Out of Bounds(22)

“Don’t we all man, don’t we all,” I say with a forced laugh, trying to make light of the comment. Maybe even to deflect it.

He doesn’t let go. Glancing around first, he drops his voice so I’m the only one who can hear. “Is there something up with you and the lawyer?”

I lower to the bench again, my eyes focused on the ceiling. I don’t look at Jason. I don’t like lying to him. “Nope.”

Meanwhile, I wonder how the f*ck he could tell during the movies, especially when he was all about Ally. “But there sure seemed to be something up with you and her sister.”

Jason grins, and he’s never a big smiler, so I know that means he’s into her. As one of the other guys grunts while lifting some heavy weights, Jason says, “She was cool. I’m going to text her today. Maybe see about getting coffee or a drink.”

He can see her easily. He doesn’t have to worry about unwritten rules, or playing fast and loose with the team’s public image. “Sounds like a plan.”

“And back to you now,” he says, surveying the weight room once more. Coast is clear. “The one we were talking about a minute ago. You’re into her, aren’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Just seemed kind of obvious. I guess the same way you could tell I was into her sister.”

There’s no point denying it now. He’s already sniffed out the truth. Besides, he’s my best bud. Keeping my voice low, I say, “We hooked up before the season started. Before I was traded. But we cooled it when we realized we were playing for the same team, and that it could complicate things.”

He nods, pats the weight bar again. “Smart move. Best to just keep focused on the game.”

“You think so?”

He taps his fingers to his temples, our sign for blinders. “Absolutely. No time for distractions. It’s much better to wake up to a photo of you and the taco truck owner than some piece about how the quarterback is f*cking the management,” he says, and the stark but realistic way he puts it reminds me once again to keep my eye on the prize. The field. Only the field.

That’s what I do.

My first and most important love is football. It needs my full attention. My devotion. That’s what I give it.

When I step onto the field that weekend, I savor the smell of the grass, the thunder of the crowd, the rush of the adrenaline pumping through my blood. In the huddle, I’m all business, and the Knights are as crisp as crisp can be.

We win the game, and somehow we pull off that wonderful feat again the next Sunday too when we pummel Dallas on their field.

Four for four.

“Talk about a f*cking streak,” Elkins shouts when I enter the locker room after the game. He high-fives me, and a bunch of the other guys do too.

I hold my arms out wide. “All I do is throw ’em. You’re the one who has to catch ’em,” I say, because Elkins is killing it in that department, and he made it into the end zone twice in today’s game.

We ride that high on the jet home with fist bumps, struts, and shit-eating grins galore as we reach our cruising altitude. I sink into the cushy leather seat, happy as a clam, since I just can’t complain about a 4–0 record for the first month on the job. The only thing that would make it better is a good woman.

But I’ll take what I can get.

The next week, it’s more than I expect.





Chapter Nine

Drew

“I’m going to school you again!”

The taunt comes from Taylor, the kid I’ve been battling in whack-a-mole.

“Don’t count me out yet.” I lift the mallet and send a wooden mole back into oblivion.

“You can’t catch up,” Taylor says again, a huge grin on his thin but gleeful face, as I chase the vicious little moles in the game. I’m at Santa Monica Pier for an event to benefit the children’s hospital, and the new wing that just opened there. The team donated a huge amount to have it built. I’ve played arcade games with a few kids, and I’m going head-to-head in yet another round of whack-a-mole with this tenacious ten-year-old who has kicked cancer’s ass.

He’s beaten me nearly every single time. And this time too. As my round ends, I raise a hand and high-five him. “Taylor, you are the king of whack-a-mole,” I say, thrusting his fist high in the air.

From across the arcade, a photographer snaps a shot. I don’t mind, but I wasn’t playing this round for the sake of the picture. I was playing it because Taylor is a fun kid and deserves to have a good time. He’s a fierce competitor too, and I admire the hell out of that. I knock fists with him, and tell him as much. “Now listen, Taylor. When you get back to fifth grade, I want you to tell everyone you kicked my butt at whack-a-mole. Can you do that, my man?”

He beams. “I can do that, and can you win again next weekend against San Francisco?”

I laugh and clap him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna do my best.”

He heads off to join his parents, and I return to the game for a quick solo round.

As I clobber a mole, a pretty voice floats into my ear. “Careful. You don’t want to get an NFI.”

Slamming the padded hammer down on the wooden weasel, I answer with a grin. “You’re right.” The next mole submits to my speed with the hammer. “Can you even imagine the ridicule I’d suffer for a whack-a-mole-induced injury? That’d be one helluva nonfootball injury.”