Wind, despite popular opinion, wasn’t the end of the world when it came to a field goal.

Spending the entirety of his career before this playing in Baltimore in December and January meant he’d had to figure out how to kick even if there was a wind.

Especially if there was wind. Because if there was inclement weather, there was going to be wind.

And in Maryland and Pennsylvania and Buffalo—all places he’d kicked over his ten-year career—there was one fucking guarantee from September to January and that was inclement weather.

“Hey, Daws.”

There was only one person who would attempt to talk to him right now.

Dawson sighed, resigned, and turned towards his holder, who also happened to be the punter.

The rookie.

Cameron was not the only rookie on the team, but he was the rookie on the team who routinely broke the unspoken bubble of space that Dawson kept for himself during games.

He looked up at the rookie.

Marty, the special teams coordinator, had said he’d talk to him, but apparently he hadn’t done it yet or he hadn’t done it clearly enough that the rookie got it.

This Sunday, they were in Miami, which wasn’t usually the windiest, except when there was the dreaded inclement weather and yep, it was coming. During halftime, Marty had come up with the latest weather report, and it looked like they were going to just get this game in before a storm rolled in.

But right now, there was only that steady wind. Enough that it needed to be compensated for, mental calculations that Dawson needed space and time and focus for.

Space and time and focus that the rookie was currently dividing up.

“What’s up?” he asked flatly.

He was going to have to talk to Marty again, and Dawson didn’t love that.

In Baltimore, this never would’ve happened. In Baltimore, he’d moved on the sideline like he had a physical barrier between him and the rest of the team. But this wasn’t Baltimore.

Baltimore had dropped him like a hot potato when he’d had the season from hell last year, all those years of loyalty and blood, sweat, and tears erased with one simple fact: professional football was a business, and he’d become a liability.

Cameron rocked back on his heels. He was tall for a punter, and Dawson had to crane his head a bit, just to look into his light brown eyes. “Just wanted to check in. The wind—”

“Yep,” Dawson interrupted. “I felt it.”

“Figured you did. Gonna have to compensate some.”

Back in Baltimore, Dawson would’ve given any guy who approached him right now the kind of stink eye that would have them avoiding him for the rest of the season.

But now, today, he couldn’t stop thinking about how everything had changed.

He wasn’t in purple and black anymore. He was in bright blue with silver accents, his dark blue helmet sitting behind him on the bench.

Toronto colors, now, and he wasn’t exactly in a position to be an asshole to the rookie. Who also happened to be his holder.

“Agreed.” It was harder than it should’ve been for Dawson to grit out the word and he wondered when it had become so tough for him to not be a dick.

Oh right.

The divorce. The criminal proceedings against his ex-father-in-law. The money he should’ve had in his accounts.

Dawson took a deep breath, felt the wind again for a second, and added, “What do you think?”

“Couple of degrees, but keep it steady, ’cause it’s not gusting,” Cameron said.

Dawson nodded his agreement, telling himself firmly that the fact he and the rookie agreed was a good thing.

It meant he knew what the fuck he was talking about.

But then that hadn’t really ever been under debate.

Cameron had won the punting competition in camp and had barely seemed to break a sweat doing it.

He should be damn good.

“It kinda sucks we’re in Miami in September. Would’ve preferred the sunshine in December,” Cameron said.

Dawson gave up and shot him a glare. A tempered glare, sure, but still a glare.

“Oh yeah.” Cameron winced. “Sorry. You probably want to uh . . .focus up.”

And on cue, on the field, the Thunder offense came to a stop at fourth and two, right on the twenty-three-yard line.

Marty glanced over at him, inclining his head towards the field, and yeah, they were going to kick the field goal.

Aidan jogged over to the sideline and made a brief but impassioned argument to go for it, but Dawson already knew how that was going to go.

He took one last practice kick into his net, and then he and Cam and Joey, the long snapper, jogged out onto the field.

On his way past, Aidan was still grumbling under his breath about how they could’ve gone for it and gotten the first down, but he patted Dawson on the helmet anyway, giving him a love tap of support and encouragement.

The wind stayed steady as the Thunder’s field goal unit took their positions.

Dawson did what he did every single time he kicked a field goal. Hundreds, thousands, of field goals, he’d kicked this exact same way.

Deep breath, facing the goal posts, checking the wind one last time.

He met his holder’s eyes—in Baltimore it had been Nicky, but now it was Cameron—and nodded. Stepped backwards, stepped to the side.

Took another deep breath.

Heard the whistle, and like a well-oiled machine, the ball was snapped to Cameron, who caught it.

He didn’t fumble the ball, not exactly. He got it turned and positioned properly but only half a second before Dawson’s foot met it.

Dawson didn’t need to hear the intake of the crowd as the ball sailed through the air, just narrowly missing the right upright.

He’d already known it wasn’t going to be good.

Dismay bubbled inside him but Dawson wiped his expression clean before it could make it to the surface. There’d been enough pictures and videos of him staring at missed field goals, of balls barely missing the target, last year.

There didn’t need to be any more.

He felt a tap on his shoulder as he headed back towards the sideline, but Dawson didn’t have to look up to see who it was.

Cameron.

“Sorry, man,” he said, all the dismay Dawson had carefully kept away from his face painfully obvious in Cam’s voice and in his expression.

It wasn’t fine, so Dawson wasn’t going to say it was fine, so instead he just gave the rookie a nod.

It might not have even been his fault. He’d technically pulled the ball down and rotated it properly, getting it set before Dawson had kicked it.

But it was still a slight wrinkle in a system that should be perfectly smooth, that should work flawlessly and effortlessly every single fucking time.

It didn’t matter whose fault it was, who had made the wrinkle—if it was Dawson, again, or if it had been Joey, fucking up the snap, or if it had been Cameron, not getting the hold just right.

Dawson hit the sideline. Aidan tapped him on the back again, a brief touch, similar to what he’d done before the kick, and exactly how he’d have done it if Dawson made it.

Dawson knew it because when they’d both played for Michigan, he’d tapped him exactly the same way, too many times to count.

At least, Dawson thought as he tugged his helmet off and set it on the bench, they were still ahead, and that field goal hadn’t been for the lead—only to pad it further.

He’d had one too many experiences last season where his fuckups had cost the Ravens the lead—or even the game.

He wouldn’t wish that feeling on his worst enemy.

In Baltimore, everyone had known to give him space before a kick—but definitely after a missed kick. Apparently nobody had the memo here, because he heard footsteps behind him, deliberately stopping.

Dawson sighed, pressed a finger between his eyebrows.

He almost wished he had a headache, because maybe that might explain why that field goal hadn’t been good.

Turning around, he was surprised that it wasn’t Cameron there again, wanting to apologize again, maybe to go over every moment of that play.

It was Marty.

“I’m not gonna say I told you so,” Marty said.

Dawson made a face before he could pull it back. Hopefully there wasn’t a camera watching him still—though who was he kidding? There was always a camera watching.

“Except that it sounds like you’re gonna say exactly that,” Dawson complained.

Marty said nothing, just shrugged. The knowing look on his face before he turned to check in with another staff member said it all.

When Dawson had gone to Marty last week to bitch about Cameron not giving him space on the sideline, Marty had said he’d talk to him.

But he’d also argued that the biggest issue wasn’t that the rookie didn’t know to keep his distance; it was that they were on two different wavelengths, and until they got their shit together and jived, their kicking unit wouldn’t be as good as it needed to be.

Dawson hadn’t ignored him, but he hadn’t agreed either. He’d made an effort. Okay, a minimum of effort, but still some kind of an effort.

He was thirty-two years old, newly divorced, his ex-wife was now with the guy she’d fallen in love with while Dawson had been killing it at his job, and his bank accounts weren’t as comfortable as they should’ve been.

He was tired and disgruntled and a little bitter, and the last thing he wanted to do was to take a rookie under his arm and teach him everything he should already know.

Especially not a rookie who reminded him, uncomfortably, of how he’d felt coming into the league ten years ago. Wide-eyed, naive, hanging on every word from the vets, shocked but pleased at any sliver of opportunity he’d gotten, even though he’d fought like hell for every single one.

But Cameron was even more of all that than Dawson had even been.

He was raw and unproven and untested and so fucking talented he made Dawson’s teeth ache.