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)
“Hey, man, what’s up?” Ramsey said as they approached.
I must have shown my emotions on my face, or maybe it was the way I grumbled out a “’Sup” that told him I was feeling some kinda something.
“You good?” Ramsey frowned. He didn’t see it, but both he and Houston were the daddies of the group—Houston because he was the most responsible motherfucker on Earth—maybe except when he lost his head around Cullen and Rams because he was a caretaker.
“Yeah, sorry. Just have shit on my mind.”
“Is everything okay with the family?”
I waved off his concern. “Yep. Ignore me. Just ready to play some football.”
“Ready to beat Whitt’s ass is more like it. I hate that prick,” Garrett said as we made our way toward the building.
“Everyone hates that prick,” Ramsey added.
I mean, I couldn’t say they were wrong, only that the people who hated him didn’t really know him. Not the way I did. Not the real Patrick.
“Was he not hugged as a child? I don’t get why he’s such an asshole,” G teased.
I got it, got why they said the shit they did, and yeah, last time they talked to Whitt, he was shitty to them, but I couldn’t stop my protective instinct from rearing up. “You obsessed with Patrick or what? We’re here to kick their ass in football just like any other team.”
Garrett and Ramsey stopped walking, tossing each other confused looks before they both started cracking up laughing at the same time.
Um…what the fuck? Had I missed something?
“Shut the fuck up. You hate him just as much as the rest of us,” Ramsey said.
“You really had me going for a minute. You first-named his cocky ass and everything.”
I tried to force myself to laugh with them, but I wasn’t feeling it because I didn’t hate Patrick Whitt at all.
We went over Royals film first, then got ready for the game.
Me: See you tonight, baby. Winner gets to choose how we fuck.
I didn’t know if he would get the message before the game, but he would see it at some point.
We played each other twice this season before the playoffs, once now in September and then again in November. I wasn’t sure how often we would be able to get together outside of those days and maybe our bye week. All I knew was I planned to do everything in my power to get him to Mom’s house for Christmas this year. I wanted him to have that, to decorate with us, and for my family to get to know him.
I shoved my phone into my cubby as Ramsey and Coach gathered everyone around for a quick team meeting before it was game time.
There wasn’t anything in the world sexier than Patrick Whitt’s ass in a pair of football pants, but from the first kickoff of the game, he wasn’t my man anymore—he was my competition, and I took that extremely seriously.
They had Whitt on man-to-man coverage with Garrett all fucking night, and while G was our fastest player, Patrick fucking Whitt was the quickest cornerback not only on the Royals but in the league.
And he had the speed that G did. That was just a fact, though Garrett could keep him on his toes better than anyone else.
Whitt had been smothering Garrett all night. Nearly every pass Ramsey tried to aim G’s way was dead in the water before it left Ramsey’s hand, or Whitt tackled Garrett’s ass before he could gain much yardage.
Our saving grace of the night was Atwood played like a man on a fucking mission, throwing every ounce of himself into beating the team his boyfriend helped coach.
“Jesus Christ, I fucking hate him,” G complained in the huddle.
“We’re going to switch things up and try the short game for a few yards to see what Ward can do,” Ramsey said, calling out a specific play. It was the third quarter, and the game was tied. We’d been volleying the lead back and forth all night.
We broke the huddle and made our way back to the line of scrimmage. My gaze caught Whitt’s as we got into position, him giving me a small nod that I recognized as whatever the fuck you’re planning, it ain’t happening.
We’d see about that.
“White eighty! White eighty! White eighty! Set. Hut!” Ramsey called out the cadence, and I snapped the ball to him. Garrett and Atwood immediately ran forward like they were expecting the ball to go their way. Instead of following him as we’d hoped, Whitt read the offensive play and went straight into cover one defense, his safeties going for our wide receivers while he tried to barrel his way toward Ward.
Like fucking hell that was happening. Not on my watch.
I was quick, the fastest feet of any center in the league, and coupled with my brute strength, I held my ground, the leader of my offensive line, and not letting Whitt through.