Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
MADDOX
Two Months Ago
College National Semifinal: Strikers vs Brigadiers
Cold and rain battled for supremacy in the Minnesota stadium. The turf field was the only one unimpressed, and unaffected, by the conflict.
"Why couldn't we play in the Florida Bowl or any of the ones with 'sunshine' in the name?" Danny brought his knees up to his waist one at a time and twisted. We stood on the sideline, waiting to get back on the field. "I'd take gators, sharks, cyclones, anything tropical and hazardous over this."
"We need to stop 'em here," Sato's deep voice separated from the noise.
I nodded. "Get a few seconds on the clock before the two-minute timeout."
"Could be good position too."
The Brigadiers' quarterback completed a pass to his tight end, who barreled through our defensive line and onto our side of the field.
"No."
"Dammit, no, come on…"
I shook my head. "It's short." Had to be. We needed a break. Come on…
A cheer rose from the Minnesota crowd, as the measuring chains gave me their own version of a middle finger. "Fuck!" I stomped my cleat into the sopping turf. The squish and slap was less than satisfying. "Come on, Strikers!" I bellowed at my teammates.
The clock continued to tick down…
Jamison glanced my direction as he found his stance.
"He would be in his element," Mackey, the right tackle, sneered. He glared at me, chin jutted out.
Fuck you too, asshole.
"Shut up, jackass," Seager growled. "Or I'll do the honors and finally shut your ass up."
I shook my head at the kid and gave him a look that hopefully said, Don't start.
"When you and Lindsom can actually block your fucking assignments, send us a postcard. But there's enough stone-cold stupid in this stadium—in this whole God-damned state—without your dumb asses adding to it."
I need to work on my glare.
Mackey seethed, but Seager had already proven he didn't give a fuck. He was one, constant dare that he'd take on anyone who was willing to risk their spot on the team. Which was also the biggest reason the guy with a cannon for an arm was still playing backup.
"Man, Beaux, we're on the same team. Can't you be nice?" Danny practically whined.
The referee blew the whistle.
"Coach should put me in." Seager bumped my shoulder pad. "Your clock management sucks."
"Mick's got this." Sato shot him a side-eyed glare.
"Oh yeah? Seems like the only thing he's 'got' this game is a bunch of turf burns—from all his little cat naps on the field."
"Those sacks weren't his fault."
"You look lost out there," Seager snarled at me. "Maybe Sato should draw you a map."
I shook my head and tuned him out.
"You're done, maggot! You don't have what it takes to be a Marine!"
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, quieting the world around me. The acrid smell of wet Astroturf stung my nose, even as the chatter and cheers from the crowd faded.
Football wasn't life and death, just a game. This was all physical challenge, competition, teamwork, and I could walk away any time.
"…this could be your year, son."
I shook the words that played on repeat in my head and thought of her instead. Sometimes, I could pretend she was up in the stands. Convince myself she'd be waiting for me after the game.
She threw me a look over her bare shoulder. Pure sexual attraction wrapped in a short baby blue sundress.
I wanted to peel it off her body with my tongue.
"You promised not to call me Bree."
I needed this season to be over. But bowl games, playoffs, were a matter of stubborn pride and standing out. I needed to win. I wanted to lose.
And still, for her, I ached to be…better. Good enough. Or as close as I could get to—
"Sack, sack, oh! Oh! Yes! Fumble! Yes! Yesssss!" Kurt and Danny jumped up and down.
"Please tell me Jamison recovered that,” Sato groaned.
"You’re up!" Coach barked at us. "Mick, start with the run. It's almost the two-minute warning, go!"
"Play for the win, assholes,” Seager roared as we shucked off ponchos and scrambled for the field.
"Cobra Kai!"
I rolled my eyes as I moved my aching body, every step jarring, pounding. We formed a quick huddle so I could relay the play instruction.
Sato grabbed Lindsom by the pads: "Drakes ain’t here. You miss that tackle one more time and I’ll be the one making you eat turf after the game."
"We’re a team," I hissed at both of them. "Act like it."
"Ladies first," Lindsom said and shot me a glare. I didn’t care what he thought of me, I needed him to do his damned job.
One drive. Down three points but taking over at our own thirty-seven yard line. Two minutes, fourteen seconds left in the televised bowl game—almost an eternity.
If we scored too quickly, Minnesota'd have a chance to get the ball back. We needed points on the scoreboard, but also had to chew time off the clock. Maintain control.
A shudder racked my body, but I didn't feel the cold anymore. Just numb…except my left arm, which had been hating me most of the season.
"You messed with Drakes's girl." Mackey squared his shoulders and snarled through clenched teeth.
"Real men don't hit women," I shot back. "Only worthless sacks of shit."
"You're not our quarterback," Lindsom gritted out. "Just some uppity fucking jarhead."
I rubbed my hand against my quad and glanced down the line of scrimmage. "On two. Hut hut!" Sato snapped the ball. I grabbed it, turned to my right and faded back, handing the football to Danny. He charged toward the offensive line. Lindsom was losing the battle with his mark.
Tripped up, Danny gained only a yard on the play. The two-minute warning sent both teams to the sidelines. We drank water and stretched. Need to keep limber. I paced the sideline until Coach called me over.
He flipped his headset from his ears to hang around his neck. "Cool as a cucumber, Mick. Call the plays I send in. No heroics, just steady. Grind it out." He nodded at me. "It's what you're best at."
I sucked in a breath. Not sure why that felt like an insult. Maybe it wasn't. Drakes had been a spectacle. His antics cost us some games back in the day. But a few paid off. And the ones that did made everyone forget about the ones that didn't. He was that good.
"I'm gonna beat that asshole within an inch of his life if he can't block his assignment." Seager punched his fist into his hand.
I didn't say anything.
"Thought they'd get over themselves by now. But they're still missing—too fucking often."
I glanced at him out of the side of my eye. "Can't you block, catch, anything besides run your mouth?"
He grinned. "I'll go play left tackle. Show these fuckers how it's done."
I chuckled. He'd do it if Coach would let him.
"I'll play a role, don't worry your pretty little head."
I tried to scratch at an itch through my sleeve. "If it wasn’t for this damned cast…"
"Tired of you using that as an excuse. 'I broke my arm when I got sacked.' Boo fucking hoo. I thought you were a Marine."
I flipped him off. "Enjoy riding the bench."
"Not for long, pretty boy."
I shook my head, but the next breath came a bit easier. Seager knew how to get under my skin, and he knew how to get me out of my moods.
"I know you like pretending to be the hero and all that." Seager paused at his weight station and glared at me. "Could try giving the arm a few weeks to heal. Come back."
The trainer, Scott, grunted as he finished wrapping a flexible bandage around my cast. “Right?”
"Do I need to take time off for this?"
He ran athletic tape over the end of the fabric to hold it in place. "I mean, playing the rest of the season like this is a bad idea, but if Coach Kenbrough and the head trainer cleared you, then it's your call."
I eyed the kid. Dark hair, a swath of freckles spread across the bridge of his nose.
Seager growled. "Tell him it's not normal. They shouldn’t be signing off on this shit."
"I can ask my dad if you want,” Scott said with a shrug.
“He's on the board of the booster club. Played for the school way back when.
If anyone knows about NCAA football, it's my dad.
" His lips pressed together. He didn’t look at me.
Just clipped the tape, smoothing it along the edge of the bandage.
"Sure, Whitney."
"That's my last name, dick." He scowled at Seager before grabbing his duffel bag and moving toward the exit. "Make sure you ice it tonight. See you tomorrow, Mick."
"I can't give your fan club the satisfaction. They want me out—out of the game, out of contention." I set up the cable machine for isolated bicep curls.
"Out of your mind,” Seager grumbled. “Not my fucking fan club.”
I executed a set of curls with a single dumbbell in my right hand.
"They're not the relationship police. And Drakes is long gone."
I rested for a count of thirty before starting again. "Doesn't matter." I pumped out another set of fifteen reps then dropped the weight to the floor.
"You're going to do that with your injured fucking arm aren't you?"
At the cable machine, I settled the soft strap over my cast. I pulled against the weight to engage my left bicep.
Seager grimaced. "Heh, you're something. But, I think you're just playing the tough guy—so focused on the game. Gotta win." He scoffed and made some exaggerated gesture. "Maybe get a shot at the draft." Held his hands up around his mouth: "Hahh."
He pointed at me as I restarted my reps. “But you're just taking the easy way out."
"Like this is fucking easy." I sucked in a sharp breath as pain stabbed through my arm. Fuck! I pulled the strap and released the weight stack.
"Football has rules. Love doesn't. Your softball chick's not going to wait.” He clicked his tongue and hefted the curl bar from its stand. “Probably already moved on."
I grabbed my left shoulder. Dug my fingertips into the edges of the worst of my scars. Still couldn't feel anything, but sometimes, I could swear the blasted thing itched.
"And before you say it, because I know what a moody sonofabitch you can be.” He pumped through a set of reps. “I don't sit the bench for a guy she'd be better off without. So don't piss me off."
"You're always pissed off."
He gritted his teeth and growled at me. "This…is my happy face."
"Let's go!" Sato's voice boomed, bringing me back to the present.
With a shout, we took the field.