Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Four quarters later, Killfoyle prowls through the locker room, ready to rip heads off. “Blowing a twenty-one to three lead? In all my years, this is one of the shittiest of shitty season openers.”
No one can look at each other. The guys hang their heads, eyes on the floor, and it takes all my willpower to keep my gaze on the coach, but I have to because I’m the team leader.
“I’ve seen turtles play football better. We don’t have time for that kind of sloppy bullshit you left on the field. Clotheslining? Gimme a break. And all those offsides penalties.” He stops, draws more fueling breath for his evisceration. “Do better. A lot fucking better. Do not play sloppy on my watch, ever.”
We lost to the Seattle Wolves thirty-five to twenty-eight.
Coach turns at the end of a bench of sweaty, banged-up players and stalks the other way. “Management isn’t going to be happy with a repeat of last year.”
He stares daggers at the defense, landing on Elroy and Johnson, who both missed tackles. I cringe in sympathy.
I get it, though. Coach’s job is on the chopping block too. If we don’t get our shit together, he could be out, just like any of us.
“Do I make myself clear?” he barks at the fifty-three of us.
“Yes, sir.” It’s more of a collective mutter than a rallying cry.
Coach heads to the exit. “Hit the showers,” he orders without looking back. “And when you come to practice tomorrow, show all the way up.”
After I’ve done my best to wash off the stink of defeat, I escape the dreary locker room with Nate as fast as possible.
“There’s only one thing to do tonight,” I say as we head up the steps from the locker room level to the stands. A casual night with some of the guys might help us forget that game. “What if we—”
“—never order your Good Luck Smoothies again?” Nate asks drily.
And the cheerleader routine dies a swift death. “Sorry, man,” I say heavily.
Nate slugs my arm. “Jay. I’m just messing with you. It’s not your fault, or the mango’s. It’s one game.”
I get that on a big-picture level, but I’m frustrated that I failed so horribly at engineering attitude. I push open the door to the stairwell, then out onto the first level of the stadium, ready to find my dad. “I got ahead of myself. I was trying too hard,” I say honestly.
Nate pats his chest. “I’m right here with you, buddy. I feel the pressure, too, this season. But maybe ease up on yourself tonight?”
Nate has the right attitude. I should try to adopt some of his chill. When we take my dad home then head to The Spotted Zebra for burgers and karaoke, that’s my plan. Devon and Orlando join us. Orlando’s the tight end, and Devon’s the other wide receiver, so we tend to stick together.
At a corner table, we break down the game until Nate finishes with, “Let’s focus on winning in New York next Sunday.”
“That is a most excellent game plan,” Orlando agrees.
“And if we don’t, you know they’ll trade me first,” Devon adds with a laugh, even though I bet he’s covering up some real fear. As a rookie, he’s the easiest to trade because his salary is league minimum.
His comment hits me differently tonight than it would have this morning. I don’t need to be Mary Sunshine like my dad said. Instead, I can lead off the field with confidence rather than manufactured pep. “Try not to let that worry you, Dev. Unless you have a no-trade clause, we’re all fodder. It’s just part of the game,” I say, then we leave football in the dust as the server brings our food.
We’re eating and debating potential karaoke tunes for the season when a sports clip on the TV behind the bar snags my attention. A replay of Beck Cafferty throwing a beautiful, game-winning pass for the Los Angeles Mercenaries earlier today.
My one-time secret hookup.
I slip back in time to when I met him.
The night before we played the Mercenaries a year ago, Beck hung behind at my house after a barbecue. We talked about handling the media, then binge-watched Unfinished Business on my couch, him inching closer with every episode. He was easy to talk to—awkward at first, then friendlier as the night went on. Then flirtier. I was surprised but stoked to learn he was bi, and one thing led to another. We had a hot make-out sesh in my kitchen and then made a dirty bet as we planned a second date the next day.
But after all his eager interest, Beck didn’t show for our rendezvous.
The foolishness I felt waiting for him curls through me like it’s happening again.
Shaking it off, I snap back to the present, catching the tail end of the report by the local sports anchor. “And in breaking football news, Los Angeles’ second-year starting quarterback Beck Cafferty has just been traded to last year’s Super Bowl winner, the San Francisco Renegades.”