The Real Ones (Chasing Victory #2)

Prologue

MADDOX

Two Months Ago

College National Semifinal: Strikers vs Brigadiers

Coach’s voice buzzed inside my helmet. "Trips right, buck sweep, read."

"Got it."

Rain fell in sheets of ice. Wind whipped through my uniform. My teeth chattered. I hadn’t been this fucking cold—and wet—since water combat training in boot camp. My breath curled in the air despite the rain.

I signaled the play to the team, and we fell into formation. Success rode on our offensive line—to make a hole for our running back to break through.

"On two." I shouted from the center of the line. "Hut hut!"

Sato snapped the ball. I turned and pretended to hand off to the fullback, then cut and delivered it to Danny. He tucked the football, running wide on the heels of the guard. I lost him in the crush of bodies. The referee’s whistle declared the play over.

One yard short of the first down, seconds ticking in the last two minutes of the game. Third down. Need to make it to midfield right here.

The thermoplastic cast on my left arm itched, but it had held up like a miracle in this weather—and was the least of my worries.

The speaker in my helmet crackled. I tapped it. "Coach?" It echoed. The link fuzzed and popped.

"No one will question who makes it happen. He’s a dumb grunt who follows orders."

I turned to stare at the sideline. He stood with his back to the field in his maroon jacket, talking to the offensive coordinator. Raindrops clung to the rungs of my facemask.

"Coach?" Was that…

"Just need you to run the plays I call. No questions."

"Boosters will be itching to sign that contract extension…got us a championship with a nobody for a quarterback."

I pressed my eyes closed. My stomach burned and twisted into a sharp knot. The air crushed from my lungs. So that's why…The speaker static blasted louder. I reached behind my back, flicking the switch on the comm device around my waist.

The world around me fell silent.

“You have a real shot this year, son.”

The ache in my chest sharpened. Ella…I sucked in a deep breath. Rain splashed my face.

“If you want the starting job, you can’t have any distractions.”

"Hey, jackass." Seager’s voice grabbed my last nerve in a horse collar tackle—and slammed it into the ground.

I ducked my head. Still have a job to do.

"Told you I wouldn’t miss my chance on the field." He jogged up to the line of scrimmage. “Champions get in the game. We eat this shit for breakfast.”

Another breath. It's just a game. "You gonna block or just bore the everloving fuck out of your mark?”

He flipped me off. "Coach wants an 'ace right, sixty-seven slant, lion.'"

"Speaker’s not working," I said and tapped my helmet as I moved to the center of the yard line. I signaled the play to my receivers.

We took our positions. "On two." I shifted my stance. "Hut hut!"

I spun left, faked delivery to Danny, pulling it back at the last second. I took a short drop back, and found Kurt with a glance. Threw the quick pass, hitting his open hands on the slant route through the middle. He ran a couple of yards before being pulled down.

"First down." The officials announced.

The clock stopped. A glance at my wristband said we still had a minute twenty left—and we’d just made it over the fifty yard line.

We found our positions. With the broken speaker, Coach sent another player in, calling a “buck sweep” play—again. The defense countered with a blitz formation. Shit.

"Hut hut!" I took the snap, turned to my right, but instead of handing off, sprinted wide. Fucking Lindsom missed his mark, again! I couldn’t afford to take another sack. So I scrambled, ran, both hands wrapped around the ball. Spun and bounced to the outside lane. Need to get out of bounds.

Rain sloshed, I kept my head up as I dove for the ground. My right arm tucked the ball close, but my cast hit cold turf and stuck. The defensive back crushed me beneath him.

The ache in my forearm sharpened, like bone tearing through muscle. I roared as another player joined the pile.

My vision split. Liquid agony pulsed through every part of my body. The other team picked themselves up.

Sato pulled me to my feet. "Nice. Six yards."

"Arm." I panted as fire seared my already broken limb. I cradled it against my ribs. Fuck. It burns. Dammit. "Didn’t make it out of bounds." I willed myself to release my arm, trying not to tip off the other team. I gulped and swallowed air.

The official motioned for a time out.

"Brigadiers getting antsy," Sato said with a smirk and a nod. "Afraid they won’t have any clock left."

"Hell, the way this is going”—Kurt joined our loose huddle—“we won’t either. Can’t keep running these short routes."

“We need a Drakes special Hail Mary. Get the points on the board and pray the D can stop ‘em," Danny panted. “I’m gassed.”

"There’s time. We have control." My arm burned hot from my fingers to my shoulder. Deep breaths helped control the pain. The smell of vinegar from my helmet pads mixed with the must of rain. "We just need to keep it ti—"

"If it was Drakes, he would just know, you know?"

I grabbed Danny by the arch of his pads, yanking him forward. “Don’t,” I snarled.

Heavy breaths shushed in the air. “Come on, Mick.” His eyebrows peaked in the center of his forehead. “We need this.”

The ache in my forearm turned to throbbing agony. I gritted my teeth as the muscle shook. He ripped from my hold. “But Drakes could—”

“I’m not him."