Coach Williams captures my gaze. “I understand it might’ve been only a slip-up, Wyatt. You’re overworked. But it’s useless to make excuses for your behavior. You messed up, and you need to make amends. If you don’t, you grant Jamal a free pass to lead signal-caller this season.”
His words aren’t exactly what I wish he’d say, but they at least show me he doesn’t think I’m a nutcase.
“I won’t let that happen,” I say with determination.
“Great.” Coach William grins. “Do whatever it takes to make us forget you ever punched Rodriguez. But don’t lose all your anger, ’kay? We need some to win our next Super Bowl.”
Thanks to the years spent training under his wing, I know Coach Williams possesses a werewolf gene. He’s got the good sense to pretend to be human most of the time. Still, he could quickly transform if I point out just how illogical and hypocritical his last statement is.
I swallow back my question about how I’m supposed to distinguish between harmful rage and useful rage. “Will do my best, I promise.”
“I expect to see you here in August.” Coach Williams punctuates his phrase with a firm slap between my shoulder blades.
Despite my bulky frame, my ribs twitch as his palm lands on me.
He turns and trudges toward his own office.
I stroll to the field because I’m in no mood to chat. Though most of my teammates have probably gathered their belongings and left already, some guys—like Leo, who’s incredibly slow with his showers, or Greg, who’s got a fetish for folding his jersey neatly—could be still in the locker room.
I stroll alongside the yard signs until I reach the farthest end zone. The sun is maybe a third of its way down, peeking out from behind the stadium’s highest chairs. The rays shine to the right and left from one focal point that mostly remains hidden, creating a myriad of sepia tones on the field. I let my gaze drift around, taking in the empty turf.
In its current, quiet state, it’s hard to imagine the sweat, action, pain, and blood that are tied to these grounds. Just like the deadly battles in an arena, we, the players, are like the gladiators: as much slaves as heroes of this very gridiron.
I close my eyes and let the silence settle around me, hoping it’ll ease the stone in the pit of my stomach.
I stand there motionless until a loud yell jerks me out of my thoughts.
“You look like ten miles of bad road, Wyatt!”
Great. So much for enjoying the quietude.
My eyelids spring open, and my eyes zero in on Joe’s lean, dark figure approaching me.
“How did your meeting go? Did the coaches tan your hide?” Joe’s Southern turns of speech always put a smirk on my face even after the meanest workout—and Coach Williams can be real evil with dumbbell bench step-ups and burpee pull-ups.
But today, I only deem his comment worth a shrug. “I’d have preferred some old-fashioned flogging to the sanction I received.”
Joe’s jaw drops, revealing glisteningly white teeth that sparkle against his mocha skin. “What do you mean? I thought you’d just get a fine.”
While I don’t plan on letting our colleagues know what cleaning Rodriguez’s clock is costing me, Joe’s a friend, and I know he won’t laugh at me or shame me.
“You thought wrong,” I answer. “Coach Fielding ordered me to see an anger therapist before camp starts.”
“Butter my butt and call me a biscuit!” Joe exclaims, but when he notices my somber expression, he adds, “What? That’s not so bad. If it were me, I wouldn’t mind a quick chat with a cute shrink. White coats are hot.”
I lift my hand and count on my fingers. “First, the therapist might be male. Second, it’s not just a chat. Coach wants me to follow an intensive impulse management program with an end report stating, quote: ‘your emotional state has been professionally evaluated and deemed fit.’ Third…” I wiggle my finger at him. “I’m not you.”
Joe grew up in a household full of gossipy girls—he’s got six younger sisters—who trained him to be forthcoming about his private life with almost anyone. While I’m as comfortable sharing personal issues with strangers as a cat swimming.
Joe shrugs. “Don’t do it, then. What can they possibly do if you—”
“If I don’t comply, I’m not allowed to take part in the camp.”
Joe gasps. “You’re royally screwed, dude. You must do it, then.”
Yeah. Joe sized up my situation perfectly.
Coach Fielding isn’t only famous for his disregard of climate-adequate clothing but also for his strict rule that whoever skips the August training camp can’t play for his team in the next season.
It’s a retaliation he came up with after an offensive line veteran attempted to avoid the month of hell by orchestrating a bogus family emergency. As it turned out, his wife who was supposed to have gone into labor wasn’t even pregnant.
I nod. “I know. I can’t let Jamal push me under the coaches’ radar. I’ll become as meek as a sheep if I need to, but I won’t sit on a bench during the games.”
“There’s a tree stump in Momma’s swamp with a higher IQ than Jamal’s, but the boy sure throws well.” Joe scratches his thick black hair, producing a rustling sound. “You’re right to be afraid of him.”
“Thanks for pointing that out,” I grumble.
Unfortunately, it’s not just Jamal’s throwing skills that worry me. It’s his youth and the effervescent zeal that comes with it. I used to have that, too, when I started, but the years have caused it to wear off somewhat.
“Didn’t Coach Williams defend you?” Joe asks.
I swallow back the bile that rises at his question. “No. The most absurd part is that Coach Fielding claimed I’ve got anger issues. In plural. Isn’t that ridiculous? I only made one blunder. One.”
I expect Joe to agree with me. My friend crashes into defenders, throws violent stiff arms, and runs through people rather than around them on the field. He must surely see that I have no excess fury to shed.
To my surprise, Joe hisses through his teeth. “Well, I only witnessed it from a distance, but you seemed possessed when you jabbed Rodriguez. What were you even thinking?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Rodriguez made a bunch of idiotic remarks about my footwork and then a nasty joke.”
“And those are reasons for you to pitch a hissy fit? Since when?” Joe wrinkles his nose, flaring his large nostrils. “I admit Rodriguez could make a preacher cuss. But in our years together, I’ve never seen you lose your temper. Not like that. You looked like Gomez when you launched at the guy.”
Gomez played on our team before getting suspended for beating up his agent badly. The poor man had landed in the hospital with major concussions. Gomez’s motive? His agent missed out on closing a sponsorship Gomez desired.
I snort. “Thanks for putting me into the same category with that psycho.”
I’m nothing like that loony. Mine was a simple slip, a brief moment of irrationality. I was probably tired, like Coach Williams suggested.
Joe purses his lips. “A little burr in your saddle ain’t a problem. It drives you to hit harder, run faster, and throw farther. But you’ve got too much of it lately.” He pats my arm. “Is something going on you’re not telling? Perhaps a family issue?”
A throbbing spreads into my ear at his comment, and I suppress a growl. “Nope. Family has nothing to do with it.”
Joe opens his mouth then shuts it. He adjusts the waistband of his shorts, then blinks at me. “Huh! Okay, then. But you’ve got to figure out who licked the red off your candy. This upcoming season is my last, and I want you as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine when we claim that Vince Lombardi trophy together.”
I stare at Joe’s serene face and shake my head. “I don’t get how you could decide to just quit.”
Though Joe is a year my junior, he told the coaches that after this season, he wouldn’t get his contract renewed with the team.
Joe gives me his signature, lopsided
grin. “We’re living in high cotton here. Absolutely. But you can have that in your retirement too, with the right strategy.”
Joe would know all about that. He’s attended every boot camp NFL has ever conceived: broadcasting, speakers bureau, leadership and advocacy. You name it, he’s done it. He even dragged me to a seminar once about how to become a coach.
Joe must read the doubt on my face because he adds, “Don’t tell me you’re still as passionate about the league as you were when you got drafted? I know I’m not. I prefer to retire of my own will. I’ve had my prime time, and I’m happy to go down before losing all my grit for the game. Or before the coaches can kick me out.”
I believe Joe’s got more than one season in him, but it’s true that the owners and coaches cut players as they please, especially if they’re in demanding team positions such as running back.
I shrug. “Perhaps you’re right. But I couldn’t do that. I still feel like I belong here more than anywhere else.”
Though my career doesn’t give me the same thrills as it used to, I’ve no idea what I could do with my life if I weren’t part of the Kites anymore.
Joe rolls his eyes. “That’s because you do nothing else besides the training, the games, and the occasional night out. If you did, you wouldn’t be as scared of dipping your toes into something new.”
I shrug. “I’m not afraid. Maybe I’m just not interested in life after NFL.”
Joe snorts bemusedly. “I bet a therapist could make a whole lot out of this statement.”
“Thanks for the tip.” I whack him in the chest then grin. “Perhaps I’ll bring this up in my anger management class. Then at least the shrink and I will have something to talk about. Given that I don’t have rage issues.”
Joe laughs. “Yeah, do that.” He rounds his brows at me. “Where will you enroll?”
“I’m going back to Phoenix. That way, I can at least combine my punishment with seeing some friends and visit my mom too.”
Strange anticipation settles in my chest at the thought of going back. Eleven months have passed since I last traveled home.
“And keep the guys from learning that you need therapy, right?” Joe winks at me.
It’s superfluous to deny it, so I just nod. “Yeah, I’d rather shoot myself in my own leg before letting that stinky Rodriguez learn what his joke cost me.”
Joe clicks his tongue. “Well, to be fair, it cost him something, too. But okay, I understand. I might do the same if I were you.” He scratches his chin, then his eyes illuminate. “I just remembered. There’s this famous behavioral clinic in Phoenix, the Phoenix Stars. They run a program called Tame Your Inner Beast.”
“Don’t tell me, they curbed you into the docile being you are?” I wiggle my brows.
Joe rolls his eyes. “Nope. But a guy on my old team went to their program and came back rather revolutionized. He even handed out personalized thank-you notes after a game to whoever’d passed him the ball.”
“That’s not something I’ll do. Not now, not in my grave.”
Joe chuckles. “You don’t have to. But at least ask your agent to check it out.”
“Okay, I will,” I answer because I know Liam will take the news of my blunder much better if I offer him a concrete idea on how to clean up my act.
Joe cocks his head to the side. “You think you’ll have some free time while you’re getting your brain ironed out? I’m visiting my folks in New Orleans next week, but after that, I could pop over to Phoenix for a weekend.”
“Definitely.”
“Great.” An eager glint invades Joe’s eyes. “I bet you still know enough gals from your college days?”
“I went to Tucson,” I answer, smiling. “But one of my best pals, Pete, has surely got you covered.”
Joe is on a perpetual search for a potential girlfriend who could suit his Momma’s expectations of a “Southern lady”. The problem is that he mostly dates fangirls, which undermines his efforts from the get-go. Groupies might love football—or at least our fat paychecks and fame—but they also lack self-respect, discretion, and tact.
Joe claps his hands, then points at me. “But they need to be fine as a frog hair split four ways. Got those too?”
Without wanting, my thoughts drift to a pair of emerald eyes I haven’t seen in years and my breath catches.
“Yeah,” I murmur.
“Perfect. Then I’m definitely coming to see you.”
I only hear his comment with half an ear, because my mind is stuck in the memory of those freckled cheeks and long eyelashes, complementing that striking green hue.
Chapter 4
(Ellie)
As I exit the bus, sweat pearls trickle down my spine, making my sleeveless purple top stick to my back like a second skin.
No matter how many years have passed since I moved to Phoenix, it’s still a shock how hot late June can get here. Like when I see pics of Mickey Rourke and feel bewildered every single time how he could ruin his face like he did with all that plastic surgery.
When I first moved here from Kingman, I thought I knew what I was getting into. I believed the summer would be only a lick warmer. I never realized that my hometown’s average of ninety-three degrees was only tortilla chips and dip to the carnitas chimichangas that would await me in the valley’s June doom.
Today is no exception.
It might not be blazing enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, but still, I’m pretty sure if I left a black skillet out for five minutes, I could sneak that extra heat in and have a delicious second breakfast.
Though we’ve passed the summer solstice, the dryness is still stifling. My tongue sticks to my palate like a dry sponge, and a slight spasm runs through my belly.
Afraid that these might be precursors of a heat cramp, I reach into my bag and pull out my cucumber-lemon water. I take a few avid gulps without slowing my pace.
When my clinic’s building comes into sight, I sigh in anticipation of the AC’s cool breeze before I enter the reception hall.
I greet the guards then go straight to the elevator and press five.
While I travel to the floor where my unit is located, I try once more the power stance Hope showed me. I spread my feet a little, pop my hip out to my left, and cross my arms.
I inhale, waiting for the composed self-assurance Hope promised would descend upon me. After ten counts, I still feel utterly ridiculous, not one bit like the strong career woman my roomies swore I looked like when I’d practiced in front of them.
But since Hope said this posture is one of her major success factors in the courtroom—and Stephanie will be as harsh as any jury, if not worse—I’ll give this stance a try.
The elevator chimes, and I hurry out.
I first rush to the bathroom and pat my face with a paper towel to soak up all the excess moisture caused by the bus ride. I don’t want Stephanie to lecture me on how I should take better care of my T-zone. My boss might be overly pregnant, but she still sashays into the office every day, looking like she’s dressed for the runway.
After freshening up, I go to our communal room to leave my bag.
It’s empty except for Henriette, Dr. Roy’s assistant. She’s brewing coffee in the small kitchenette beside our lockers.
As I enter, she turns and gives me a onceover. “Looking to catch someone’s eye at work?” she asks in a voice that’s more singing than speaking and bears a hint of suspicion.
“I have an important meeting today.” Hopefully, I add in my head and quickly cross my fingers. Then I stash my bag in my locker and fetch my white coat.
Her forehead frowns, but her lips remain curled up as she strolls a few steps closer to me. “Really, with whom?”
“With Stephanie,” I say, smiling. “Don’t worry, I doubt your boss even remembers asking me to switch to first names.”
Henriette blushes, and her tone becomes strained. “That’s not why I asked.”
That’s exactly why she did.
Henriette�
�s been using this mélange of nice and wary with me ever since she overheard Dr. Roy ask me to call him Bill last week. Like most women on our floor (perhaps myself included), she has a soft spot for her boss.
No wonder. Dr. Roy isn’t just the youngest male department head we have, he’s also rather dashing—tall with clear blue eyes and chestnut hair styled like Brandon Walsh’s from the old Beverly Hills, 90210 series.
Still, right now, I don’t have time to deal with Henriette’s feelings or suspicions. I should rehearse my speech instead. I peer at my watch and sigh. “Oh, shoot. Look how late it is. I’ve got to go. See you later.”
I dart out before Henriette can say anything.
I’m sashaying toward my boss’s office when a jovial “Good morning” calls out to me.
Though I know I shouldn’t lose any more time, I can’t resist turning and greeting Dr. Roy. As I whip around, his glistening whites almost blind me.
“Morning, Dr. Roy,” I mumble sheepishly.
He wiggles his finger playfully at me, and his eyes squint in a pretended grimace of annoyance. “I told you already—just Bill, please.”
“Ah, okay, of course, Bill.” I nod, shooting a quick glance to the communal room to check whether Henriette is still inside. If she witnesses this exchange, she’ll never believe I wasn’t stringing her along.
Bill beams at me. The crinkles around his eyes are quite divine. “That’s better. And I’ll stick to Eloise, okay?”
Should I tell him I hate when people use the full version of my name and stretch it into Ay-lo-eez with a feigned French accent? It makes me feel like a character from a historical novel, even if I know Mom picked my name based on her favorite childhood book series from Kay Thompson, and not through inspiration from Alexandre Dumas.
After a second, I decide against it. Perhaps in Bill’s lazy drawl, my full name won’t irritate me so much, especially when he tops it with such a heart-melting smile, like he just did. “Okay,” I say.
“It’s a beautiful name. It suits you.” His confident tone—the one that earned him the “best presenter” title last year at the national eating disorder conference—wavers a tad.
Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) Page 3