Chapter 8
No one warned me denial isn’t a viable treatment plan.
Nolan
I squeal to a halt in the parking lot at Coastal State University. Although we’re staying at Hideaway Haven Resort on Smuggler’s Hideaway, training camp is actually happening at this college on the mainland.
Training camp won’t start for a few more weeks, but Coach Knox has the offensive team here early to get us focused and rebuild chemistry after the playoff collapse.
You won’t hear me complaining about arriving early or staying at the resort. Not considering a certain sexy events coordinator works there. Terri, who smells of strawberries and tastes like my newest addiction. I long to taste and touch every inch of her. Preferably not in a closet this time.
I smile as I fold out of my Porsche 911. I love this car. Especially when the weather is nice and I can put the top down. But it’s not the roomiest of vehicles. I roll my shoulder to relieve the tightness.
I was hoping the months off after the play-off loss would be enough to heal the injury. But I’m still experiencing too much pain. And sleeping is rough. Which isn’t good. I need to sleep to heal.
I grab my bag and make my way to the locker room.
“Good morning, Captain!” Tanner whips out a salute.
I narrow my eyes at him. “What did you do?”
He blinks and widens his eyes. If he thinks I believe he’s innocent, he’s lost his damn mind. Tanner Long is never innocent.
“You hurt me.”
I shoulder past him and immediately regret it when my shoulder protests. I bite back my grunt of pain. But when I catch Coach Knox’s eye, I fear I haven’t done as good a job as hiding my pain as I’d hoped.
I tuck my chin into my chest and continue to my locker. I open it and peanut butter crackers fly out. Laughter erupts from the team. I knew Tanner was up to something.
Tanner starts humming The Eye of the Tiger and I stalk toward him. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m helping you out. Making sure you have all the supplies you need for your pre-game ritual. Wouldn’t want you to be late and court Coach Cha-Cha’s wrath.”
I lunge for him but Brock blocks me. “He’s not worth it.”
Tanner peeks around Brock’s body. “What’s wrong? Can’t take a joke?” He sighs. “This is what happens when you fixate on a woman who doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Terri wants me. I know she wants me. She practically explodes with passion when I touch her. But she’s worried about her job.
He smirks. “Care to share with the class?”
“I’ll share when you tell Alaia the truth of why you’re ‘dating’ her.”
All trace of humor disappears. “You’re no fun.”
“That’s what she said!” Gage shouts, and the tension in the locker room eases as everyone laughs.
“Get your asses in gear,” Knox shouts. “Unless you want to get slaughtered in another play-off game.”
Everyone immediately sobers at his reminder of our humiliating loss.
I shove the crackers out of my way so I can reach my locker and get ready. Five minutes later, I’m jogging onto the field with the rest of the offensive team.
Within minutes I’ve forgotten about Tanner’s stupid prank. This isn’t the time for jokes. If we want to win the Super Bowl – and I plan to win this season – we need to focus.
We line up and move across the field for our dynamic warm-up. While the other players are doing high knees, butt kicks, and lunges, I do shoulder rotations and stretch my arm when nobody’s looking.
We move on to our position-specific warm-up. Tanner, Gage, and Corbin run routes.
I focus on short tosses before increasing the distance. Five and ten-yard tosses – hell, even twenty-yards – are fine. But once I start on the deep sideline throws, my shoulder pain worsens. The joint feels tight. And angry like some asshole shoved broken glass beneath the skin.
I ignore it. Knox wants to run some plays and I’m not letting him down.
By the time Knox blows his whistle to indicate warm-up is over, I’m ready for a break. But I don’t stop. I won’t.
“Line up!” I bark.
The offensive line resets. Tanner jogs back into position while Gage mutters something under his breath about quarterbacks with death wishes.
Sweat drips down my spine beneath the summer heat. My shoulder throbs hard enough to make my fingers tingle, but I roll it once and ignore it.
I take the snap. Corbin cuts across the middle. Tanner streaks deep. I plant my feet and launch the pass. Pain slices through my shoulder.
The ball sails high. Too high. Tanner leaps but the ball glances off his fingertips.
“Damnit,” I growl.
Coach Knox blows the whistle. “Reset!”
The players shuffle back into formation. I can feel Knox watching from the sideline with narrowed eyes. I avoid looking his way.
I can practically hear Terri’s voice in my head. You don’t care about anyone else but yourself.
Bullshit. Everything I do is for other people. The team. The franchise. The guys counting on me. The career I’ve sacrificed everything for.
And yet somehow one angry woman with chestnut hair has me questioning myself every damn five minutes.
“Focus, Allen,” Coach Wilson snaps.
Great. Between the offensive line coach and the quarterback coach, every movement I make is under a microscope.
“I am focused.”
“Then explain why your last three throws looked like they were launched by a blind pirate.”
Snickers ripple through the offense. I ignore them and clap my hands. “Again.”
The next rep goes worse. My timing is late. My feet are sloppy. My throw is weak.
Brock turns toward me with a frown. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. Pain burns deep beneath the joint now. There’s no way I’m sleeping tonight.
Knox blows the whistle. “You’re done.”
Silence crashes over the field. I straighten slowly. “What?”
“You’re done for today,” he repeats.
Every eye on the field swings toward me. Quarterbacks do not get benched during practice. Not veteran franchise quarterbacks.
Heat floods my neck. “I said I’m fine.”
“And I said you’re done.”
The offense shifts awkwardly nearby. Tanner suddenly becomes very interested in adjusting his gloves. Gage studies the turf. Nobody wants to witness this.
I stalk toward Knox. “You’re pulling me in front of the whole team?”
“I’m stopping you from throwing your damn arm off.”
“I can still throw.”
“Yeah?” He folds his arms. “Then why are half your passes trying to hit seagulls instead of receivers?”
A few players cough suspiciously into their hands. I clench my jaw. “You’re undermining me.”
Knox steps closer. “No, son. I’m coaching you.”
“I don’t need protecting.”
“Tough shit.” The curse snaps through the humid air. Of course, it does. It’s quiet as a church out here with everyone listening to every word Knox speaks.
He jerks his head toward the sideline. “Take your helmet off.”
I want to argue. I want to fight. I want to throw another pass to prove I can. But I can’t. Instead, I rip off my helmet hard enough to nearly crack the facemask.
“Beck! You’re up!”
Fuck! He’s putting in the rookie quarterback. The betrayal stings nearly worse than my shoulder.
I stand on the sideline with the trainers for the remainder of the practice. I pretend I’m not butthurt Coach Knox sent me off. I pretend my shoulder isn’t aching with every inhalation of air.
Knox finally whistles to end practice. I wait and watch the players drag themselves off the field and into the locker room.
When Knox walks past me, I follow him. I don’t speak until we’re in his office. “You embarrassed me out there.”
Knox shuts the office door. “You embarrassed yourself.”
I laugh, but nothing about this situation is funny. “Good talk, Coach.”
“You think I don’t recognize what’s happening here?”
My eyes narrow. What does he know?
Knox leans against the desk. “You’re overcompensating. Pushing too hard. Hiding pain. Getting sloppy because your head’s somewhere else.”
I glance away.
“Your shoulder bad?”
I grunt. “It’s manageable.”
“That bad, huh?”
I don’t answer. I refuse to. I can’t admit how bad it is. I’m not giving up. This is our year. The year the Seals go all the way. I will be a part of it.
“You don’t get to destroy your shoulder because you’re too stubborn to admit you’re hurt.”
I grit my teeth. I’m hurt, but I’ll recover. It’s not that bad.
Knox studies me and I do my best not to squirm under his scrutiny. “You thinking about retiring?”
I freeze. I’m not retiring. I’m not giving up. I’m not ready to give up. I want that Super Bowl ring Dad never won. The one he ignored his family for.
But what if I have to retire? What if my shoulder can’t handle the upcoming season?
I force those thoughts away. I can do this. I’m not retiring early.