Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
MADDOX
Eight Months Ago
Strikers Football Locker Room
Itapped on the window to Coach's office, opened the door and stepped inside.
"Close it."
I pushed the thing shut. He didn’t look up. Just popped another handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth and chewed.
"You can sit, I'm not your drill sergeant."
I tried not to sigh. The man had no idea what military life was like, but kept trying to "relate" to me. I remained at ease. Whatever this was about, it definitely wasn't life or death.
"I expected it to be a no-brainer to have you step in and lead the team this year." Coach Kenbrough rubbed his hand over his jaw. Dark eyes squinted. "But there's tension. On the field, off."
I sucked in a breath and held it. "Tension, sir?" That's a word for it.
"Jamison, that’s a late hit! Take a lap." Coach Craiger barked.
Mackey stood over me. Sweat dripped down his jaw onto my practice shirt. "Better learn to stay down, asshat. There’s more where that came from."
"You've been a workhorse for the past two years, and a great backup.
Versatility, resilience. Performance under pressure.
Nothing rattles you. You've been a real anchor for this team—especially with Drakes's emotional ups and downs.” He flipped his cap onto his desk and rubbed a hand over his forehead.
“His damned showboating and media chasing.
" He squeezed his eyes shut with a grimace. "Talent, yes. Brains, no."
Good fucking riddance. That reject was a nightmare for months. Ella shouldn't have had to put up with his shit.
"…women come and go, even good ones.” He tapped the end of a pencil against the clipboard on his desk. “Even the ones we think could…"
I frowned and tried to get a glimpse at the clipboard. Where is this going?
"Bottom line.” He tossed the pencil at his desk. “You can't let some girl come between you and the team, Mick." He folded bare, weathered hands together and lifted his chin. Dark, beady eyes glared up at me.
What? My vision sharpened. "That's not what happened, sir." A band tightened around my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. The rush of blood pounded in my ears.
"Wasn't there, but, you know how these guys look up to Drakes."
"That's their mistake.” I clenched my jaw to keep from snarling at the man. “It’s nothing to do with me."
"It is when it influences the play on the field.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Look, I get the pride thing and all, but for the sake of the team you—"
"For the sake of the team, what, Coach?"
He nodded his head and looked straight ahead. "Need you to be the bigger man and make peace."
Blood turned to molten lava in my veins, burning my skin from the inside out. "I did nothing wrong, sir."
He cocked his head to one side. "Son, sometimes the needs of the team—"
"No one on this team understands better than me the sacrifices leaders are called on to make. But I couldn't look at myself in the mirror every day or call myself a Marine if I hadn't protected her." I squared my shoulders as the memory of that night echoed in my ears.
“I want to see some gratitude—” Drakes grabbed her arm, pulling her around. I didn’t like how it jarred her. Or the look on her face. I started towards them.
She cried out as she shoved him away. The strap of her party dress snapped in his grip.
"You stuck up whore."
"He was drunk and he hit her.” I spit every word from my lips like it was poison.
“They want to look up to that piece of shit, that's on them.
You want to bench me because they have a problem with me?
Only you can make that call. Sir." My lungs burned, but the rest of me was going numb.
A cold sweat formed along the back of my neck.
"You still together, son? You and the softball girl?"
The memory of her face appeared in my brain. Her soft, hazel eyes, the warm feel of her lips against mine. I’m still waiting. "It was a matter of honor."
"I see." He let out a loud breath. "I'll start giving some practice reps to the freshman, Seager.
Doesn't mean he gets the starting role, just gives us options.
" He nodded his head. "The ones who don't like you, they're gonna smell blood in the water.
So, whatever it's been like in your personal life.” He picked up his pencil and turned his focus to whatever paperwork was on his desk.
“Probably gonna get worse before it gets better.
Can't change that." He scribbled on the clipboard, flipped some pages.
"With all due respect, sir?” I stabbed my finger into the top of his desk. He glanced up; his lip curled into a sneer. “We throw a fucking football."
He stood from his chair. "Yeah, that's the good and the bad about growing up.” He moved to his whiteboard along the wall beside his desk. “You gain perspective. Not everyone else…” He pointed the end of a marker at me. “Well, you boys don't all grow in a straight line."
Too many are entitled fucking pricks—like Drakes.
“You'll be in situations all your life where even when you're right, you're wrong.” He wrote words on the board as he spoke, “Teamwork, leadership, resiliency—"
"No matter where you go in the Corps, sir, you always have a team." I bit out.
He continued writing, “productivity, culture.” Coach capped the marker and spoke to the board. "You put college on hold to help your family. Saw combat. Lot of pride in that. You should be proud."
Don't act like you know me. I swallowed against a dry lump in my throat. My breath came in fits and gasps.
He sat back down in his chair, arms crossed, he leaned back. "But this could be your year, son. Make a mark. Set yourself up for the draft." A small smirk pulled at his lips. "You gonna give that up to chase some—"
I leaned over his desk. Jaw clenched, I stared him down. Sunken eyes glared back. He blinked and glanced away. "After a girl?"
Before I could answer, he leaned down and spit at his trash, then righted himself.
"Just put some distance there for the time being.
Give this season your best shot." He patted the whiteboard beside his desk. "You put W’s on the board, these guys won’t care what you do in the offseason.
Elope with a Vegas showgirl, marry Drakes's sister, whatever you want. But the next twelve games, that’s the time to make your mark. If you want a chance at the pros."
The heat in my lungs caught fire and the flames hollowed out my chest. "I'll think about it."
"Heard the news," Seager's voice echoed from his side of the locker room aisle. I didn't reply. Didn't look up. Just stared at my knuckles as they knotted into fists. The one thing I miss…
"Yeah, so did we." Lindsom and Mackey, still wearing their pads and cleats, tromped into view. Lindsom, the largest of the over-sized tackles slammed my locker shut and leaned into my face. He pointed at me. "We're gonna make sure Seager gets the starting job this year."
I snarled. "Remove that. Now.” Or I'll break it off your fucking hand. My heart pounded in my ears.
"May as well transfer," Mackey said as he bowed up. I was boxed between the two with the locker at my back. “Unless you like pain."
"Uh." A grunt sounded from Seager’s direction.
"You should keep your nose clean in all this. Just go back to using that eggbeater on your hair, fresh fish."
"You want your ribs broken first?" Lindsom sneered at me. Sweat coated his skin from his hairline to his neck. "Or should we stick to your arm?"
I seethed through clenched teeth. "Back off. Last warning." Three on one isn't good odds. And I can't over—
“We could try reopening that pretty scar of yours.”
My stomach turned to lead; cold pricked my skin.
A growl sounded from Seager's corner of the room. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
I shifted to gain sight of him in my peripheral. Kept my stance wide. Fighting would get me kicked off the team, but not fighting back wasn't an option.
Seager stepped forward. “You losers think I need your help to beat him on the field? You're dumber than two boxes of rocks sharing the slow brain cell only on fucking Tuesdays." His voice pitched lower. "And you’re uglier too."
Wait, is he— I turned to look at him; Lindsom struck out. His fist burned into the hollow between my ribs. The air rushed from my lungs. I clutched a hand to my chest and sunk to one knee, acting like he got me in the solar plexus as I tried to stall; find an advantage—or an escape route.
"Shut that one up," Lindsom hissed. Mackey spun on his heel.
"Yo, Coach!" Seager called out. Mackey and Lindsom's heads whipped toward the door so fast they probably loosened whatever screws were still holding the things onto their thick necks.
"Gotta question about this play." Seager raised his hand as he stepped up onto the bench. He paused for a moment before hopping back down to the tile. The creak and squeal of door hinges sounded in the distance.
"You're weak." Mackey advanced toward Seager.
Lindsom grumbled. “We can’t touch him, remember?”
“Hey, Beaux, you in here?” A voice called out. The team trainer moved into the room. He stopped at the bench and glanced around. “Brought the tape you asked for." He tossed a roll of athletic tape to Seager. "You need some help with the wrap?”
Lindsom moved away. I sat on the end of the bench, shoulders tense, the air alive all around me. The trainer's carotid artery visibly pulsed in his neck as sweat beaded across his forehead.
Mackey cracked his knuckles one at a time from his position leaning against the locker on the opposite side of the aisle.
“Saw Coach with some of the boosters.” The trainer’s voice pitched louder. “Probably heading back to his office.” His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat.
Is he lying?
“You know, in case you want to meet my—er, some of the, you know, boosters?” He glanced at me. “Mick, you and…” His hand trembled as he folded it into a fist. “You could all, um, meet with—"
"Hey, kid,” Seager said. “Could use your help with this wrap."
The trainer blinked. "Oh, right, yeah." He hurried down the aisle to where Seager stood—a few feet behind me, on my six.
I stood and opened my locker again, like nothing was wrong. "Sounds like we're about to have an audience." I kept my voice low as I pulled my duffel off the hook. Mackey jerked his head toward Coach's office.
I closed the locker door and leaned against it. "I'm trained in lethal, hand-to-hand combat tactics. You're not."
"When you fucked with Drakes, you fucked with every Striker on that field." Lindsom hissed sour-smelling breath into my personal space.
"He called you and Mackey nobodies. If that's the guy you want to follow—who's not here, who already doesn't return your texts, and never gave two shits about you—be my guest." I pushed away from the locker and hefted my bag over my shoulder. "He's no fucking friend of mine."
"Don't forget, Mick. We know where she lives."
I found myself on her doorstep after wandering… I don't know how long. It'd already been a difficult conversation with Ella after the confrontation with that fuckhead Drakes. But, we'd agreed to take a step back, to spend time getting to know each other as friends.
It was hard as hell, but it was the right thing—to give her time. And still, we'd been growing closer, soft brushes of hands, her head on my shoulder. When I gave her the mini-roses, the look on her face had been so much, I couldn’t hold myself back.
"How was practice?" She appeared in the doorway; her hands on my elbow pulled me into her apartment. My feet stopped listening to my brain.
"A beating."
"Yeah, seems like you’re a little worn out."
How could I tell her? What should I say? I'm sorry, but Coach is going to bench me unless I find a way to appease Drakes's idiot fan club—my only year to play starting quarterback—unless a miracle happens.
And then there was Lindsom’s threat.
"Don't forget, Mick. We know where she lives."
Bastards. Cowards.
"I found Thai food," Ella's voice soothed me back into the present.
My stomach betrayed me even as the look on her face sucker-punched me in the gut. God, how am I going to stay away? She was beautiful all the way to her core—not like so many others I'd met.
Will she understand? Would she wait? I pressed my eyes closed, trying to stuff the feelings away.
Is that even fair? This is my fucked-up mess.
We ate in silence, but my brain was determined to torment me with every detail that made me want her.
The way her hazel eyes turned gold in the light—the same color as the sunrise over open water.
How her hand felt in mine.
The way her mouth could be soft and tentative one minute, and hungry and bold the next.
And every reason I couldn't have her.
I gasped for air as my lungs tightened to the point of pain. Rubber legs moved me to my truck. I doubled over as I poured myself inside; my head against the steering wheel, I choked on the acid-like burning that lined my throat.
She hates me. If I lived a thousand years, I’d never forget that look in her eyes.
"Really, Maddox?" Her voice sharp, she covered her breasts with her hands. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Just get out.”
I hit the ignition switch but couldn't lift my head. My abdominal muscles wouldn't release. I wish she would've hit me. Shit, fuck, dammit, dammit dammit. I smacked my head against the steering wheel.
You chose this. The cold voice—dark and deep and cruel—surfaced from within. It's better this way. She would have seen your scars. Hideous, disgusting.
Doesn't she deserve better?
I hollered at the windshield of my truck. "Dammit!"
“I can’t, Ella. I have to focus, put the team first. That’s not fair to you.”
Agony crushed me in its grip with sharp, piercing talons. I cracked inside until hot blood rushed through my system, then ebbed into a cold, dismal emptiness.
Moments ticked by to the sound of the truck engine, humming, idling. I took a series of shuddering breaths as agony punched me in the gut over and over again.
Dammit, why? The pain spread, saturating my system to the point where it couldn't feel anything more. I righted myself, my lungs taking in deep, breathable air.
I caught my gaze in the rearview mirror. Puffy, red-rimmed eyes stared back—silently screaming, like they belonged to someone else.
In the distance, the sun lost its battle with the night, dipping below the horizon. I wiped at something wet on my cheek, put my truck in gear and drove away.
I’m sorry, Ella.