Chapter Seventeen – Jack
The whistle blew, and I saw red.
I spent the morning in the weight room. Mid-morning running laps. Late morning scouring the playbook.
This afternoon was practice. Full pads and contact. People watching—media, coaches, fans.
Everyone in attendance to witness as I melted-down in pure, unbridled rage.
I don’t know who pissed me off more, but my temper snapped. Life decided to fuck me all at once.
First, the Rivets declined the contract renegotiation. Then an article appeared about my non-arrest and the league’s political fallout.
Worst of all? Leah went to the doctor without me for a checkup. She promised it was routine, that she wanted to get it over and done with. I knew the real reason.
She didn’t trust that I would remember we had an appointment.
How the hell was I supposed to prove my commitment to the baby? I built a nursery. I bought everything the kid would need until college. Leah even moved in. I kept her in my bed at night so I could be there when the morning sickness got bad. When she felt lousy, I was there with a bottle of water.
I was trying to change. What more did she want?
What did anyone want from me?
The ball pumped from my hands—a clean, tight spiral. The rookie receiver ran the route perfectly, but the ball bounced off his fingers.
And Coach Thompson yelled at me for it.
We lined up again. I called the count.
My guard, Orlando, moved before we snapped.
Coach Thompson blamed me.
God damn it. Was everything in the world my fault?
Apparently.
Fuck.
I pushed through, hitting my limit and then setting a new mark for my physical and emotional endurance. Training camp was grueling enough. Men dropped on the field with heat cramps. It wasn’t a real practice until a handful of our bigger guys threw up on the sidelines.
According to my coach, that was my fault too. I hadn’t called the trainers to deliver water while I practiced the hurry-up offense. But how was I supposed to run a quick offense if my guys were still guzzling water?
Coach Thompson didn’t care.
We lined up for a play. Insects buzzed our faces, and the sun scorched our backs. My head ached with dehydration even though I downed an entire bottle of water before kicking onto the field.
I called the play. The center snapped the ball. The coach blew the whistle.
“Carson!” Now he meant to get under my skin. “Your drop back isn’t clean.”
Like hell it wasn’t. I called the men to the line. He bitched at me again.
“Three steps, twinkle-toes. Quicker, or your ass is going to eat it next time we play Ashenville.”
Bullshit. My play was clean. My snap perfect. My drop back in perfect sync. He was trying to piss me off.
Why?
What did they stand to win if they got me mad? Mouthing off wouldn’t make anyone look good, especially with the media and the fans in attendance for the afternoon practices.
I took the snap again.
The whistle blew immediately. I resisted the urge to spike the ball in frustration. Bryon slapped my shoulder.
“He’s getting in your head, man,” he said. “Let it roll off.”
“Can’t.”
He smirked. “You need a drink and blow-job in no particular order.”
“No kidding.”
He pointed to the sidelines. “Have that little baby-momma of yours take care of you tonight.”
Of course Leah would be here now. I told her to come by and cheer me on. Figured it’d pump my ego if she stroked it as good as she stroked my cock.
It was a selfish request though. I shouldn’t have made her come out in this heat. I only hoped she’d see me at work. If she understood how hard I tried, how rigorously I trained, maybe she’d cut me a break. Let me in. Take me to the doctor’s appointments.
Maybe she’d trust me.
I shouldn’t have felt the things I did for the woman I knocked up for my own personal gain. And I didn’t understand the raging possession that coiled through me when I looked at her with that little bump. God, it made me proud.
I had a lot of pride in myself, but not much in anything else that I had done. Except that. Except her. And I wanted everyone to see that bump and know what I did. Maybe then they’d understand there was more to me than getting in trouble.
That goddamned whistle blew again.
He was lucky I didn’t force him to swallow it.
I swore and refused the water from the trainers. The defensive coach settled his men down, letting Coach Thompson stop the play for the fifth time in a row. I rubbed the sweat from my eyes with fingers itching to throw the damn ball.
It didn’t help that the play called was a simple run for Bryon. Straight up the middle, nothing complicated. Not even a play-action to give me a chance to do something besides hand the ball off.
Another whistle. Bryon caught me before I went nuclear. A hush fell over the crowd, loud enough to hear my frustrated profanity. I didn’t even bother looking at Leah. I knew what she’d say.
Stay positive. Imagine there’s a camera on you. Be more patient.
Well, I wasn’t patient. No sense hiding that from the crowd.
The coach called us to formation again. Bryon pushed me back to the line.
“Don’t let him fuck you over. He’ll kick you off the team the instant you pop.”
I’d like to see him try. Coach Thompson antagonized me for a reason. Every move I took, decision I made, and call I shouted was questioned, ridiculed, and denied.
So be it. I ignored him and counted to ten—Leah’s suggestion for when my temper got the best of me. Hell, she even moved closer to the sidelines, holding up her hand and counting one-two-three-four on her delicate fingers.
I heaved a breath.
It worked, but it wasn’t the counting that steadied me.
It was her.
Leah’s chocolate eyes studied me from across the field, and the tug of her smile chased the adrenaline from my veins. She gave me a cute little wave, as though she didn’t know what her place was or why she was there for me. She cupped her hands over her tummy and cheered me on.
And holy hell, I never saw anything greater.
I lined myself under center again. No whistle yet. I took it as a good sign and scouted the defense. They lined up to trick me, but I read through it. I grunted the snap-count to lure the line off-sides—a particular specialty of mine.
It worked.
The corner jumped, and he didn’t make it across the line before the snap.
I expected Coach Thompson to whistle and bitch him out. So did my center. He was slow to rise and even slower to block. But the play didn’t stop, and the defensive line roared over my men in a wave of testosterone—violent and angry and looking to prove how big their dicks were before the end of camp.
I dropped back, but the center got in my way. I saw it happening. There wasn’t a goddamned thing I could do about it. I clenched my jaw for the sack.
The defense rode over the line. I grunted as I slammed into the ground. My leg planted.
Twisted.
Popped.
I felt nothing but pain.
Then shock.
The field silenced as my agonized shout ripped through every single man, woman, and child in earshot.
I fell on my back, but I couldn’t have risen again if I wanted. My leg screamed with pain, not broken but something equally bad. My knee instantly swelled.
And I knew right then I was fucked.
My vison blurred into pained halos as the trainers sprinted onto the field. My offense crowded tight around me, trying to help. Nothing they could do. Not now.
It couldn’t end like this.
Terror cracked through me. I had to get up. I had to walk it off. I had to—
Pain. Blinding, frustrating, enraging pain.
I rolled. The trainers rushed to my side, ripping off my helmet and shoulder pads. Did it really matter if I was hot? The knee injury laced my body in a chilled dread. I’d be lucky if I didn’t puke.
Now there was a headline.
“Gotta get you to the locker room, Jack.” The red-headed trainer who had once helped Leah stared at me, her eyes wide with worry. I didn’t like that look. I hated even more that she prevented me from rising up. “Wait for the cart.”
“No, no, no.” Now I was dizzy. The pain had me nauseous. “No cart. I can walk.”
“No, you really can’t.”
“I’m not getting in the cart.”
“Jack—”
“Fuck off, I’m not getting in the cart!”
Everyone heard that. Figured. I was lucky I didn’t blaspheme every Abrahamic religion when I went down. The team parted, and I figured it was because of Coach Thompson.
It wasn’t. His ass hadn’t moved from the bench.
But Leah ran to my side—something profoundly stupid for a woman in her condition. She was already weepy with hormones. This would be worse than the empty peanut butter jar fiasco.
“Jack, are you okay?” Her voice wavered.
She wasn’t supposed to be on the field, but no one was moving her. She took my hand, her eyes welling with tears. God damn. She was really upset. Honestly worried for me.
My chest tightened. I couldn’t deal with that thought, not when I wanted to rip my own leg off. I hated that I couldn’t comfort her, even as I writhed in pain.
“I’ll be fine.” I lied. My knee looked like a softball grew out of it. “Just gotta get up.”
“Why won’t you get in the cart?”
Oh, she was cute when she only studied enough football to release a press statement. I called for my guys to help me to my feet. The trainers protested. I ignored them. Bryon and someone else could help me walk to the locker room. I didn’t need a cart.
“Jack.” Leah flittered at my side. I wasn’t used to a feminine voice on the field, much less her beautiful whisper. “Listen to the trainers. Get on the cart.”
“Kiss, get off the field.”
“I’m going with you! Just take the ride.”
“It’s not a ride.” I stared at her, snapping at a woman who didn’t deserve my anger. “It’s the cart. You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me. Please.”
Fine. Plain and simple. Her favorite language.
“You only get on the cart if it’s a season-ending injury.” The pain cracked my voice. The fear took the rest. “I just fucked my chances of playing this year.”