Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59405 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“Whose house is this?” I yelled.
“Our house!”
“No one comes into this house to win. We gotta fight. What are we gonna do?”
“Fight, fight, fight!” they chanted in unison.
The walls shook and the locker doors rattled with the frenetic energy. I scanned my men with a note of satisfaction. Everyone in this room loved this as much as I did. I was proud to lead them into battle. Maybe that sounded overly dramatic, but this brotherhood was found on allegiance to each other and to something bigger than ourselves. If we fought together, we’d win together. Every time.
I stopped short at the lone figure standing in the back. He was suited up in full gear like everyone else, but he remained stubbornly silent. I held his gaze for a half second, then pumped my fist in the air and gave one last rally cry before leading the charge through the tunnel and onto the field.
The crowd went wild. Our stadium was small by anyone’s standards, but our games were generally well attended, and I could tell every seat in the house was spoken for tonight. Fuck, I was so damn glad I’d told Perez I wanted another season. I wasn’t ready to give this up. Just being here was electrifying, but knowing a large part of the frenzy had something to do with me was indescribable.
Everyone I knew was here tonight. My family, my friends…my boyfriend. I looked up at the home side bleachers, but there was no way to spot Rory at a glance. That was okay. Just knowing he was there was enough. I made an impromptu peace sign. If he was watching me now, at least he’d know I was thinking of him.
I jogged over to the sideline for a pre-game powwow with Perez and Flannigan when they flagged me over. Flannigan reminded me of an older version of Perez. He was a big barrel-chested man in his early sixties with a thick shock of white hair. Unlike Perez, he rarely smiled. He knew a fuckton about football, though. He’d played defensive tackle forty years ago in the pros and loved to debate the integrity of any defense strategy.
I caught the football my backup tossed and nodded while Perez went over our initial play calls.
“You ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
He chuckled at my formal tone. “Good. Hey, we’re going to announce your plans to stay on after the game in the locker room. We invited a local paper to cover it as an exclusive story, but we’ll save the press conference for after the championship game.”
“Press conference? Since when are we doing press conferences?” I asked with a laugh.
“Since you ended up being one of our top winning quarterbacks, that’s since when,” Flannigan replied gruffly. “I don’t know who’ll come, but we’ve invited the big guns to that game…LA Times, USA Today. We’ll deal with that when the time comes. Let’s concentrate on winning this one. I’m moving Jonesie to cover Butterworth so Moreno will take over for—”
“No.”
“Excuse me?” Flannigan glowered.
“Sorry, sir. But Moreno’s head isn’t in it. I think he’s pissed I called him out in practice again and—”
“All right. Jonesie stays. Sanchez will take over for Butterworth,” Coach said before stepping aside.
“What about Moreno?” Perez asked with a frown.
“Bench him until we need him.” Flannigan smacked his hand on his clipboard and fixed us both with a hard stare. “Let’s win this fucking game.”
And we did.
The final score was thirty-five to six. We dominated our opponent in every way possible. My arm was strong, my receivers were sure-footed and fast, and our defense was on fire. I didn’t think the stadium had ever been quite so loud. Our fans cheered wildly for us as we celebrated on the field, jumping and hooting on the sidelines. Jonesie and Sanchez hefted me onto their shoulders and carried me back through the tunnel into the locker room.
Cameras flashed as we drew closer but the noise level faded to an almost ghostly quiet. My ears were still ringing from the chaotic atmosphere on the field as we triumphantly charged the locker room. If I wasn’t so high from our win, I might have noticed the silence sooner. Or the panicky glances my teammates shot my way when Jonesie and Sanchez set me on my feet.
“What’s wrong with you guys? We just won the—holy shit.” I dropped my helmet on the nearest bench and stared at the graffiti spray painted on my locker door.
Faggot, Butt Prate, Cock Sucker…I cocked my head to study the sideways script. He misspelled pirate, I mused numbly.
“Who the fuck did this?” Jonesie roared. “I want a fuckin’ answer! Now!”
I heard him as if through a vacuum. The buzzing in my head seemed to worsen in the growing silence. The eerie calm before a storm. I reached out to touch the wet paint. It was a Pepto Bismol pink. Ugly color. I’d thought I was ambivalent about colors. But now I hated pink. Or maybe I hated the quiet. It was suddenly louder than the buzzing. I had to say something. They were waiting for me to speak up. I was their leader. If this was our house, I was the king. Not really, but…sort of. I swallowed around the grapefruit in my throat and slowly turned to face my teammates. I was met with wide-eyed gazes and a barrage of panicky questions.