Rushed(25)

April blushes and shakes her head. "I can't."

"Why?" I ask, leaning in closer. "It's been days."

"Yeah, but still . . . people are talking," she whispers back. "I don't want to get in trouble. Besides, someone told me that women weaken legs."

I laugh. "Okay. But Sunday afternoon, let's have a date, I don't care who talks about what. I had an idea, something I saw the other day on the way to the stadium."

"What?"

"Say yes, and I'll tell you."

April looks up into my eyes, and there's a light in there, an emotion that flares that I've seen a few other times before. "Yes. You know I can't say no to you."

"Yes you can," I reply softly, making sure it's just the two of us who can hear it. "You always can say no."

"Well . . . maybe I just don't want to say no," she says back, her eyes gleaming as she looks up at me. "With you I feel . . . better."

“Well a deal’s a deal. Sunday I wanted to go kayaking."

"Sounds like fun. What time?"

"Eleven? I like sleeping in the night after a game. Or maybe . . . brunch at ten, then kayaking?"

April smiles and nods. "Ten. I'll meet you at your place."

We turn and go down the hallway, toward the entrance to the field where we'll eat our lunches together. April packs her own lunch, and I've started to do the same, even if it is just peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

"You know, some day, I'd like to see your place," I say as we sit down in the stands. "It feels weird. I have no idea where you live."

"It's nothing to brag about," April replies with a shrug. "I rent a cheap studio flat in a older building in Cabbagetown. It's near the University, but not too close. I used to have a flat mate, but she moved to Hamilton on a new job. Thankfully, the rent's not too bad, and my other costs are low. If you really want, we can go by sometime. There's a movie theater nearby, a few bars, and some other stuff."

"I'd like that — when you're ready,” I say, chewing on the first of my two sandwiches. "Are you getting any flack that you and I are seeing each other?"

April shakes her head and spears her salad with her fork. "No, but I think Francine Walker's a bit jealous. She's the head cheerleader."

"I met her at a photo shoot the team had me do. Something for charity. She's cute, but not my type."

"What is your type, Tyler?"

I smirk and look at her. "I've always had a thing for brunettes."

"So if I should show up for our date with my hair dyed platinum blond?" April asks, and I laugh.

"Then platinum blonde’s my favorite."

“And if I go hot pink?”

“Don't push it.”



Practice is easy, simple walkthroughs without any helmets or pads at all. Some of the guys have already been in training camp for a month now, and we're getting into the needs of professional athletes in-season, which means trying to prevent banging up our bodies as much as possible.

The punt team is out on the field, running through their blocking assignments when Lance Pollard, our starting left guard and one of the second year Canadians on the team, comes up and slaps me on the shoulder. "Congrats, man."

"Congrats on what?" I ask, confused. Lance is big, about six foot four and two hundred and seventy pounds, smaller than an American lineman, but perfect for the faster, more spaced out Canadian game where speed is important and being over three hundred pounds can be a challenge for even the strongest of players. "The throws today?"

"Nah, for breaking in Fumbles," Pollard says with a grin. "We always wondered who was gonna get to f*ck her first."

I don’t even respond, and before I know it, my left hand seems like it’s moving on its own. It smacks Lance across the nose, and I actually tackle him, he's so caught off guard. Getting on top, I'm pounding him in the face, stunning him before he can push me off, and we roll, him to his hands and knees, me to my feet.

“Asshole!” I scream, kicking him in the ass when I get to my feet.

Hands grab at me, pulling me back and away, and Coach is there, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. "Settle down, settle down!"

I calm somewhat, and see that Lance is still down, holding his nose and shaking his head side to side, groaning.

Coach shakes his head and points to the locker room. "Go chill out, Tyler. I'll see you in my office after practice. DeAndre, go with him. Vince, run the offense!"

As I make my way through the stadium with DeAndre, he stops me just after we turn into the tunnel. "Tyler, some advice?"

I nod, taking a deep breath. There's no hardness in his voice, just concern. "Yeah, I'm okay. Besides, I'm still a rook, right?"

"Eh, you won't find the hazing bullshit on the Fighters that you'll find in the League, but yeah, you're still a rook," he chuckles, and we keep walking. "Pollard wasn't trying to piss you off."

"Whether he was or not, it was uncalled for," I return, trying not to get heated again. "Maybe I shouldn't have reacted that way, but I didn’t even think. It just happened. I’m surprised he went down like that — the dude’s a monster.”