The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(89)

Getting called in to Coach’s office is never a good feeling. You remember training camp and the utter terror that hung over your head waiting to be called in to be cut or kept on. It permeates your bones until even walking by Coach’s office doors can give you the willies.

Inside, Coach stares me down from the opposite side of his glossy desk. “You going to be able to hold it together, Dexter?”

“Yes.” No. Maybe. I don’t f*cking know. But he doesn’t want to hear any of that noise. So I stare back calmly, collected.

He temples his fingers—resting them under his chin in the annoying way of all coaches—and continues to stare like it’s a high-noon showdown.

Unfortunately for him, that shit has never worked on me. Something he clearly realizes when he sighs and his hands fall to his lap. “You’re one of the smartest guys on the team, Dexter. You’ve always played well. But that extra bit of intensity was missing. It’s there now. Focused. You’re playing better than I’ve ever seen.”

Great. So my rage is a bonus. It’s not like I haven’t realized this as well. But I don’t like it. Maybe Coach knows that too because he leans forward, bracing his hands on the desk.

“This media circus will die down soon enough. In the meantime, take this as the opportunity it is. Channel that rage, Dex.” His expression goes brutal and dead serious. “But keep it on the f*cking field.”

“Sure thing, Coach.” Because what else can I say?

I’m no less angry once I’m on the field and playing. Not by a long f*cking shot. Oh, but I channel that rage, pushing it through my lungs until they burn, forcing it into my muscles until they twitch with the need to punish. I use it to break apart the defense, and I soak it up when the crowd roars it approval.

It feels good. All of it so f*cking good—an adrenaline rush, the likes of which I’ve only come close to while thrusting into Fi.

I love football. Always have. Lived and breathed it. But it’s never been like this. This rage, the way it suddenly flows through me without hindrance, is something different. Something inside has finally broken free. No more holding back. No more fear.

But my logical brain can’t switch off entirely. Because I still know it’s Fi’s pain that has set this part of me free. How f*cked up is that?

At the line, the defense scrambles around, and I sense a zone blitz coming. You can see it, if you pay attention, not just in the way the defense positions themselves, but in their eyes, the tension around their mouths.

I know they think Finn is too inexperienced to deal with them. They’re wrong.

I signal the play, and my guys adjust quickly. I get the snap off and we’re countering with an offensive blitz before the defense knows what’s happening.

It’s a beautiful play, and it clearly pisses them off. Norris, a nose tackle, and the f*ck-nugget who outed me to the tabloids, whistles long and low. “Feeling good, Dexter? Yeah, I would too if my girl had them perky titties.”

Red fogs my vision. “The f*ck?” I lunge forward, only to bump into Rolondo, who braces a palm against my gut.

His eyes are dead serious. “Let it the f*ck go, man. He’s only trying to get to you.”

From behind him, I hear a laugh. “Sucking on those titties…”

My teeth gnash. But my guys are surrounding me.

“Save it for the play,” Ryder says at my side. “We will f*ck them up.”

Someone gives me an encouraging slap to the helmet. I move back to the huddle, trying to concentrate. Finn gives me a quick look, but he’s calling the next play.

Breathe. Focus. Get it together.

I try. I really do. But I miss a beat, and when I snap the ball, a defensive end blows by me and sacks Finn.

“Shit.”

Norris is at my elbow again, snickering. “Fiona Mackenzie, eh? Sweet little honey, D. Looks like she’s a natural blonde—”

I don’t see anything but a haze and the whites of Norris’s eyes as I grab hold of his helmet and rip it from his head. Mine is off too. Not sure how. Don’t care. My fist connects with his face, smashing into it so hard I feel it in my spine.

Whistles blow. Yellow flags fly.

Guys pile on top of us. Mine. His. Blows hit my head, back. I don’t feel them. I’m pounding Norris, who is stuck beneath me.

And then I’m thrown on my back with a jarring thud. It clears my head enough for me to pop up. A ref struggles to step into my path. I duck around him as other guys scuffle.

“Cool it,” shouts a ref.

Finn is at my arm, pulling me back. “Easy, Dex.”

But then Norris is coming at me, blood pouring down his nose and in his teeth. “That’s why your girl took the money, cuz you’re a f*cking *!”

I’m two steps into coming at him again, when his words hit me and I go ice cold.

Took the money?

Guys are getting into smaller fights again. Rolondo is now up in Norris’s face, calling him a punk-ass bitch—refs are plucking them apart.

Someone is walking me backward, pushing me toward the sidelines as shouts continue. But I’m numb, my ears ringing and all available blood rushing to the pit of my stomach.

Took the money?

The ref ejects me and Norris from the game, and the stadium erupts into a chorus of boos.

On the sidelines, my offensive coach is shouting at me that I f*cked up while slapping my shoulder to say it’s okay I nearly tore Norris’s head off. My head coach is bellowing in my ear about being a dumbass. But I’m barely listening.