Chapter One
Jaxon
“Blue 52! Blue 52!” the QB shouts.
My ears perk up. That’s me. The play has changed. I move my foot slightly to the left, shifting my weight, knowing I have to run wide this time. That’s not what we set up for, but apparently the defense has figured out our play.
“Hut, hut, hut, HUT!”
I push off from the line, trucking it down the field as fast as my legs will carry me. Making a wide turn to the left, I’m barely out of the reach of their defender, who grasps at a piece of my jersey, but not enough to take me down. Just as I cross the forty-yard line, I look over my shoulder and see the ball flying through the air, arching toward me. I reach out my arms, and it lands in my fingertips, then I secure it up against my chest, cradling it like a baby, and keep running.
“Oof!”
I don’t get far before my ass is knocked to the ground. That’s going to hurt like a bitch.
When we finally come to a stop, Heath Germaine—my teammate, roommate, and best friend—pops up off me, reaching his hand down to help hoist me off the grass.
“Nice play, Hart,” he says as he smacks the top of my helmet, his mouthguard dangling down by his chin. “Too bad you’re not as quick as me. You were this close to making it into the end zone,” he jabs, holding his forefinger and thumb centimeters apart.
“That’s only because I’m tired from the extra workout I got with your mom last night,” I shoot back. He pushes me while calling me a highly inappropriate name, which makes me laugh. Getting back to business, I grab him by the facemask and pull him toward me. “You may be faster than me, but you’ve got bigger problems than Troy Hunter gunning for you. Don’t get cocky.”
He scoffs. “Hunter is a fucking puss. He may think he’s faster, but he hasn’t gone up against me yet this season. I’m not worried.”
The rivalry between those two runs long and deep. For three years, they’ve chased each other down on the field, while chasing either other’s stats on the leader board. Why they hate each other is still a mystery to me, but I know how bad Germaine wants to one-up him. What he doesn’t understand is he’s got bigger problems this year.
“You misunderstand me, my man. They have a new cornerback. Abel Anders. Just transferred in from some small school in Minnesota and is running circles around Hunter.”
His grin immediately falls. “Shit. How’d I miss that?”
“Transfer just happened last week. He isn’t just gunning for Top Ten Cornerbacks this year. From what I hear, he’s got a shot at being number one.”
Germaine goes straight into work mode as he realizes the seriousness of the situation. He has to decide if he’s doing the draft this year or next, which is already a huge amount of pressure. But if he gets knocked out of the Top Ten, there won’t even be a decision to make. In his mind, that’s not an option.
“Get back on the line and let’s go again,” he finally says. I nod and head across the field to get ready for another play.
For most people, being on the practice team of Southwest San Antonio University’s football team would bother them, but not me. I kind of like it. I get all the fun of playing the game I love, but I don’t have the pressure of having to be the best. Yes, my dad is the great Jason Hart. Yes, he will probably be inducted into the Football Hall of Fame as the best defensive lineman in the history of the game. But I haven’t had that dream since I was nine years old, so it’s not a disappointment to me that college will be the end of my football career.
That, and without having all the travel, I have time to focus on my other loves—math and science. I love all that shit. Math is like doing puzzles. The rules never change, there is only one right answer. Science, on the other hand, changes all the time and the puzzles are never ending. Add on my weird ability to remember all kinds of statistical data, and it makes me really valuable to the team. I can make predictions most people don’t see coming, which comes in handy for people like Germaine.
Plus, I always win a shit ton of money in fantasy football.
As Germaine and I jog back into our respective positions on the line, ready to go over the play again, I shake my hands out and put my toe on the white paint. Crouching down, ensuring I’ll shoot off the line quickly, I listen for my cues.
“Blue 71,” the QB yells and my mind zones out. It’s the same play as before, only this time, someone else has to adjust at the last second. My only goal is to do it better.
“Blue 71,” he yells again. “Hut, hut, HUT!”
Using my full power, I explode off the line, this time running straight through the pack of bodies that are too busy trying to sack the quarterback than to notice me. It works, but just for a split second. As soon as I twist to see the ball coming my direction, something catches my peripheral vision. I’m only going to have enough time to snag it out of the air and haul it in before I’m mowed over again.
“Ooof!”
As we slide across the turf and come to a stop, all I can say is “Now that’s what I mean by some speed!”
Germaine laughs as he pulls me to my feet. “Hell yeah. No way I’m letting that new kid catch me this year. He’s probably a dick.”
I smack him on the ass in support, and we jog back to get into position again.
This is what we do for the next hour…run play after play after play. Perfecting our techniques, our speed, and our moves. I probably won’t ever get a chance to use these skills on the field during an actual game, but I don’t care. I’m here for the exercise, the comradery, and the fun. Besides, I was bumped up to third string this year. That means I have an actual shot of suiting up during a game. If Rudy could bring a crowd to its feet in just one game, who’s to say I can’t either? And if not, I still get to see the game from the best seats in the house.
Finally, after dozens of hits and even more yards, practice ends and we’re headed back into the locker rooms. By the time I make it back and strip off my sweaty pads, half my teammates are already talking about the plans for a night out.
Grabbing my phone, I check to see if my boss has texted with any changes to tonight’s schedule. Nothing from him, but there is a text from my dad.
Dinner at 7 at DeLuca’s. You in?
With a groan, I toss my phone back in my locker and rub my hand down my face.
“What’s up, Hart?” Germaine saunters over with a towel wrapped around his waist. I swear he showers faster than anyone I’ve ever met in my life. “You coming out with us tonight or is your baby ass gonna go have a happy nappy?”
My teammates used to invite me to go out with them all the time. But, after blowing them off time and time again, they finally accepted it wasn’t going to happen. It’s not that I don’t want the bonding time or whatever. I just physically can’t. One of the long-term side effects of chemo as a kid is I tire a lot easier than other people. It doesn’t keep me from functioning through everyday life, but football practices aren’t normal exertion levels. They’re extreme, so I always have to rest afterward, before I can do anything else.
I peel off my socks and throw them at him, making him squeal like a little bitch. “Neither. I gotta go to dinner with my old man.”
He lets out a hearty laugh before grabbing me by the arms. “Here, I’ll give you a warm-up on the inquisition.” Looking me over, he says, “You’re getting too skinny. Are you eating enough? Your skin tone is looking a bit pale. Let me see your pupils. Are they dilated?”
“Get the fuck away from me.” I bat his hand away when he tries to peel open my eyelid. “That’s fucking annoying.”
Germaine is still chuckling as he swipes on some deodorant. “Don’t get me wrong, your dad is a cool guy, but he is so far up your ass, it’s a wonder he doesn’t smell like shit.”
“Tell me about it,” I say with a shake of my head. “There’s a reason I went to school six hours away from home.”
My parents really are awesome, but Germaine isn’t wrong when he says my dad is too overprotective. Especially when it comes to my health. I never noticed it when I lived at home, I guess because he saw me every day. But now that I only see them every few months, he’s much more intrusive.
I get it. He was in that hospital room when I almost died all those years ago. I’m sure he still has some weird form of PTSD. But for the love of all that is holy, if he doesn’t get his shit together, I may have to move to Europe.
“What brings the senior Hart into town today anyway? Any special reason or just to get all up in your business?” he jokes.
I shrug and run my fingers through my sweaty hair, moving it out of my face. “I think he had some meeting for the foundation or maybe a speaking engagement at a corporation. He’s hard to keep up with. I was really hoping he’d be too busy to meet up. I’m running out of undergrad classes to talk about.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Wait. You haven’t told him you changed your major yet?”
I avoid making eye contact, which confirms my guilt.
Germaine lets out another hearty laugh. I shoot him a glare, not thrilled that my family life is entertaining to him. “You are in so much troubllllllllllllle,” he singsongs.
He’s not wrong. “At least I’ll get something better than cafeteria food out of it,” I grumble.
Germaine chuckles. “You better bring me a doggie bag. I know you only eat the best when you’re with him.”
“And let you have the benefit of a good meal without having to suffer through wearing a tie at some hoity-toity restaurant? Fuck you. No way.”
“Your dad and those fancy meals.” He shakes his head in amusement, knowing it’s the same thing every time Dad’s in town. The once-over. A suit and tie. Questions about my grades. I’m already exhausted just thinking about it.
“Wanna go out with us after you’re done? Some beer and pussy will do you some good.”
I chuckle at his cure-all to anything that ails you.
Feeling stressed? Get some beer and pussy.
Parents making you crazy? Gets some beer and pussy.
Got the flu? Beer and pussy.
“Maybe next time,” I say, even though we both know it’s not going to happen. “I have to work tonight anyway.”
He puts his fist to his lips. “A double whammy night! Daddy Dearest and work until all hours. You’re going to be fucking useless tomorrow in practice.”
I wish I could say he was wrong. Unfortunately, the statistics are on his side this time.