Chapter 12 Ian #2
She pinches the bridge of her nose, groaning. “I don’t have another egg if I mess this up. I used them all.”
Leaning against the opposite wall, I burst out laughing. She’s cute even when she’s frustrated.
“I have to go. Bye”
She hangs up when she notices me, and I go over to her.
She huffs. “I suck at this.”
On pure instinct, I wrap my arms around her and kiss the spot where her shoulder meets her neck. “I appreciate the gesture.”
“Does it look good to you?” she asks, nose crinkling.
Staring at her adorable profile, my heart does a backflip. “It looks perfect to me.”
She flips the omelet on two plates, handing me one. I prepare myself. Lilly has many talents, but cooking is not one of them. But as I bring the fork to my mouth while she looks at me expectantly, I would swallow battery acid.
The omelet is actually good, and I moan to show her that. She claps excitedly and when she takes a bite, she says, “Hmm, it’s edible. Maybe I’m not a lost cause.”
“That you definitely aren’t.”
Her brows furrow. “It would help if you pointed out what I could improve, but you even ate that uncooked chicken and vegetables.”
We finish breakfast, and she bends over, kissing me on my cheek.
“See you tonight,” she says and leaves me to get ready to head to the stadium.
No question because there is no need. I used to go out and spend significantly more time with the guys, but I like her in my space, in my life, more. I’ve always liked routine, structure.
On the field, I take a few minutes to anchor myself. I have this. This is where I belong, but the same fucking thing repeats. My hand shakes, and I do something I am not proud of. I yell at the backup wide receiver.
“How the fuck did you make it on the team if you can’t catch a pass to save your life? You’re useless.”
Silence falls. It’s not that I haven’t yelled at my teammates before, but I never insulted one.
The rest of the practice passes in stilted tension and wary looks cast my way. When did my teammates have to worry about me? Never.
The more I shout, getting frustrated with them, the more the coach seethes. Lips pressed in a hard line, he paces by the edge of the field. He holds back, even though he shouldn’t.
“Ian, my office,” Coach says the moment practice ends.
I follow him, and once inside his office, he slaps his palms on the desk. The items rattle just like the angry beast inside of me wanting to unleash on fucking everything and everyone.
“I gave you time.”
Right, time, my fucking ass. A whole two days. Sorry, I can’t bounce back like a damn ball. I am just human. So, fucking sorry for that.
“But while the team suffers, they’re trying. You have made mistakes that would have never landed you in the NFL to begin with.”
I gnash my teeth, fisting my hands at my sides. Pour more salt on the festering wound. Sure, it’s helping.
“Deacon was not at fault. Your passes were mediocre and lacked direction. Son, the Super Bowl is in ten days. Don’t make me bench you.”
I jerk my chin at him, challenging him. “Ah, you think Sorenson will do better?”
“Currently, anyone would.”
His words sucker punch me, and I drag in a lungful of air that does nothing to calm me down.
“I get it,” he says in an understanding voice.
“You get shit,” I snap.
His eyes bulge out, but before he can open his mouth, surely to give me a piece of his mind, I sigh. “Sorry, Coach… It was my fucking pass.”
There, I said it. Breathing harshly, I curse under my breath. I rake a hand through my hair, hard enough to pull some strands out. Not even the pain grounds me.
His features soften, erasing the anger. “The NFL is intense. It’s not for the weak of heart, mind, or body.
Letting guilt own you won’t do you any favors.
You want to make it up? Win this Super Bowl for him.
The guys look up to you. It’s your responsibility to hold the team together.
I know you and Levi were a dream duo. I get it, son.
” He drags in a lungful of air, saying, “But if you want your career to end as well, continue down this path. I’ve seen talented players disappear because either you’re at the top or you’re replaced. ”
His discourse lands so hard; it propels me straight to the ground, leaving me desolate. Athletes are nothing more than what they can bring. A transaction. An object—never human enough to be allowed too many mistakes before replacing it.
Something he said sticks with me. One game. I am going to win this game for you, Levi. I don’t know how yet, but I will be damned if I won’t.
I nod, keeping my head down and he continues, “I visited him. Everything might seem lost, but Levi is the one who must push through. That is his path now. You have yours. It might sound harsh, but life has proven unfair time and time again.”
He excuses me, and I trudge out of his office, but not before saying, “I’m sorry, Coach.”
Not waiting for his reply, I close the door behind me, expecting everyone else to be gone, but they’re all there, waiting for me. One after the other, my teammates hug me, slapping me on the back in a gesture of sympathy.
Deacon does the same, saying, “I know I’m not him, Cap. But this is my chance. I want to shine. I will do whatever it takes.”
“You played well. It was my mistake.”
He nods, and Roman walks with me toward my car.
“I saw it.” He eyes my hand.
“I can’t control it,” I say, curling and uncurling my hand at my side.
He leans against his flashy Ferrari. He’s desperate to show off, as if compensating for something. While we don’t discuss our pasts, his need to seek attention, regardless of the type, raises questions.
“Maybe that’s the problem. You focus too much. Your arm knows what it’s supposed to do. Let go.”
“Thanks, man.” My voice cracks at the end, suddenly emotional, grateful for the support I receive. I am not alone. I have people I care about and who care about me.
I climb into my SUV, and he says, “No one will ever be Levi, but everyone would be honored to be your wingman. Don’t take that lightly, okay?”
I nod. Fisting my hand, I pump his. “I needed that.”
“What are friends for?”
He’s right, and I have to navigate through the guilt. I can’t afford to screw up.