Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73136 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Well. It was a start.
Chapter Seventeen
Adrián
The vibe in the locker room hadn’t been this bad since a game back in ’14 when we’d lost Billings, our quarterback, and his backup to injury in the first quarter of the game. But it was our second time on the field with the Barons this season (no one was talking about the embarrassment of our preseason game anymore), and once again they were whupping our asses.
It stung. I couldn’t deny it stung. The rivalry had become a running joke with every loss, especially since my boys talked so much shit. But fans had caught on, and “#SonthePredators” had been the number one trending hashtag on Twitter for three days. Everyone was pissed, especially Rocky. But I could not deny some of those memes were funny as hell, and Gavin Brawley had definitely sonned Rocky during the first game of the season.
Not to mention . . . Simeon’s arm was golden tonight. My dude had thrown a fifty-three-yard pass just before halftime. I was going to fuck his brains out later. Just thinking about his delicious ass rocking as he bounced reverse cowboy was heaven. And probably inappropriate to be fantasizing about while our coach was reaming us.
We trooped back out to the field, but instead of feeling energized, everyone already looked bummed out and defeated. Except Rocky, of course.
“I’m gonna get that motherfucker.”
I followed his gaze and saw him staring at the screen of the Jumbotron. A camera was aimed at the Barons’ sideline huddle, but mostly on Simeon. He was grinning as their corner, Wyatt Dawson, gave some pump-up speech. I’d met Dawson enough times to know he was an aggressive bastard who played like he was marching across a battlefield even though his biker gang-looking ass was likely looking to retire in a couple of years.
“C’mon, man,” I said, nudging Rocky and putting my helmet on. “Just try to have some fun.”
Rocky’s head snapped to the side so he could pin me with a look so lethal I thought his eyeballs were going to emit lasers.
“All right, have a real bad fucking time then. But it’s not Simeon’s fault he has a golden arm.”
He didn’t find it funny. In fact, he just kept staring me down like. . . things were clicking together and everything was about to make sense. Like he knew.
“You think I’m stupid, Bravo?” Rocky thumped me in the middle of my chest. “He has you acting all soft and brand new just because you spent a few months letting him suck your dick. I knew it was going to happen as soon as you told me you had to work with him.”
I rolled my eyes, and all of a sudden . . . I didn’t care. I wanted to tell him. “Okay, good. So, you know. And what? We can’t watch Game of Thrones together anymore? Or Harry Potter marathons on ABC Family?”
His eyes went so wide I could see the whites, and his jaw dropped. Which was odd since he’d just said he’d known, but nothing in his expression indicated he’d expected me to cop to it. “Wow. So you’re joining the Barons’ queer brigade?”
“Nah, I’m starting one right here in the Predators,” I said sarcastically. “If you stop being such an asshole, I’ll let you join.”
A spasm went through him, an aborted movement, and I knew he’d been about to hit me. “I’m not gay. Don’t you ever say that. Ever.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Uh, okay, bro.”
I started to turn away, but he grabbed my arm and hauled me back until he was right in my face. “Do you understand me, Bravo? Never say it again. Don’t even think it. Just because you think it’s time to fucking help queer up the NFL doesn’t mean anyone else wants to join in.”
“So, if we left the NFL alone and queered it up on the down low, you’d want in?”
His expression went from angry to flaming with rage. “Shut the fuck up and mark my words, Bravo. Before the end of this game? I’m gonna get your motherfucker. Then you’ll know what happens when you try to be all out-and-proud when surrounded by people who fucking hate you in a game where they’re paid to hit you.”
I watched him storm onto the field, and the sight left me cold. The rock forming in the pit of my stomach had nothing to do with whether or not we got creamed in the second half, and everything to do with Rocky’s mean streak turning straight up sociopathic just to prove a point. And right now, he seemed to want to prove a point by humiliating Simeon.
The second half started with the Barons calmly murdering us in front of the entire country. I couldn’t even blame the slaughter on our skills—we had some pretty fucking athletic guys on the team. Myself included. But like I always said—the failure was getting to us. Psychologically. Instead of keeping our eyes on the field and our heads clear, everyone was pissed off and racking up one penalty after another. And it didn’t matter.