Chapter 2 #2
As I enter the team lounge, the guys talking in conspiratorial tones send those nerves zipping back. Then again, I’m not sure they left, considering I just realized I’m going to see Pizza in about six months.
I’m a nice guy, easygoing, and looking for lasting love. So, why is it that I often get roped into situations...because I sense my sister is brewing one in London. Possibly two, if the expressions on my teammates’ faces tell me anything.
There’s Declan Printz, wide receiver, Irish-born, and a born hooligan.
Connor “Wolf” Wolfe is number twenty-four, our safety, and a wolf among sheep—and by that, I mean the ladies.
Then we have Grey, a linebacker. He sits off to the side, brooding like usual.
I’m pretty sure Coach has him keep an eye on us, so we don’t get into too much trouble.
All that’s missing is Rylen, our running back, who is on his honeymoon. Lucky man.
“We could glue his hands together while he’s sleeping,” Declan suggests with his typical mischievous smile.
“Dude, he’s our new center. We kind of need him to have use of his hands,” Grey says, making a valid point.
“Yeah. Coach Hammer said his hands are gold.” Wolf grunts because he’s more of a show, don’t tell kind of guy and will believe it when he sees it.
Jumping into the conversation, I lift and lower one shoulder, eager to give our freshman player the benefit of the doubt. “The commish said he’s like the rising sun and any team would be lucky to have him.”
“Luck has little to do with it. I say he’s in it for the paycheck.” Wolf cuts his eyes in my direction.
Grey sniffs like he’s reluctantly preparing to play ref.
“Now, now. Let’s give him a chance,” I say. “You felt the same about me.” I sharpen my eyebrow, referring to my start on the team as a legacy player.
“You proved yourself,” Wolf says.
“So will Brandon.”
“He’ll have to do more than prove himself. He’ll have to endure our killer practices, show that he’s a team player, and not a showboating—” Wolf finishes his thought with what the coach calls locker room words.
Brandon Campos, the newest player for the Boston Bruisers, will certainly have to prove himself. Based on the conversation I walked in on, first, he’ll be initiated.
“How about we replace his toothpaste with mayonnaise?” Declan wrinkles his nose as though even speaking the idea out loud grosses him out—and for good reason.
Rumor has it, he had a late night and got the munchies, which included French fries and a mayonnaise concoction.
Let’s just say he didn’t make it to practice the next day.
I tilt my head from side to side. “We could always use the old standby.”
“No. We’re not covering the toilet seats with plastic wrap. Coach Hammer made me clean it up last time. Never again, man,” Wolf grinds out.
“Doughnuts filled with mayo? Mayo in Oreos?” Declan suggests, his slight Irish accent coming through.
“I thought you quit mayo?” I ask.
Wolf’s lip curls. “I know what we’re going to do.”
“Oh, boy. He has that look.” Grey shakes his head. “Whatever it is, I’m not sure I want to take part.”
Declan cuffs him. “You’re not backing out. With Rylen off on his honeymoon, we need all the manpower we can get.”
Wolf leans in, we circle into a huddle, and he outlines his plan.
I wrinkle my nose. “Brandon Campos is not going to be impressed.”
“Sure, he will,” Wolf says with a wink. “Let’s see. Macy, Stacy, Allison, Keisha... They all seemed impressed by my—”
Grey holds up his hand, palm flat. “We do not need to hear about your latest conquests.”
I shift, uncomfortable because although women throw themselves at the guys, I’m not about that. Then again, I wouldn’t object if Pizza threw herself at me. I give my head a little shake because yeah, that sounds weird.
“I think Rylen would approve,” Declan says.
Only Wolf laughs, but the sound of it is like a gavel dropping. There’s no reversing course. We’re in this prank and we’re in it together.
We sort out the details to initiate the newest member of the team, throw our hands into the center of our tight-knit circle, and holler, “Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’”—the team slogan.
They convince me, the friendliest of the crew and the guy who’s logged the most time chatting with Brandon, to text him to see if he wants to hang out in the team lounge.
My phone pings with a reply a moment later. “Brandon said that he’s on his way.”
Wolf grins. “Perfect.”
Grey rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why I let you guys talk me into this.”
Wolf stops short and flashes a glare. If someone walked in, they’d expect to have to break up a brawl at any moment, but we all know better. This is one football brother to another, reminding him of who he is. Grey needs that from time to time.
“Who started the newbie initiation, Grey?” Wolf asks a moment later.
Grey Adams is the original, the Real McCoy, as my grandfather used to say, and the oldest player on the team.
He’s arguably the best. His stats prove it.
His commitment confirms it. There is a one-hundred percent chance he’ll be tapped for the Hall of Fame one day.
The only problem is, they’ll never get him to smile for the promo photos.
The linebacker doesn’t answer but holds his ground.
“Who was the original mastermind behind all the pranks?” Wolf asks.
Grey’s lips form a thin line and the muscles in his jaw twitch at getting called out on the truth—one he sometimes forgets after the tragedy in his family. He’s the heart and soul of our team, both on and off the field, and we can’t let him slip away.
“Don’t forget who you are. Don’t let it get you. He wouldn’t want that.” Wolf turns back to the room.
Grey exhales and then nods like his head is back in the game. No more needs to be said for him to glean the meaning behind the reminder.
We get into the positions Wolf assigned while waiting for Brandon. Footsteps echo from down the hall.
In Rylen’s absence, Declan leans in. As if starting a game with the classic expression, Hut, hut, hike, he says, “On the count of three...”
We adjust our stances, preparing, and then as the door opens, Declan says, “Now.”
At that moment, whoever stands in the doorway gets an eyeful of the Boston Bruisers’ star players’ backsides.
“It’s a full moon in Boston,” Declan shouts.
Wolf howls.
Someone gasps.
A camera flashes.
A low voice groans.
When we turn around, it isn’t only Brandon in the doorway. The pro league Commissioner Starkowsky and his daughter Elyse, along with several other team officials, stand with their mouths agape.
The commish, shielding his daughter’s eyes, yells frantically—my second sister, April, an English professor, would refer to him as being bellicose, which tells me this isn’t going to end well.
Two of us make apologies.
Elyse wiggles out of her father’s grasp. “Dad, I’ve been in and out of locker rooms for almost thirty years. I’ve seen—”
Starky’s face turns purple. “Boys, you are excused,” he blusters.
It all happens in a split second, but we flee from the lounge, dispersing like kids caught ringing the neighbor’s doorbell and running.
In the chaos, I elbow someone in the nose, Declan, I think. But he’s laughing like this is the most fun he’s had in weeks.
Trouble is, the nerves zipping inside tell me it’s the last of the fun we’re going to have, at least for a while, which reminds me of the one regret I’ve never been able to shake.
The time Pizza did the running away. And no, I didn’t cheat on her with chicken wings.