“Come on, ladies! We’re playing football, not dancing in the fucking ballet!” Hank yells and bangs on his clipboard as he paces next to me. I’m standing in my usual position, arms over my chest, chewing my gum.
I’m supposed to be paying attention to Anderson’s hand placements, but instead I’m watching Stevens. He’s off today. Way off. And if I were a betting man, I’d make some good money guessing why.
He hasn’t spoken to Joie since he walked in on us over a week ago. She’s called. She’s texted. She even sent an email, but he refuses to respond. His silence is really hurting her. And that’s hurting me. Not only because I want to make it better, but because I haven’t spent the night with her since, just in case he shows up unannounced.
That’s a lot of wasted nights when I could have enjoyed being with her.
Sure, we’ve gone out. But when it gets late, I’ve gone home and slept alone, waiting for this pansy-ass to pull his shit together and act like an adult. Instead, he’s pitching the world’s longest temper tantrum, which has been fine until now. Okay, not fine. But instead of his anger dying down, it seems to be getting worse. So, not only am I worried about how many times I’m gonna have to spank the monkey before I get to be with my woman again, now I’m worried Stevens is gonna get himself injured.
This is the part of the job I hate. When these kids think they’ve been wronged, they can hold onto a grudge for-fucking-ever.
Last weekend was our off week, so we didn’t have a game. This weekend, we’re traveling to Wisconsin. Texas may be known as a football state, but Wisconsin is no joke. They grow some big kids up there with some fancy skills. If we need to take any team seriously, Wisconsin is it.
“What the fuck is wrong with that kid?” Apparently, Hank is finally zeroing in on Stevens, too, who has multiple false starts during practice. It’s like he’s not paying attention.
I shake my head. “That is a little boy pitching a hissy fit.” I rub my hand over the back of my neck. Dammit. I forgot the sunscreen again.
“Over what?” Hank demands. “He’s got a full ride, a prominent career ahead of him, and as much pussy as a twenty-year-old kid could ask for. What the ever-loving hell does he have to be pissy about?”
I look over at Hank, eyebrows raised. “Sounds like someone else has his panties in a twist today, too.”
He sighs and runs his hands down his face. “I just got the call about the ticket sale issue this morning.”
“University is trying to take part of our budget to offset the new third-party fees?”
“Yep.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That without new gear, we stand to be libel if someone gets injured.”
I nod my approval. “And did they understand how much more money a lawsuit will cost them than giving us the same cut?”
“They said they’d get back to me.”
“At least it wasn’t a no.”
We watch as another play unfolds in front of us. This time, Stevens launches at the wrong time. Plus he’s still not all-in and gets run over by a defender.
Hank slaps his clipboard on his thigh. “What the fuck is that kid’s problem?”
I take a breath and lean closer to him, so no one else overhears. “He caught me and his momma in a compromising position.”
Hank looks over at me, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “Seriously?”
I raise an eyebrow and turn to look at him. “Do you think that’s something I’d kid around about?”
A low whistle comes from between his lips. “How long ago?”
“Last weekend.”
“That would explain his attitude for the last week or so.”
“And how he’s gonna get his ass hurt if he doesn’t get his head back in the game.” I uncross my arms and stalk toward the field when Stevens takes another hit wrong, landing on his back with his arm at a weird angle. He’s not hurt, but if we were in a real game, he would be. “Stevens,” I yell, which makes the entire team take notice since I never raise my voice. “Get your ass over here right now!”
Hank chuckles. “You stole my line.”
I shake my head. “He’s pissing me off for so many reasons. This shit needs to stop.”
“Good luck,” Hank says, patting me on the shoulder and then turns back to the field. “Get back in position, ya pansies! No one said to stop! Reynolds—stand in for Stevens!” he yells as he walks away, leaving me to a very uncomfortable conversation with my girlfriend’s son. Especially if he keeps moseying on over, instead of running, like he should be. I bite my tongue from calling him out on it. Right now, the most important thing is for him to be safe on the field. Fuck the rest of it.
When he finally reaches me, he rubs his lip with his finger, looking anywhere and everywhere except at me. So this is how it’s gonna go. I tried, but it looks like all bets are off now.
Taking my normal stance again, I lower my voice. “What’s going on, son?”
He looks up at me, glaring, but doesn’t say a word.
I raise my eyebrows and turn my entire body toward him. “You got a problem?”
“I’m not your son,” he says with malice in his voice.
I take one step forward, arms still crossed. I’ve been nice. I’ve given him space, but this shit stops now.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I threaten. “I may be dating your momma, but I don’t give a shit about you beyond what you can do out there on that field. I get that you saw something you never should have seen. But if you don’t stop with the thirteen-year-old-girl drama and quit crying in your helmet, you’re gonna get yourself hurt out there.”
He looks back down at the ground, but I continue, “I don’t give a shit that you’re angry with your momma. I don’t give a shit that you’re angry with me. But when we are on this field, I am in charge, and I will damn well call you whatever I want, do I make myself clear, son?”
He nods but says nothing.
“I asked you a question, boy, and you better answer me unless you want to do up-downs until you puke. So I’ll ask again, do I make myself clear?”
Stevens takes a breath and looks up at me, eyes narrowed, but recognizing he has a lot to lose if he continues with this bullshit attitude. “Yes. Sir.”
“I’m serious, Stevens.” I point a finger right in his chest. “You get your head back in that game. We have a very big, very strong team coming up this weekend. Unless you want to run the risk of being injured and ruining your entire career, you better figure out how to get your brain to compartmentalize and think only about this game. You’re pushing off too soon, you’re not using your upper body, and you’re not anticipating your opponent’s moves. Figure this out.”
For the first time since this conversation began, his shoulders seem to relax, like he’s finally hearing what I’m saying, and he nods once.
“Good. Now get back on that field and get your head back in it. Go.”
As soon as the play is over, he runs back on the field, relieving Reynolds. Getting in position, the QB calls the play, and they get back at it. Stevens pushes off at exactly the right time, and everything goes off without a hitch.
Hank bangs his clipboard and yells in victory as it all goes exactly like it was designed. “Damn, Pride, what did you say to that kid?”
“Nothing you wouldn’t have said,” I answer, although we both know Stevens is probably on-point because he’s imagining it’s me he’s tackling.
Whatever works.