Rushed(133)
The guys erupt with laughter around me, but I can only keep cutting glances at Whitney.
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Preview: Over the Middle
by Lauren Landish
O. M. G.
That’s the only thing on my mind when I’m assigned to help superstar tight end, Duncan Hart, rehab his elbow. With a body that looks like a sculpted masterpiece, his chiseled features melt the hearts of women everywhere, including mine.
There’s just one problem. Duncan’s an a**hole, with an ego the size of our football stadium. He lives for the roar of the crowd. He thrives on it. And he wants to let me experience the Hart Attack — yes, he has a name for it. But that’s not going to happen. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself…
All’s fair in love and war, and I have two choices — take him down, or let him score.
**Over the Middle is a full-length romance with an HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger! Includes bonus novel Relentless.
Chapter 1
Duncan
"Have a seat, Duncan," Coach Bainridge says as I come in, my arm still in a sling. I'm feeling pretty good, though, and I’m looking forward to ditching the damn thing as soon as I leave the athletic complex. Three weeks of wearing the damn thing around is grating on my nerves. "How's the arm?"
"The elbow's fine. Only reason I'm wearing the sling is so that the Academic Director doesn't shit himself too early. You know he saw dollar signs evaporating into the air during the Green and White game."
Coach Bainridge winces at the memory, and I'm glad about that. It was his fault that I'd even been out on the field during the meaningless glorified scrimmage that does nothing more than give the boosters a hard-on and a reason to pull out their credit cards. My side, the Green team, made up of offensive upperclassmen and defensive lowerclassmen, was comfortably ahead in the mock fourth quarter when Coach left me in for the second to last series, and I got pinwheeled by some backup junior, named Derek Young, who was trying to make a hit on the biggest star the Western University Bulldogs had. One flip over the jackass's shoulder pads, and I landed on my left elbow, with resulting chips in the elbow that required surgery a week later. It's now four weeks after the game, and I'm ready to get back to work.
"Duncan, you know that the AD cares more about your status as a healthy member of the student body than anything else."
Oh, now that's rich. I know the shit the AD pulls for the glory of Western. “We both know that’s bullshit. I'm an athlete-student, not a student-athlete that the conference likes to promote. The football team brings this university millions of dollars in profit each season. And you know that if your biggest offensive threat goes down for the year, those millions evaporate like piss in the summer sun."
Yeah, I'm arrogant. But it’s deserved. Last year, I led the conference in receptions, yards after catch, and receiving touchdowns. Fuck, I even threw for one during a trick play during our opening game against Navy. I was first-team All-Conference and second-team All-American as a junior, and now, as a senior, I am the best player on a team that has a chance to win the conference championship, if things go right.
And Bainridge knows it. He's been coaching at Western for a decade now, and his contract's up soon. He needs me more than I need him. Still, he tries. "Duncan, watch your language. You may be an important part of this team, but you’re not above the rules."
"Rules?" I ask, leaning back and laughing hard again. "In case you haven't noticed, Coach, me and rules get along about as good as you and your ex-wife. How's that going, by the way?"
Bainridge's glower is funny, but he's wrong about something. I do have rules. In fact, I have four rules for football. I'm not the guy who came up with them, but I've never been someone who thinks I need to be overly worried about borrowing from others. Anyway, my four rules are quite simple.
Hit.
Stick.
Crack heads.
Talk shit.
On the football field, I hit hard. I may be a tight end, but I handle defensive tackles and ends thirty to sixty pounds heavier than my two forty without a problem.
I stick too, whether it's catching anything thrown within my reach or sticking a route. When I was in high school, I played defensive end, and I stuck plenty of helpless idiots there too. Now that I'm in college, I run my routes perfectly, I block my assignments perfectly, and I am perfect.
Crack heads. Yeah, that's right. I'm going to bust your balls, take your heart, and stomp on that motherf*cker more than once before the end of the game. If you're on defense, you're my bitch, and I mean prison style too. I'm not going to go easy on you, regardless of whether you're the best in the country or some guy who's fighting for a spot on the team.
And of course, I talk shit. I'm going to tell you how good I am and exactly what I'm going to do to you while I do it. It makes it all the better when I whip your ass, take your heart and your girl, and maybe your sister too, if she's hot enough.
Coach Bainridge doesn't seem to agree with my assessment, however, and his face turns a little pink as he listens to my question. It’s a low blow. I mean, it wasn't his fault his ex-wife ran off with a younger guy. "You little shit. You're lucky that you're even still on this team after the stunts you've pulled. I could throw you off the team, you know."