Sugar Rush (Offensive Line #1)

by Tracey Ward

  SUGAR RUSH

  Offensive Line Series

  By Tracey Ward

  SUGAR RUSH

  Offensive Line Series

  By Tracey Ward

  Text Copyright © 2016 Tracey Ward

  All Rights Reserved

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

  COLTON AVERY

  SCOUTING REPORT

  Position: Running Back

  Height: 5-11 Weight: 214 Age: 23

  Born: Galena, KS

  College: North Carolina State

  High School: Galena High School

  Draft Declaration: December 2nd

  Awards

  SENIOR YEAR:

  Premier Player of College Football Trophy Finalist (4th)

  Doak Walker Award

  JUNIOR YEAR:

  First Team AP All-American

  FWAA All-American

  SOPHOMORE YEAR:

  Sporting News Third Team All-American

  AP Third Team All-American

  Records

  NCS Single Season Rushing Record

  1,792

  CHAPTER ONE

  COLT

  November 6th

  CenturyLink Field

  Seattle, WA

  They’re shouting again. Wild, impotent shit that doesn’t mean anything. Sound and fury signifying a limited vocabulary and zero imagination.

  “I’m gonna fuck you up!”

  “You’ll never walk again, asshole!”

  “Ate your mama’s pussy last night!”

  Classic.

  I blame the colleges. The leniency given to athletes on their academics. I’m not saying I never took advantage of that leniency, but I still blame it, especially when I’m watching Jeopardy. I feel the loss the strongest then. Although, seriously, what the hell was I going to do with classic literature?

  To be or not to be; that is fucking confusing.

  I bounce on my toes as I wait for the play to kick into action. I’m all adrenaline all the time, always ready. Always eager. I was made to run and nothing pisses me off more than a fat linebacker fuck getting in my way.

  I watch them now, hunched down and panting. Waiting. Steam rises out the navy necks of their jerseys into the cold November air above them. It mingles with the fog from their mouths, from their rehearsed curses, and dissipates into insubstantial nothing in the clear, cold sky.

  Suddenly their line shifts, massive men playing leapfrog.

  I stop bouncing, going on the alert.

  “Blue sixty-six!” Trey, our quarterback, bellows down the line. “Blue sixty-six!”

  The Seahawk defense has spooked him, the change in their lineup tipping him off. They’re blitzing.

  The play has changed, meaning suddenly I’m in the wrong spot. I take off at a sprint toward Trey just as he calls for the shotgun snap. The ball is in his hands but the play is already falling apart. Our offensive line can’t hold the Seahawk’s back. Seven men crash the box, grunting and shouting, screaming like savages at war. They’re coming for Trey, for the ball, and as soon as I take the handoff, they’ll be coming for me.

  Good luck catching me.

  Trey falls back three steps, his eyes downfield. He’s scanning for an opening but he’s also waiting. I blow past him, seamlessly taking possession of the ball and tucking it tightly under my left arm. That’s when I turn on the juice.

  I downed a bag of Skittles before taking the field. I had a Snickers right after halftime because The Hotness, my agent, said I should. She wanted me to do it so the cameras could catch it and Mars Inc. would be happy about all of that money they gave me, because that’s my gimmick. My sell. I’m the sugar guy.

  Does it really give me an edge? Can it honestly make me run faster, the way I claim?

  I don’t know. With all the leniency, I wasn’t required to take a lot of science classes in college, but I took one psych class and I know this much; it doesn’t matter if it works, as long as I believe that it does.

  Mind over matter. That I can understand.

  I kick it into high gear just as the shit really hits the fan. The opening I was cutting toward disappears, two defensive lineman crashing together like ocean liners colliding at sea. I scurry on my feet, backpedaling out of their pull. I’ve lost two yards doing it. It’s chaos around me as the rest of the team, even Trey, tries to block for me, but it’s useless. Seattle is everywhere and I’m in the thick of it.

  Just as I consider diving into the fray with a prayer that I make up the yards I’ve lost, I see a miracle. Fiso, our right tackle, has chiseled a crack in the wall of blue surrounding me. It’s nothing but a fissure, but it’s daylight. It’s an out, and I take it gladly.

  With the grace of a greased seal, I slide behind Fiso. I narrowly escape the grasp of a Seahawk linebacker close on my heels. He falls behind me and his outstretched hand catches my heel. I stumble, thrusting my free hand out to catch myself. I run on my toes and my fingertips for two strides before getting it right, sidestepping another tackle, and diving behind Olynyk, our right guard.

  “Go, baby! Go!” he shouts excitedly.

  I go to the outer edge of the field, my feet coming down hard and fast on the white lines dashed out along the sidelines. They count the yards as I devour them like Pac Man eating up dots.

  Nom. Nom. Nom.

  I’m nearly out of bounds. One good shove by a linebacker and I’m done, but Olynyk is there blocking for me. Up ahead at the twenty yard line I see a Seahawk closing fast, cutting across the field to take me down. I tuck the ball in hard against my side as I prepare for the hit, but out of nowhere there’s our tight end, Matthews, throwing his body into the guy. They collide in a heap on the line. I’m boxed in by the sideline and Olynyk. I’ve got nowhere to go to get around them. Nowhere but up.

  I dig deeper, drive harder, and when I’m two steps from the mound on the ground in front of me, I launch into the air over the top of them. Matthews ties the guy up so he can’t touch me, and I hit the ground running on the other side of them. I’ve lost my coverage from Olynyk, but it doesn’t matter. I’m fifteen yards out. Ten. Five.

  Arms reach around my waist, stuttering my run. I trip and tumble, nearly going down.

  Three yards. Two.

  The lineman’s arms slide down my body. They lasso my legs. Fast as I am, even I can’t run without feet. I’m going down.

  One.

  I reach out as far as I can with the ball in my hand. I hit the ground hard, my sight going momentarily black as the air rushes out of my lungs in a hard whoosh. But I don’t have to see. I only have to hear.

  Every Kodiak in the stadium is on their feet, their cries of victory muffled through my helmet, but I can still hear them. Even over the thunder of feet pounding toward me, I drink them in and taste the delicious sweet tang on my tongue.

  Pure, unadulterated adoration.

  This is my mana.

  This is my drug.

  This is the shit that gets me off.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LILLY

  November 9th

  Mad Batter Bakery

  Los Angeles, CA

  Cupcakes are heavy. You wouldn’t think so because when you’re holding one they feel light as air. You think the heaviest thing about them is their calorie count. But that’s one. Put thirty of them on a metal tray and suddenly they weigh a ton. Suddenly all that butter, flour, and egg starts
to get real.

  I live that reality while I carry another tray out the back of the bakery, the cold metal resting frigid on my naked forearms. Light flares like a flashbulb in my eyes as I leave the darkness inside and step blindly into the winter morning.

  “Whoa, coming through!”

  I sidestep to the right, away from Rona’s voice. My eyes find focus just in time to catch her body breezing by me, disappearing inside.

  “Are we going to have time?!” she calls frantically.

  “Yes!” I laugh. “We’re going to be fine! Stop freaking out about it!”

  I walk carefully into the alley where our delivery van waits with open doors. The exterior gleams white in the morning sun, deep purple in the shadows, and a rich, grassy green everywhere else. The Mad Batter logo, a bone white teacup filled to bursting with a purple frosted cupcake, beams at me happily. The sight makes my stomach turn.

  I’ve been in the kitchen since four thirty this morning decorating cakes and cupcakes that we left cooling overnight. I haven’t eaten anything but the stray finger full of frosting to check the taste, and all of that sugar is sitting sickly sweet in my gut. Normally I would snag a croissant off one of the racks to balance it, but none of our regular items are out of the oven yet. With the prep for this catering job taking center stage we’re opening late today, and everything else has fallen hours behind. As the cupcakes vanish into the back of the van the kitchen sits uncommonly empty and expectant.

  Rona follows me out with the last tray on her arms. “Tell me again what the schedule is.”

  “I told you four times already.”

  “Tell me five.”

  I gingerly lift my tray above my head. I insert it snuggly in one of the four slide out racks that are stacked to the ceiling in the back of the van. Up front on the floor there are purple and green boxes, each one full of cookies, candies, and cake. Everything is covered in white frosting, dipped in white chocolate, or coated in white fondant to conceal the vibrant color hidden inside, carefully keeping the secret only Rona and I know.

  “The brunch caterers are getting there at seven,” I recite patiently, taking Rona’s tray from her. “Guests arrive at nine. I show up at nine twenty. Brunch begins at nine-thirty. The cake is getting cut at eleven. Drinks and dessert to follow. Clean up finished by two.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t want my help?”

  “It’s an easy set up. I’ll assemble everything on a cart in the pantry and roll it out when brunch is cleared. It’s all about timing, but nothing one person can’t handle.” I stare pointedly at the deep crease in her forehead. “Stop stressing it.”

  Rona rubs her fingers over the crease, smoothing it forcefully. “When the camera crews get here tomorrow I swear to God I’ll have my shit together, but today I’m losing my mind.”

  “I’m not judging.”

  “You’re judging a little.”

  “I think you’re more worked up than you need to be. That’s not judging. It’s my opinion. One you’re welcome to ignore.”

  “Really? I’m supposed to ignore your opinion? When did this start?”

  I bite my tongue because she’s right. If she starts ignoring my opinion, I’ll die.

  “And I’m not too worked up,” she tells me ardently, filling my silence to the brim. “It’s the freaking Food Network. Do you know how good for business this spotlight is going to be?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Insanely good!” She pauses, tugging on the short strands of her black hair. Her green eyes are on the van, scouring it for defects. “Do you think we should have it washed again when you get back?”

  “No. It’s beautiful.”

  “What if it gets dirty on this delivery?”

  “I won’t go off-roading, I promise. I’ll bring it back pristine.”

  “This is just so huge.”

  “I know.”

  “Today is huge too.” Her eyes are unfocused, staring dully at the word ‘Mad’ scrawled across the side of the van.

  “Yep, but I’ve got it. You don’t need to sweat it.”

  “Why couldn’t they be filming today?” she laments, not listening to me. “We’re catering the gender reveal for an NFL coach. That’s drama. That’s the stuff they’re looking for and I’m sure the Baileys would have signed the waiver to let us film them.”

  “Maybe. But I wouldn’t have.”

  Rona bites her lip, but I know it’s her tongue she’s really holding onto. She has opinions too. Big ones. Bold ones. The problem is that I know what they are and they won’t change a thing. My mind is made up. It has been for the last year.

  “How’s Michael doing?” she asks after my brother, as though the question is relevant to the conversation. And I guess it is, though not in a way anyone on the outside would ever understand.

  I snap the van doors shut firmly. “He’s good. Better.”

  “Has he started dating again?”

  “He’s not ready.”

  “It’s been over a year.”

  “He doesn’t care.”

  “He’s not still hoping she’ll come back, is he?”

  I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know. Probably. He just doesn’t say so anymore.”

  The truth is that Michael says he doesn’t want Cassie back, not after what she did to him, but I know better because I know him. I know that if she took time off from her grand world tour to show up at his doorstep, he’d be right back where he was a year and a half ago following her around from one concert to the next like a loyal puppy, turning a blind eye to all of her indiscretions. All of her lies.

  She was one of my closest friends for most of my life, second only to Rona, but after the shit she pulled on all of us I’d punch her in the tit if I saw her on the sidewalk today. Lucky for her she’s no longer speaking to me or Michael or anyone else making less than a hundred thousand dollars a year. We’re beneath her now. We lifted her up and she left us behind.

  It’s a shitty thought, one I don’t like to visit. It’s too real, it makes me too angry. It’s definitely too honest for eight o’clock in the morning on a sugar congealed stomach and no caffeine.

  “I heard she’s up for a Grammy,” Rona drops with disdain.

  I snort. “She can shove it up her ass.”

  “Without lube.”

  “On a twenty-four-hour flight to New Zealand.”

  “With turbulence.”

  I cast Rona an affectionate smile. “I love how hard you hate her.”

  “That’s love, lady. I hate who you hate. It’s the Ho Code and I will live and die by it. Now give me a hug before you go,” she demands, opening her arms to me. “We’ll both feel better after a hug.”

  My shoulders slump. “Rona, do we really have to? You know I’m not much of a—“

  She’s already pulling me to her, crushing me in a bracing hug. “Shhh. Shhh,” she hushes me gently. “It’s happening. Just let it happen.”

  “Oh my God,” I mutter into her hair.

  Her bigger body overpowers mine in a way that feels uncomfortable and great all at once. She’s only an inch taller than my five foot seven, but our bodies are built entirely different. She’s fuller than I am in almost every respect. Bigger eyes, bigger boobs, bigger butt. I’m not flat by any means, but if Rona was a road she’d be the PCH, winding curvaceously up and down the California coastline.

  Meanwhile, I’d be I-5, cutting a marginally drunken line from here to Stockton.

  Rona’s been my best friend since we were messy faced five year olds baking mud pies in the backyard. In kindergarten we figured out how to write each other’s names before our own. When we were ten, we demanded our moms buy us matching underwear, and even now we share everything from the bakery to an apartment. She knew I wasn’t a hugger when we were kids and the bitch knows it now, but I somehow still end up in her arms every other day.

  When she finally releases me, she hands me the keys to the van. “Take pictures of it when it’s all set up?”
/>
  “I’ll text them to you. Before and after they cut the cake.”

  “And take pictures of the hotties too.”

  “What hotties?”

  She laughs, turning back toward the building. “Give me a break, Lil. That place is going to be swimming in pretty fish. Try and catch one if you can.”

  “I’ll only throw him back if I do!”

  “That’s ‘cause you don’t know how to have any damn fun!”

  I wince, feeling the offhand comment backhand me across the face.

  “I used to,” I mutter to myself.

  CHAPTER THREE

  COLT

  Enclave Estates

  Pacific Palisades, CA

  This isn’t a house. This is a compound. That’s what the invite should have said. ‘Please burn your only day off at our compound on the hilltop. Background check, piss test, and three forms of ID required.”

  That last part is no joke. Coach Bailey’s place is in a gated community where I had to show my ID and be checked off a list before I was allowed to come inside. When I found the address there was a second gate that I had to be buzzed through before I could roar my way up the narrow private road leading to the house.

  Sorry, not ‘house’. Castle. Inside a compound.

  Coach Bailey is the offensive coordinator for the Kodiaks, but eleven years ago he was a hot shit quarterback out of Arizona. He spent five years with the Broncos and six with the Jets before a shoulder injury took him out of the game. Coach Allen, head coach for the Kodiaks, picked him up immediately and he’s been with the team making that big money ever since. Pacific Palisades mansion money.

  His place is three stories of gray brick facade towering imperiously at the end of a perfectly paved drive. There’s a widening just to the right of the house where cars are parked side by side looking like the most expensive car lot in town. Trucks and SUVS in every color. BMWs, Bentley’s, Mercedes, Audis. One powder blue Tesla, a pearl white Vanquish. Two Challengers with racing stripes running matte black down their sleek backs; one yellow, the other orange. Kodiak colors.