Sacking The Player
Dawn Martens
&
Glenna Maynard
Sacking The Player © 2019 Dawn Martens & Glenna Maynard
Previously published as The Boom © 2016 Dawn Martens & Glenna Maynard
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, business, establishments, locals or events is entirely coincidental. Any reference to real events, business, organizations or locals is intended only to give the fiction a sense of realism and authenticity. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author.
Dedication
To good friends and cheesy romances. – Glenna and Dawn xx
To Jen – Thank you, for just being you. You are amazing, and we love you.
Contents
Dedication
Blurb
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Playlist
About Dawn
About Glenna
Sacking The Player
He’s the bad boy quarterback and she’s a sassy ballerina.
Tate King has it all. He’s the King on campus and girls throw themselves at him left and right. The only thing on his mind is getting drafted into the NFL.
When an injury takes him out of the game and onto the dance floor of a feisty ballerina love is the last thing he wants or expects to find.
This title was previously release under The Boom
Acknowledgements
Glenna – Thank you for being the bestest best friend anyone could ever have – Dawn
Dawn – I don’t know what I’d do without you and your craziness. I adore you to the moon – Glenna
Part 1
Here comes the big bang
Chapter 1
Tate
“H
ow’s that ankle holding up, man?” Bucky asks, before heading out for the night. His name’s Travis, but the team calls him Bucky, short for Buckeye because he’s from Ohio.
“It’s holding. I’m just happy as fuck that I don’t need that damn boot anymore.” I’m even more fucking happy that I didn’t need surgery and that coach didn’t pull me from the team. We’ve managed to hide my injury from the press. I was out partying last week with my fraternity brothers, got wasted, and let some dumb shits talk me into a game of flag football at three am. I had no business playing. I knew what was on the line, but I’m the King—Tate King, star quarterback for the Trojans. I couldn’t say no. I have a reputation to uphold. My image is part of the package, off and on the field. I have to maintain my status without screwing up either. My fraternity brothers think I’m a legend of sorts for getting laid so much and for nearly crushing the school records.
Coach however…he expects me to keep a squeaky-clean image. Recruiters won’t touch a player who doesn’t hold to their values.
Playing for the NFL is all I have ever dreamed of and one drunken night almost cost me everything I’ve been working for my whole life. It’s enough to scare my ass straight.
“Coach wants to see you in about an hour,” he informs me. He grins like he’s in on a joke that I’m not privy to.
“Do you know what it’s about?” I start sweating, feeling anxious that maybe he’s decided to cut me from the team after all.
He shrugs and grabs his keys. “Not a clue, I just left his office, told me to let you know. I just came back to change. I gotta jet.”
“Thanks, man.”
“I wouldn’t keep him waiting,” he warns with a hint of that shit eating grin again.
I wave Bucky off and pull up my schedule. Classes start next week. I already have a shit ton of work to do. Fuck, this semester will be brutal. I’m a year away from my BA in Sports Medicine. Between studying and practices, I don’t get much time for a social life. I could nail about any chick at this school that I want, and I have for the most part. I’m careful not to get involved. I don’t want any attachments dragging me down. I want the whole family life until after I’ve made it to the NFL and secured my spot. My father has always driven home the importance of being able to support myself before taking on anyone else.
He always told me that when I found the person I was going to spend the rest of my life with, it would hit me, I would instantly know. It’s what I keep hoping for, but I’ve not found it yet. Some days, I feel like I hang around the wrong areas. All the girls I meet are just looking to latch onto a football player. I swear, every single girl in this college is only here to become a gold digger. They see a guy like me who’s going places and want a meal ticket.
Fuck. I better head over to Coach’s office. I pull my team hoodie back over my head and place my ball cap over my greasy hair, I need a shower but there’s not enough time. Webb Tower isn’t far from the JMC, the John McKay Center. You don’t keep Coach Clay waiting. I could’ve moved off campus or lived at the fraternity house, but I like being close to my classes. I’ve got my eyes on the prize, being drafted to the NFL. I was matched with Bucky freshmen year and we’ve roomed together ever since. He shares a room with Big Tex. I drew the longest straw, so I got the single room, which happens to be smaller, but at least I can jack-off in private.
My hand is the most action I’ve seen in weeks, since I came back from summer camp and since I fucked up my ankle during fall camp. It’s not from lack of women trying. They are always willing. I’m just not feeling any of them. I grin as a few freshmen giggle when I walk through the lobby of my building. They treat me like I’m a prime piece of meat. I used to eat the attention up, but now it just annoys me. I make my way out the door and get ready to take whatever comes my way.
I rush down the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass. No time for stopping and shooting the shit right now. I make it to coaches’ office in record time.
Knocking on his door before opening it, I call out, “You wanted to see me?”
He nods. “Sit, we need to talk about something.”
I nervously sit in the vinyl seat in front of his desk and wait. I look around the room taking in the photos of the men who have played before me, and I hope I still have the chance to prove that I’m just as good, if not better. I’m damn good. Recruiters were watching me when I was in middle school playing on the high school JV team. My love of the game drives me.
“How’s the ankle?”
“It’s good.”
�
��About time you got that boot off. People were wondering why you were staying holed up in the dorm. I planted a few stories that you had a reaction to local anesthesia after a root canal and needed a few days.”
He shuffles things around on his desk and hands me a piece of paper.
I look at it and frown. “What’s this?” I turn the paper over studying it with a grimace. It’s some sort of dance practice schedule.
“That’s what you’ll be doing for the next few weeks. You’re a great player, my best on the team, but your footwork is a little sloppy. Dancing will help with that. Good conditioning and all that. Gotta get you back in top form, this injury could have really set your ass back…” he trails off and waves his hand.
“This is a joke, right? You want me in dance?” I have to swallow my laughter when he gives me the eye, the no bullshit stare down.
Such shit. How am I going to fit this in on top of everything else?
He sits up straight and glares at me, removing his hat, revealing his shiny bald spot. His brow is crinkled with the lines of the wisdom he’s about to lay on me. “You don’t do dance—you don’t get to play. I’ll bench you, but you need to be in shape for our opening game. And I don’t need to remind you that the draft is coming up, it’ll be here before you know it. If they get wind of that ankle, don’t think they won’t hesitate to pass you over. You know the scouts will be lining up to see you play.”
“This is bullshit,” I mutter, jaw clenching. I toss the paper back on his desk. There’s no way I’m prancing around like a pansy.
“When I was in the NFL, I had to do the same thing. Most players took dance to help them on the field. Just like with Hockey, most of the greats had to take figure skating.”
Shit.
“Any of the other guys have to do this too?” I ask him, praying he’ll say I’m not the only one.
He nods. “Three others on the team already are in dance class. Have been for years.” This information shocks me, I wonder why no one said anything? Oh, I know, because it’s embarrassing as fuck. “You, Bucky, and Adams will all be doing this for the rest of the semester. I’ve already assigned everyone with the appropriate dance partner, and you will report there first thing tomorrow to meet her. The sooner you start the better.” His voice doesn’t waver. It’s full of authority. He has me by the balls and he knows it. He shoves the paper in my direction, and I know I have no choice but to accept it.
I stand up, clenching the paper in my fist, and head out. When my parents find out about this they’ll be making fun of me for years. I’ll never be able to live this down. Most people assume being the star gets me special treatment, if anything it gets me anything but. Coach rides my ass, but I know he wants me to succeed. It doesn’t mean I have to like his method.
I trudge back to my dorm, crumpled paper in hand. Bucky probably knew coach was pulling this shit. Asshole could’ve warned me. I take the stairs two at a time. I fit in exercise wherever I can. My body is a damn temple. I play hard and work even harder. I have to keep my stamina up. I can’t afford to slack off, ever. The ache in my ankle serves as a reminder.
Back in my dorm, Big Tex is stretched out on the couch playing Fallout 4. That dude looks like he could eat a damn bear. He makes up two of me. I don’t know how he sleeps in that tiny ass bed. His shoulders are like big ass boulders.
He’s always got some artery clogging food in his hand. “Where you been?” He takes a bite of his pizza. His green eyes widen at my angry scowl.
“Had a meeting with coach.” I debate showing him the embarrassing piece of paper I’m clutching, but I am saved from deciding when my phone rings.
“Hey, Mom,” I greet the number one woman in my life, the only woman, walking to the solace of my room. I toss my cap on my desk and hold my phone from my ear while I shrug my hoodie off. She’s always checking up on me. I’m not in the mood for talking so I make up an excuse to get her off the phone. “I’m walking into Coach’s office. I’ll have to call you back.”
“Okay, call me later. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
I sigh, feeling bad for lying, but I got this dance shit boiling my blood.
Ending the call, I grab my laptop. Peering out my door, I see Big Tex is still engrossed in his game and oblivious to my presence. I uncrinkle the paper, seeing the chick’s name at the top, and search for Amaya Maxwell in our school directory.
Her face pops up. She’s pretty, and I feel like I should recognize her. I hope I haven’t slept with her. I study her face trying to place where I know her from and then it hits me. Ugh, shit. I knew the name and that heart-shaped face was familiar but couldn’t place either. She dated that piece of shit, Keith. Apparently, they’d dated since our freshman year, but hell, no one knew he even had a girlfriend. Not until she showed up at our end of semester party last year and found Keith doing what he does best. Fucking freshman.
He’s such a loser. I’m surprised he’s still on the team. Dude never sees the game from anywhere other than the bench. After that party, Keith would just bitch about her. Said she was a dead fish in bed, and he needed more than that, or how she was such a stuck-up bitch. I remember Adams asking him why he bothered keeping her and he just said something about it made it him look good to his parents.
Not a surprise. If what Keith said about her is true, anyone with high class snotty bitch mothers would adore her.
Just what I need, a chick I don’t want to bone. Although, that’s probably the best thing to happen, so I don’t piss off Coach.
Chapter 2
Amaya
“A
re you seriously watching Center Stage again?” Courtney plops down next to me on my bed, smelling of grease and cheese. She works as a hostess at Chili’s because she refuses to accept her parent’s money.
Me on the other hand, I’d rather accept the money my parents give me so I can spend my free time dancing. We’ve been best friends since we were kids. Our parents are best friends, their parents were best friends. We just sort of fell in line. And unlike most people in our social circle, we’re different. When we were first pushed together in first grade, we hated each other, until of course I found her sticking glue onto our teacher’s chair, and I helped her hide the evidence so she wouldn’t get into trouble. Since that day, we’ve been attached at the hip.
Sometimes we’re so alike it scares me, but our differences are that she’s boy crazy, I’m nowhere near it, and she hates dance, but dance is my life.
I roll my eyes and bump her shoulder with mine. “Shut up, you know I love this.” I look back to my TV and smile. “Think maybe you could go shower?” I suggest, wrinkling my nose.
She mock glares at me. Her hazel eyes narrow on me as she runs a brush through her thick, russet-brown hair. Courtney is my opposite. She has curvy hips and small breasts, as where I’m slender with a big chest. It sucks because she has great clothes that I would love to borrow. “Fine, wouldn’t want you to catch my smell.”
“You know I love you, but you coming home smelling like that ruins food for me.” I wave my hands around my face and go for the can of air freshener on my desk.
Her brow raises. “Oh? So, I guess you don’t want this delicious Club Sandwich I brought home?” She gets off my bed and walks away.
I scramble off the bed and run after her. “Now wait a minute, I didn’t say that. Gimmie gimmie,” I whine—pleading. The bitch knows I love me some good food.
She laughs at me and tosses me the to-go bag. “I don’t get you, Amaya. You must be the only dancer in the world that eats the way you do and never gains weight. If I didn’t know better, I would swear you’re bulimic.”
I shrug after I take a huge bite. “Meh, once I have kids that will change. You know what my mama looks like.” My mom was just as tiny as I am, but the minute she got pregnant with me, she blew up. I say that with love of course. I love my mama’s squishy hugs.
“Hey what’s this?” Courtney asks, as she picks up my dance sc
hedule from the table.
I lick the mayo from my bottom lip and wipe away the crumbs from the corners of my mouth before answering. “Oh yeah, I’m getting paid to help some football douche dance.”
Courtney busts out laughing. “You serious? Why?”
I roll my eyes. “Something to do with it will make him a better player or whatever. All I know is if this ass shows up late, even once, I’ll stick my skinny foot up his large ass.”
Courtney snorts. “You gotta get over this shit, Am. You and Keith broke up forever ago, not all jocks are dicks like him.”
“All the guys I’ve met, while dating that dick licker, were exactly the same. I’ll do my job, but he steps out of line, even once, well. Yeah. I’ll hurt him.”
“Who’s’ the lucky guy? Anyone hot?” She smirks getting way too much enjoyment from my situation.
“I’ll find out tomorrow if he shows on time.” I just hope the turd isn’t my ex. He’s such an asshole.
She laughs and grabs her pajamas. I flip her off and dig into the rest of my sandwich. I turn my movie back on and lay back against my pillow. My mind wanders from my screen to the practice schedule that is staring at me. I wonder which brute they stuck me with? I pray he doesn’t have two left feet.
One minute I’m thinking of what a doofus my partner will be and the next my alarm is blaring in my ear.
I jerk up from my bed with a piece of lettuce stuck to my cheek. “Ugh,” I grumble and get my stuff together for the shower. Courtney is still sleeping. Lucky. I make my way to our tiny bathroom. I don’t bother with washing my hair. It’s just going to end up all sweaty and gross anyways. After a quick scrub with my lavender body wash, I towel off and secure my hair in a bun.
I throw on a tee and leggings, over my dancing briefs and my favorite socks. I’ll probably have to start the dumbface off slow. A quick swipe of my lip gloss after brushing my teeth and I am ready to go. Slipping my black flats on, I grab my USC sweatshirt and pull it over my head, snatching my bag as I go out the door. The walk to the new dance studio is a bit long, but I like taking in all the different parks along the way. Besides, I can stop for some coffee too if Ground Zero is open.
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