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 off,” he replied like I hadn’t answered in agreement with him. Then Whitt turned and walked away.
PART ONE
First Half
This section crosses over with the timeline of Rookie Move, occurring during Garrett McRae’s first season with the Rush.
1
WHITT
Preseason was one of my favorite times of the year. Even entering my fifth season in the league as a cornerback, the anticipation of what was to come still electrified me, and it wasn’t just because every year meant the fresh possibility of getting to the Super Bowl. It was also the energy level of the team, knowing that all the hard work we’d been doing off-season and during training camp was about to be tested. I’d always been a competitive motherfucker, and this preseason was no different. We’d nailed our match against Tennessee last week, and a bunch of us had been gathering to watch the other team’s games whenever we could.
This afternoon, seven of the OG’s who’d been with the Royals as long as I had had gathered at our QB, Karim LaForge’s, Thousand Oaks pad to watch the Rush take on Las Vegas.
I was hoping they’d choke, but after the first quarter, I couldn’t deny the Rush were looking even better this season with the addition of Garrett McRae, their rookie wide receiver, and Brandon Cross, their new tight end.
“Okay, McRae’s pretty decent,” LaForge said with a groan as the Rush completed another pass. “He always play like this?” He looked over at me from his beat-up old recliner we called his throne. He’d had it since college, and it stuck out like a sore thumb among his other expensive furniture, but he swore it was good luck and that he’d never get rid of it.
“Am I his rep?” I laughed. “I have no idea.”
“You played with Houston in college, though, right?”
“For one year before I transferred to Franklin U. Garrett was still a kid then.” But apparently, one who’d grown up to be every bit the threat his older brother was before he’d been permanently sidelined by a knee injury.
As the Rush offense trotted back down the field to set up their next play, the camera panned to the crowd and found Garrett’s family. Houston was there, of course. He’d talked about his family a lot freshman year when we’d played together at Southern U. They’d always seemed tight-knit.
Envy wound through the pit of my stomach. I had a sister, but she was a decade older than me and seemed more like a distant relation than anything else. She was already married with kids and living in Seoul, where several of the Whitt Industries factories and warehouses were located. And though I was way too old for the sad, lonely boy schtick, it crept in on occasion. Still, I’d grown up well taken care of by what I called accessory parental units, had anything I could have wanted, gone to the best schools, and lived what anyone else would consider a luxury lifestyle. And I’d achieved my dream of playing pro football in spite of my family’s wishes and despite not being drafted to the Denver Rush like I’d initially wanted. I tried to remember that when those moments of envy crept in. I had nothing to complain about. There wasn’t a motherfucker out there that would ever spare a moment of sorrow for me.
I focused back on the screen in time to see Tucker, the Rush’s starting center, hunker over in preparation to snap the ball to Warner Ramsey, their quarterback. Tucker had been smaller than me the first couple of years we’d attended the same football camp, something I’d taken a weird, petty pride in. And then he’d hit a growth spurt. Now, the guy was solid as an anvil but fast as a tornado. He was cocky as hell, too, which the media and fans seemed to find somehow charming. Not me.
Yet, I couldn’t stop looking at him as he crouched, the round muscles of his quads tensed, the pop of his bicep visible even from the zoomed-out angle. He was a machine, and I knew if the camera had been close enough to capture his expression, his jaw would be squared, eyes laser focused and intent the way I’d seen plenty of times at camp. He’d been a favorite there, making friends off the field but all business on the turf. Meanwhile, I’d always felt like I had some kind of perimeter fence around me that kept people at a distance. “Closed off,” a girlfriend had told me once, and I knew damn well what that meant but not why I was like that.
My phone chimed with a text, and I lazily thumbed it open to see a message from Candice.
Candice: I know what you’re watching right now.
Me: Clown porn?
Candice: I’ll pretend I didn’t just read that. The Rush making you nervous?