Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Out here, I’ve never let anyone down and my teammates know, without a single doubt, that they can count on me.
The practices leading up to this hour are about perfecting my routes, memorizing and executing them with precision, proving to my quarterback that I am an asset he can depend on. It doesn’t matter that I’m the same man who disappointed him off the field because he knows he can depend on me out here.
This is the only place where someone else’s decision can’t control me. Sure, I don’t call the plays or decide where the ball is thrown in the end, but none of that matters. The moment my cleats hit the green—hell, the moment I step out of the locker room—the energetic crowd in the stadium above loud in my ears, I’m fucking free.
It’s just me and the work that needs done.
Out here on this field, with the lights bright above and the excitement in the air, my life is in my own hands. I have the control. It’s up to me, sink or swim.
And I’m a damn good swimmer.
The smoke blows through the tunnel, the massive shark’s mouth open wide, teeth looking sharp and sinister, or so the giant blowup makes it appear.
The roar of the crowds is loud, our fellow AU peers never letting us down when it comes to showing up on game day. The music blares, the announcers shouting over it, calling us to the field.
I bounce in place, swinging my arms and hopping from foot to foot.
For dramatic effect, Mason holds us back. He nods a few times, then starts to run out, the rest of us right there on his heels.
We jog out to the center of the field, running through some stretches and basic drills as a team before separating into our respective position groups with our position-based coaches.
Dolton the dickhead comes out, grilling us through our routes, the backup quarterbacks in and taking reps. The dude who took Alister Howl’s spot this year is pretty good. Alister, the old second-string and pain in all our asses for our own reasons, transferred out for the year. I don’t mind when I end up in the new guy’s line for warm-ups; if I had it my way, I’d stay paired with Mase, but it’s always good to work with different quarterbacks.
Warm-ups are over before I know it, the game-day rituals done, and the time gets set up on the clock.
The kickoff team takes the field, so I move over to the bench, where Mason is looking over something on a tablet, and accept a water bottle from one of the trainers.
“What’s up?” I ask him, my eyes scanning the crowd.
“They benched Davies last minute,” he says of Idaho’s starting defensive end, the position Brady has been playing for a couple seasons now. “I’m watching what we’ve got on his replacement, but it ain’t much.” He frowns at the screen.
“Our line is solid. He won’t get through,” I remind him, but I know he’s going to stress regardless. A past injury that took you out for a part of the season will do that to you.
“You didn’t come say hi to the girls before the game.” Brady slides over, eyes on me when he adds, “Poor Paige had a tear in her eye.”
Mason smirks my way, and I force a frown, finally allowing my eyes to travel toward where I know the girls will be—sixty-yard line, four or five rows up. I find the little blond immediately, her light hair down, a yellow lace headband disappearing into the length. She’s smiling at Mason’s little boy, sitting on his mama’s lap. “Sure she did.”
“She did, I saw. It ran right down her cheek, messed up that dude’s number she had painted on there all pretty like.”
My head yanks his way, only to fly right back to the girl in question, but I catch myself quick in the knee-jerk reaction, and once again, I’m looking at my other best friend.
Brady raises a blond brow, but Mason just flat out grins.
I scoff, shaking my head. “Fuck off. Both of you.”
“Just admit you like her.” Brady tugs his helmet on, buckling his chin strap.
“Oh look, kickoff is over.” I swing my gaze to Brady. “D up.”
The man laughs, taking the field.
Mason stands up, and we wait on the sidelines for our defense to dominate, and with less than a minute gone from the clock, me and Mase and the rest of the AU starting offense jog out.
My heartbeat seems to slow, my breath leaving my lungs in slow motion. I get into position, toe on the line at the forty, my hands loose at my sides, and watch as the center drops his hand to the ball. Mason checks everyone’s placement, and then he calls the hike. The ball is snapped, and the second the leather leaves the turf, it’s like a shot of Xanax straight into my veins. A calm like no other washes over me, my muscles ease, and a long, slow breath pushes past my lips.