The Crush (73)

On the sideline, standing next to his lone security guard, Ned fidgeted uncomfortably as I approached.

I stopped about two feet away from him, crossed my arms over my chest, and stared him down.

“I have a meeting in less than five minutes,” he said, throat catching nervously on the last word.

“I don’t care.”

His eyebrows popped up, and he ripped his sunglasses off. “You still work for me, Ward, and I think you’re forgetting that.”

“I haven’t forgotten anything.” I took a step closer. The security guard watched me, yawning lazily. “I’m asking you, with all the respect you deserve as the owner, to honor the time I’ve put in here by allowing me to move on to another team where I can be closer to the people I care about.”

“Running home to Daddy?” Ned tugged on the sleeves of his shirt with a derisive sniff. “I thought you understood what an awful place that is to be. Makes me respect you less.”

“That would bother me if I cared whether you respect me or not.” I smiled. “But I don’t.”

“Why would I let my best player go anywhere?” he hissed. “I’d be an idiot to allow you to walk away before I have to.”

“There’s a whole list of reasons you’d be an idiot,” I said easily. “I might work for you right now, but contract or no contract, you’re putting me in a position where I won’t have much of a choice to do something drastic.”

“Like leave your team right before the season?” he said loudly. “That drastic?”

Loudly enough that my teammates behind us went conspicuously quiet.

Coach swore under his breath.

A few players muttered things I couldn’t hear, speaking to the people around them. If I looked now, I wondered what I’d see. Distrust. Suspicion. It was exactly the kind of thing that could ruin a team before we ever took the field.

I held his gaze. “It’s gonna be like that, then?”

Ned smirked. “Good luck getting them to trust you now, Ward.”

What an idiot.

He motioned to his security guard and swept out of the practice like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb right in the middle of the field.

I set my hands on my hips and tried to breathe through the hot wave of anger that curdled in my chest. Someone gripped my shoulder.

Darius squeezed his hand. “Hey, we got you, QB. Don’t sweat him, okay?”

I nodded. “Thanks.”

He walked off, and I blew out a hard breath. Before I could think too hard about what I was doing, or what it meant, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and pulled up a number I’d probably never called.

She picked up on the first ring.

“This is Allie.”

“Aunt Allie, it’s Emmett.”

Allie Sutton-Pierson, owner of the Washington Wolves and my mom’s oldest friend, laughed. “Well, not every day I get a call from the competition,” she said, a smile clear in her voice. “What can I do for you, Emmett?”

I scratched my face. “How do you feel about skirting a morally gray area for the son of your oldest friend?”

She was quiet on the other end of the phone.

“Pretty good, I think,” she answered slowly. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”





Emmett



Days moved incredibly slowly when you were waiting for something big to happen. And Allie had warned me that what I was asking would take time.

It required patience.

But that was in short supply, especially as I stood in the tunnel at Lambeau, waiting to take the field to kick off the season. There was an edge to my mood, a weight that I wasn’t used to carrying.

Hearing the screams of the crowd, the music, the fireworks, the spectacle of another season … it felt like an anchor around my chest.

In the end, our three-point win against Green Bay was not the cleanest, most decisive victory. Our offense didn’t click until the fourth quarter, and I was thankful for a solid defense and great special teams for keeping the win within reach. I threw two interceptions, Darius dropped a perfectly thrown pass that would’ve been a touchdown, and I was sacked more times in a single game than I ever had been.

I was still sore from the beating I had taken.

As week two rolled around, the daily grind of practice and meetings and press and film study began again, I started to doubt—really, truly doubt—that anything could be done this season.

And no matter what I said to Coach and Don, I didn’t want to walk away.

The talking heads were having a field day with Ft. Lauderdale. Normally, I tuned them out because it didn’t help me do my job to listen to their opinions. Ned’s shouted comment had taken root, digging in deep enough that the press got wind of friction, even if they didn’t know any particulars.

I hated hearing about it. But I found myself unable to sit in a quiet house by the time I was done at work. So I kept it on in the background all week, tried to filter out their voices when they talked about how awful I looked in week one.

After practice and a few hours in the film room with my offensive coordinator, it was dark by the time I got home. I kept the lights dim in the kitchen while I made myself an omelet.

After tossing the eggshells into the garbage, I caught sight of the crate Adaline had sent me and smiled.