Rushed by Lauren Landish
Chapter 1
Tyler
Sitting in the locker room, my hands are shaking as I knot up my cleats. Today is my last chance to make the League after the performance I had at the Combine. Pro Day is here, and I need a good showing. If not . . . things get dicey.
I f*cked up at the Combine, to put it lightly. Sure, I did okay with my forty-yard dash, and my three cone drill did all right too. But when it came to the big tests, my Wonderlic, the interviews, and most importantly, my throwing drills, I screwed the pooch.
It wasn't totally my fault. I mean, when I got to Indianapolis, I was nervous, and when I get nervous, I like to go out and party. So the night before the combine, I hit up a club. I didn't pick up a girl, not that I didn't hit on a few, but all that was available were some women who wanted to relive their college days, and I wasn't in the mood. So after a couple of hours of getting free drinks and a lot of playing around, I staggered back to my hotel at one in the morning, half-drunk and not in the least bit relaxed.
To nobody's surprise, I showed up for the Combine nervous and tired, and my results showed it too. Now, I'm getting ready for my last chance to prove that I can be a pro ball player, and I'm nervous as hell. I did everything right this time. No drinking, no parties, no girls, even. I've spent the past four days living like a Shaolin monk, except for cutting my hair. I ain't cutting the hair. It took too long to get my look just right.
"You all right?"
I look up from my shoes and see Duncan Hart, one of my best buds on the team and the real star of the Western University Bulldogs. He's already got his stuff on, except he's got a pair of regular training shoes hanging around his neck. He's going to do the bench press and a deadlift demonstration to prove that his elbow, which was recently under the knife, is back to full strength. If anyone doubts that after the workouts he and I have put ourselves through to prep for this Pro Day, I'll happily readjust their reality. We’ve never been in better shape in our lives.
"Yeah, I'll be fine," I reply, shaking out my hands. "Just got the jitters, you know? I mean, I'm not the one with the only question being if he gets a first or a third round draft pick. You've got your ticket punched, it's just a matter of how big a contract you land."
Duncan, who a year ago would have made a smart ass comment, instead smirks and shakes his head. "You'd be surprised."
I cough and shake my head in disbelief. Duncan Hart, feeling the nerves? No f*cking way. "What the hell are you talking about? You've got it made."
"We'll see, won't we? Come on, let's go get warmed up."
We go out onto the grass of the field, where I can already see the scouts and some of our coaches standing around. I know a lot of the scouts' work is to get the inside scoop from our coaches about our real playing abilities. Pro Days and workouts can show some things, but video tape and interviews with coaches are still a favorite tool. Of course the scouts know the coaches will try to give the sunny side of things, but still, they talk.
I know what they say about me. Good reads, decent feet, but his receivers make him seem better than he is.
The worst two things, for me at least, are what's probably keeping me from being a second or third round lock for the League draft. First, that my arm is supposedly weak. Yeah, I can't heave the ball seventy f*cking yards, but I'm not a six foot four, two hundred and forty pound freak with a cannon for an arm. I'm six two, just on the short side for a pro quarterback, and I'm two hundred and fifteen pounds. I have to be more mobile, and that means I can't just set up and fire bombs. And I've worked hard on it, I can throw harder than ever, but more importantly, I can put the ball on a dime if I get a chance. Still, when teams are looking for monsters who have cannons for right arms, my gun show isn't quite getting the attention I think it deserves.
But what’s more troubling is my off the field reputation. With the League's main offices more worried about sponsor deals and family friendly images, a guy who likes to party and has gotten into a few fights off the field isn't the type the League is interested in nowadays.
Okay, sure, I like beautiful women. It's one of the great things about going to Western, you can't throw a rock in any direction without hitting one who loves a guy with a surfer dude look like me. My last girlfriend, before I broke up with her, was half Filipina. Beautiful caramel kissed skin, a butt you could bounce quarters off of, and she knew how to please her man. I had a hard time breaking it off with her, but I just wasn't into her the way that I knew she was into me. And as much of an * as I can be sometimes, it just wasn’t fair to keep seeing her.
Doesn't matter now, I've been single for the last half a year, since the ninth game of the season. Now I need to focus on this Pro Day, and after doing my throwing demonstrations and nailing my interviews, I’m hoping to end it with a good performance.
While I take a moment to collect myself before the run tests, Coach Bainridge, our head coach, comes over. "How's it looking, Coach?"
He’s has always been a guy that I can talk to. He sort of took me under his wing, let me pick his brain… he’s been around the game long enough to know a little about everything. He can watch game tape of me and tell me every flaw I make on the field, and he's helped me be a smarter quarterback.