Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Fuck,” I muttered, though it wasn’t accepting that I was bi that was throwing me off. It was that the person I was most attracted to on this Earth was the one person I hated being attracted to. Wasn’t that some fucked-up karma?
I wanted this win against the Rush. I wanted it the way I wanted Tucker as he crouched down with the ball and waited for Ramsey to call the cadence. I wanted to see the defeat on his face, wanted to crush him as much as I wanted to be crushed by him in a bed or against a wall.
I’d been on fire the first two quarters of our playoff game against them, and then after halftime, something had happened. I couldn’t put my finger on it. The Rush were playing like they shared a brain, and we were starting to fall apart. We were evenly matched, but the home-turf advantage was real. We should have had this game locked. The LA fans were going crazy in the stands, and still, the Rush had pulled ahead.
I adjusted my stance, trying to anticipate what they were going to do, moving my gaze to Tucker as he gripped the ball.
It was only a fraction of a second, but it felt like hours when he canted his head in my direction. A broad, smug grin stretched over his lips, like he knew they had the game and were one step closer to the Super Bowl. I despised that grin in the moment and answered it with a sneer, and then Ramsey called the cadence, and the action exploded around me.
In the two seconds that infuriating grin was knocking around my brain, Garrett McRae managed to break free of me and get wide open for the perfect fucking pass that Ramsey sent hurtling in his direction. I could see where this was going as I automatically sped toward the end zone. Benson and Sparks did, too, because they moved like they’d been shot out of a rocket, racing for McRae and launching at him until he went down. But it was too late. McRae landed in the end zone, ball still clutched to his chest. The pass was complete. Touchdown.
The Rush had a twenty-point lead on us now.
“Fuck!” I swore, and I wasn’t the only one, but when the stands quieted, I glanced around to find medics running for the end zone. McRae wasn’t getting up, just lay sprawled on the field like a boneless scarecrow. Ramsey raced into the fray and dropped down next to him, splaying a big palm over his thigh. The fear in his eyes was evident from where I stood, and a prickling sensation spread through my chest at the way he touched the fallen receiver. I stood frozen, watching the two of them and then Tucker as he trotted up to Ramsey and gripped him by the arm, holding him back as McRae was put on a stretcher and hustled off the field.
We all knew what had happened to Houston McRae, Garrett’s brother. And as much as I didn’t like the Rush, it’d be a fucking shame to see a rookie—any rookie—go down that way.
Where I could feel a further pall cast over our team, the Rush played like they were on a vendetta once we took the field again. They made us look like a bunch of freshman JV players playing football for the first time, and when the clock ran out, sealing their win, I walked off the field with a mixture of fury and relief. Relief that it was all over. Fury that I’d let Tucker get in my head during such a big game when clearly he’d held his focus just fine.
The mood in the locker room was defeated, and I showered and got the fuck out of there as fast as I could, just wanting to be at home on my own.
As soon as I got to my car, I punched the steering wheel like a fucking idiot, but it worked, siphoned off some of the aggression coursing through my body.
I picked up my phone, thinking about Tucker, Ramsey, and McRae out on that field, the concern etched on both Tucker and Ramsey’s faces. I hadn’t realized they were so close until then.
Me: Is McRae okay?
Tucker: Yeah. Concussion. He’s out for a while, but not permanently sidelined.
Me: Okay, good.
Tucker: I’m around if you want me.
Me: Fuck off.
Tucker: I figured you’d say something along those lines. Regardless, you played good.
Me: Not good enough, but I will next time.
Tucker: Maybe.
Me: Bet.
This defeat had taught me one important thing. I wasn’t letting Tucker get in my head ever fucking again. Come next season, nothing would stop me.
8
TUCKER
One of the many benefits of being a celebrity was getting invited to events like the one a car service was taking me to at the moment. A party in the Hollywood Hills, thrown by Alexander Montrose, one of the biggest movie producers of the moment? Sign me the fuck up. The guest list was exclusive, the drinks would be flowing, and half-naked men and women would be everywhere. There were worse things to do on a Saturday night during the off-season.