The Perfect First (Fulton U, #1)(2)

I leaned into the mic. “Feels pretty damn good, and I’ll be happy for it in every game from here until the championship.”

“What about stealing the pass from your own teammate?” A guy leaning against the wall in the back shouted out the question.

Everyone’s head turned to him.

“Keyton was lined up perfectly for the interception. You streaked across the field and grabbed it out of his hands.”

“Who are you, his dad?” The corners of my mouth darted down. “If he’d been faster he would’ve gotten to it. End of story.” Keyton wasn’t exactly the best under pressure. I’d done us all a favor with that snag.

“How do your teammates feel about the drama surrounding you at the end of last season?”

I glared at the smug reporter. There’d been four games this season and not one word about the offseason. Maybe that was why I’d gotten lulled into a false sense of security. “I didn’t do anything wrong, and if anyone has something to say about it, they can go f—” The mic was batted off the table and Coach turned to me then grabbed my arm.

“Phoenix, finish up here,” he ground out over his shoulder.

The flashes went into overdrive and the shouts followed us into the hallway as the door slammed behind me.

“My office, now,” he shouted then stalked off.

Clenching and unclenching my fists, I followed him like a kid being sent to the principal’s office. He threw open his door and stepped out of the way to let me in. Lighten the hell up was on the tip of my tongue, but I wanted to keep my balls attached to my body, so I decided to keep that sentiment under wraps.

He slammed the door behind him, rattling the glass. “I’m sick and tired of your showboating bullshit. I’d have thought after last season you might have a bit more humility.”

After last season, I had a healthy aversion to the opposite sex and even more sureness that my pro career was my first and only focus. “We’re winning games, aren’t we?” I flopped into one of the chairs in front of his desk. Have fun scrubbing off this sticky mess when I leave. Should have let me shower first.

“Winning isn’t all that matters.” He threw down the playbook onto his desk. The papers all over it blew back and a framed picture of a little girl with pigtails clattered to the floor. I picked it up. The girl looked oddly familiar, but he’d never talked about having a daughter before. I set it back on his desk.

“I’m sure your salary and my draft prospects say differently.” I leaned back in the chair and crossed my legs at the ankle.

He turned his back to me and braced his hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers. The big gold championship ring on his right hand glinted in the light.

I shot forward. “And I’m sure you had to do quite a lot of showing off to get that ring.”

Turning, he glared at me. “I wasn’t out there on the field all by myself, and neither are you. Keyton was there for that pass. He had it and you nearly cost us the game.”

“But I didn’t.” And I hadn’t all season.

“If you want to make it in the pros—”

I slammed my lips together and stared up at the ceiling.

He stepped in front of me, right into my line of sight. “If you want to make the pros and actually have a career after, you need to clean up this attitude. No one wants to work with a showoff, and if you don’t get your act together, no team out there’s going to want to deal with you. I deal with you because you win games, but when it comes to the NFL, they’ve got bigger prima donnas who can sprint laps around you.”

The muscles in my neck strained and my eyes narrowed. I’d like to see someone try to get past me.

“You’re a great player, don’t get me wrong, but there’s more to it than that when it comes to making it long term. That should have been Keyton’s play and you know it.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I stared at him, trying to bore a hole through the hair at the top of his head. Maybe it could have been Keyton’s play—or maybe he’d have dropped it. He was four out of ten for completions under pressure, and I wasn’t going to let him stop the team from getting to the championship.

“I want you to talk to someone.”

“I’m not talking to a shrink.”

He turned his head and lifted an eyebrow. “I wasn’t talking about a therapist, but maybe you should see one. I’m talking about someone to help you handle the media, someone to help you learn how to at least appear gracious in front of a room full of reporters.”

Coach sat at his desk, put his glasses on, and began typing on his computer, clicking the mouse now and then. The second hand in his office ticked louder and louder with each passing second. Maybe I shouldn’t have done what I’d done out there, but I wasn’t going to let anyone get in my way when it came to getting what I wanted, not even my own teammate. This was my time to shine, to show pro scouts what kind of player I could be…but maybe learning to finesse things a bit wouldn’t be a bad thing.

“The average pro career is three years, two for wide receivers, but if you’re a first-round pick, that goes up to nine. Don’t make a team have second thoughts about you because of your attitude.” He held out a piece of paper with blue ink scribbled on it.

I wasn’t going to be a flash in the pan.