Rookie Move (Playing for Keeps #1)(17)
4
GARRETT
Everything hurt, and my life was a lie. Play for the NFL, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. And we hadn’t even started the physical practice yet, where we dressed out and had full contact on the field. But that was today, and I knew a couple of the seasoned players were gonna get a lot of enjoyment out of trying to take me down. Jason Nance in particular. He’d been a wide receiver for the Rush for three seasons now and had been side-eyeing me since the start of camp.
Ramsey, like a damn sadist, laughed at my groan when he pulled the hotel-room curtains wide and bright morning light poured in. “I told you camp was going to tear your cocky ass up.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I rolled onto my back, trying to get my dick to ignore the tear-your-ass-up portion of that sentence because over the past couple of days I’d caught glimpses of what Ramsey was working with below the belt, and it definitely fell into the could-tear-an-ass-up camp.
I’d done, I thought, an impressive job of ridding myself of my crush on him in the intervening months between the draft and the start of camp. I was pretty fucking proud of myself, actually. I’d attacked it methodically, similarly to how I’d approached learning plays or studying for a test. I’d cataloged all the things about Ramsey that had annoyed me over the years, and if some of those things were also things I’d liked, well, whatever. The random nicknames, for one. Or how organized he was. That was definitely annoying. The way he rubbed his thumb along his jaw sometimes when he was about to disagree with something someone said. How his calf muscles were more defined than mine even though I ran my ass off every day. Unforgivable.
And since there was a huge mental component to football, I figured I was doing myself a solid by practicing that kind of sustained willpower and fortitude.
Because I was also rooming with him, it meant I had to run through that catalog several times a day, especially when he walked around shirtless. But again, I was looking at it as another opportunity to test my mettle.
Still, I was human, prone to relapses, and I was currently experiencing one as I watched Ramsey dig through a drawer and pull out a shirt. It was a damn shame he had to put it on. He was packed with long, lean muscle, like most QBs, but he had a back and shoulders even Atlas would’ve looked twice at. And that high, round ass…was completely like any other guy’s ass and not enticingly squeezable at all.
Mine was better.
I gave my dick a punishing shove with the heel of my hand and winced. My hamstrings were fucked.
Ramsey said, “I know you know better than to do that newbie thing where you avoid seeing the trainer because you don’t want to look weak as a rookie, yeah?”
I quickly averted my gaze from Ramsey’s unremarkable ass as he tossed a pointed look over his shoulder.
“I would never do anything like that,” I lied, and then resolved that I would take advantage of the trainer after practice today. The lactic-acid buildup was no fucking joke, and I knew it would help ultimately.
“You gonna consider trimming that bush on your face too, since they’ll be doing interviews today?”
Coach Baker had told us that the league’s marketing team would be filming parts of the camp later in the week to create short documentary-style pieces and highlight reels to get fans pumped in the preseason.
“I happen to appreciate a little bush.” I rubbed my jaw, the scruff prickling my palm. It wasn’t bad. Not even approaching beard status yet. I smirked. “Adds a nice little bite.”
“I think that’s called chafing.”
“Not if you’re doing it right.” I didn’t even have to see his eyes to know they were rolling, and that was enough to power me upright. I arched my back in a stretch that had my muscles twinging like crazy. “Let me know if you ever need any lessons. There’s good prickle and bad prickle, and the difference can be a delicate balance,” I said, like I was some connoisseur. I did like the feel of a man’s stubble against me, though, and Ramsey’s jaw was shadowed with the kind of stubble that would probably feel like perfect fine-grain sandpaper under my hand. No, someone else’s hand. It wasn’t ever gonna be mine.
“I do fine on my own, thanks. Better get steppin,’ Scruffy.”
I sighed as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Okay, maybe the scruff was starting to look a little untamed. Picking up my Dopp kit, I headed into the bathroom.
After the morning warm-up, which the TV crew filmed, Coach sent me and the other rookies off to the sidelines, where a guy in a T-shirt blazoned with the NFL logo stood with a microphone, chatting with what I’d determined was the director. While waiting my turn, I kept an eye on the various drills—the cornerbacks working on agility, the wide receivers clustered over on the opposite side of the field, catching and running, Ramsey and our backup QB, Ellis, talking to Coach.
“Garrett?” I jerked my attention back to the guy with the microphone. “Ready?”
“Yeah, sure.” I should’ve been paying more attention to the interviews. I stood still as they mic’d me and led me over to a little backdrop blazoned with the Rush logo hanging from plastic piping.
“We’ll do a brief intro and a couple of questions. Five minutes tops, very informal, and then you can rejoin the team. Why don’t you start by saying your name and talking a little about what it felt like to be drafted to the Rush.”