Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Unfortunately for me, the sloppiness Moriarty exhibited when he first showed up at training camp isn’t apparent now. On the contrary, Moriarty looks pretty damned close to locked in out there, thanks in part to Chelsea, and he’ll undoubtedly tighten up even more by next week’s regular season opener. Fuck my life.
On the field, Moriarty stuffs the Raptors’ running back, and everyone in the stands roars their approval. The fans’ volume and intensity tonight doesn’t compare to what they’ll bring next week when they’re cheering for their team in a game that actually counts for something. But still, they’re obviously pumped for the season to start soon and for their team’s only hero to be wearing black and blue once again.
It’s third down for the Raptors now, thanks to that beastly tackle by Moriarty. The bad guys need to advance eight yards, or else they’ll have to give up possession of the ball to the good guys yet again. Everyone on the field lines up, and I’m instantly tipped off by a certain kind of energy and posturing in Moriarty’s stance: He’s read something in the QB’s eyes, I’m betting, and he’s poised and ready to use the intel to his maximum advantage.
I lean forward and find Chelsea standing among the coaches, hoping to exchange a look with her. But she’s staring intently at the action on the field, not at the guy on the bubble standing thirty yards down the sideline.
I return to the game just in time to watch the ball being snapped. The Raptors’ quarterback steps back into the pocket to set up for a pass. And that’s when, in a blaze of glory, Moriarty rips past a Raptors offensive lineman and crashes the QB to the ground with a thud before the guy can get rid of the ball. It’s a monstrous sack by Moriarty, a bone-crusher that results in a huge loss of yards for our opponents. And, of course, everyone in the stadium who’s rooting for the Mastodons explodes in response.
After getting back slaps and high fives from his teammates, Moriarty jogs off the field as every player involved in the Raptors’ upcoming punt comes on.
As one does after a monstrous triumph like that, Moriarty heads first to his head coach on the sideline for a quick attaboy and helmet pat. But from there, he heads not to his DC or position coach. Not to the pack of players vying to congratulate him. But to Chelsea. And even worse, he heads to her with a beaming smile on his lips.
When Moriarty reaches my girl, he picks her up and swings her around ebulliently in celebration, the same way her brother Nate did before the game earlier. Except that there’s something heated and sexual in the way Jacob’s holding her, if you ask me. Something way too familiar and suggestive.
Murder.
That’s what my body feels urgently called to commit in this moment—a brutal, merciless, gruesome homicide that’s preceded by maximum pain. But I force myself to stand motionless with my thoughts, stoically pretending murderous rage isn’t throttling me. Use this as fuel when they finally send you in, Luca, I tell myself, even though I’m now totally stressed they’ll never send me in.
One of our rookie QBs still in the hunt goes in with his offensive teammates, but on his first pass of the drive, the ball is tipped and a Raptor—Jeremy Calhoun!—grabs the lame-duck ball to secure a chance for the bad guys to try to score once again. It’s a bad thing for our team as a whole. But a great thing for Jeremy and his chances of securing a spot on his team’s active roster next week.
“Ninety-Five!” our defensive coordinator shouts as our offensive unit comes off the field. “You’re up, Maguire.”
Thank God. Apparently, that interception by my former college teammate was a great thing for me, too. Except I can’t focus on that right now because all I’m thinking about is the way Moriarty swung Chelsea around like he’s got some kind of ownership over her body.
Breathing hard, I glance toward Chelsea down the sideline so I can lock eyes with her to let her know I’m not happy about the way Moriarty touched her. Or maybe I’m just looking for some much-needed encouragement or coaching. A hand signal, perhaps, if I’m lucky. But nope. Chelsea’s talking to Moriarty about something on her iPad and not paying me any mind.
Trembling with barely contained rage, I strap my helmet on and jog with purpose onto the field with my unit, determined to put the jealousy coursing through me to good use. But as I line up, I feel off. My hands are twitching and my mouth feels dry. My helmet feels weirdly snug.
Come on, Luca. Get your head in the game. Focus.
The ball is snapped by the Raptors’ center, and I get a pretty decent jump off the line. Charging hard, I punch the tackle’s outside shoulder and keep coming in hot. And when I see their quarterback reverse out, I turn my shoulder and chase … only to realize, as the bad guys’ tight end slips past me, I’ve been faked out. Juked like a goddamned rookie. The result? A humiliating, twenty-yard gain down the middle for the opposing team, thanks to me. Fuck, fuck, fuck!