“If you try to make a better deal—”
“A better deal than you waiving your rights to interfere with any story or movie I try to sell about our childhood? You think this guy can offer me a deal that will involve more money than the amount reporters and fans will pay after I sell the shit out of our corrupt childhood? Fuck, bro, this con artist really did a number on you if you think he has more money than MGM and the people who love a damn NFL rags-to-riches story. I’ve already had three reporters hounding me since you made your ESPN debut. Now I get to profit off that shit without you stirring shit up. I’m going to win out over all this drama.”
I took a deep breath. God, I hated it when he was right. It was just so much easier to put up with him when he was wrong.
“Then we’re done here.”
“Finally.” Eli sauntered off toward his police vehicle, stuffing the waiver I’d signed into his back pocket.
As he gave me one last cocky smile, I couldn't help but feel grateful that we didn’t look alike. Growing up, I’d always hoped I was secretly adopted or stolen during one of my dad’s episodes. When I’d looked at Eli’s tan skin and his rounded jaw line as a kid, I often dreamed about another family coming to collect me.
As an adult, I was glad I knew he was my brother. It showed me that blood didn’t mean anything. Inside and out, we were completely different—I was my own man. No strings attached to my body. I didn’t have to be like anyone in my family. I made my choices. I selected my path.
I didn’t just have to survive.
I could choose to live.
And who I lived it with.
“When you get him on the ground and turn to punch, you need to extend your body. Leave your fist hanging out longer than you normally would. We want people to see. To scream. To worry and point. If you do this like a real fight, we won't be able to see anything and no one will know what’s happening,” Millie said nervously as we sat in her truck at the stadium.
Just outside our doors, we could hear people grilling burgers, drinking and laughing about the game. The typical tailgate party we usually ran into before entering the locker room. Everyone’s joy and happiness behind our glass windows just heightened the serious atmosphere in our car; I felt like I was about to walk back into prison rather than a football stadium.
“Don’t forget to instruct Gray in the locker room to make more noise. You guys were too quiet in practice. If the whistle isn’t being blown by the refs, you need to make things look bigger,” Millie continued.
I felt her pulse jumping as I grabbed her hand, bringing it close to my lips. Her eyes were filled with panic when she stared at our joined hands and then looked into my eyes. I knew her emotions were fueled by the fact that we couldn’t run through our routine at the stadium, couldn’t practice our jabs, defensive stances, or the left hook that would be the defining punch of the match. I could tell from the concentration on her face that Flash was playing over all the possible ways this could go wrong, rehearsing each step over and over in her head.
I gently brushed my lips over her knuckles.
“We’ve got this,” I murmured. “We’ve practiced as much as we can. You were awesome. Everyone knows exactly what they’re meant to be doing thanks to you.”
“If it’s not enough . . . if Mr. Waters doesn’t believe it—”
“Then we work out a new plan. Together.”
“That’s how we’re going to do things now?”
“Exactly.”
Hours later I was exhausted. Playing a shit game was more strenuous than playing a good one. Not that it was difficult to make the game look like a struggle; for the first two quarters, it was as simple as making each pass appear sloppy, acting as if we were treating this game like a scrimmage between friends at a park rather than a game against our rivals surrounded by 50,000 diehard Heron fans.
As soon as I got the ball, I ran straight toward the defensive linemen. I could hear Gray swearing like a sailor, his exaggerated hand gestures letting the hundreds of onlookers know the language he was using on the field. Our growing animosity was told through bad play after bad play. When Gray overthrew the ball, I made sure everyone in the stands felt my displeasure.
Coach Hardy started pacing on the sidelines after the first bungled interception during the first quarter. Seconds away from halftime, you could see his confusion and frustration at the forefront of his thoughts. Spectators looked on with concern and anger masking their features after the tackles came faster than ever before. Some in the stands could no longer remain in their seats—they started rising and pointing at the flaws in our playing.
We were damn lucky that no one was pulling us from the game.
Sure, we’d scored two touchdowns, but our offense looked like it had no rhythm. The hours of practice had paid off.
We were winning, but it wasn’t in our usual style, and it wasn’t a guarantee at this stage that after we finished this game we would still be thought of as the best team in the state. Thankfully due to Gray’s superstar status, they were reacting exactly how we had predicted: waiting us out, hoping against hope that with a harsh talking to in the locker rooms that we would start communicating with one another. Start playing like we knew what the fuck we were doing.
They had no idea that we were more in-sync than during any other game.
However, as we reached halftime, the real game started. I almost wished Flash would get some credit for the show she had orchestrated for the audience.
We staggered our way off the field, giving the other team enough time to get to their bench so when we hit the 45-yard line and the pushing and shoving began, the likelihood of collateral damage was decreased.
“Get back,” I yelled loudly when Gray knocked into me as he made his way off the field.
We heard the other offensive linemen move into position and mutter, “No he didn’t” and “What’s he gonna do, boy?”
I made a quick grab for Gray’s helmet that he had yet to remove, just we’d we practiced. The move was slow, allowing enough time for pictures. Then we made it look like I’d thrown him to the ground. It was fast, with a few boys blocking the view of the tussle so no one could see the exact way Gray fell. Three of the offensive linemen immediately threw their helmets around and started pushing me from behind.
The action shot of a single helmet thrown in the air as everyone rushed toward the action was something Marissa worked on perfecting all afternoon.
A couple boys on the bench went to rise, and those who had rehearsed holding them back did so with loud outbursts to “Chill the fuck out.”
I caught a glimpse of someone kicking the trash can over, trash flying into the air. I briefly noticed the cheerleaders frozen in shock, covering their mouths with their hands, eyes wide with each new comment made from the defensive linemen. The mess and their distress made me want to smile.
I thought if I were a spectator I would believe the story.
When the boys behind me caught sight of the refs and security guards running toward us, I felt their panic. Then it was as if I was watching everyone move in warp speed.
I knew we’d practiced this very moment, but I still barely had time to blink before the boys were coming in for Gray’s defense and were hot on my back.
I briefly thought how they weren't giving me enough space for the fans to see the main punch, the big climactic moment that would end the fight. Until I realized it was my body moving in slow motion. I couldn’t seem to get my balance. I tried turning around to catch my teammates’ attention. With sweat dripping down their forehead, I could see that they looked as exhausted as I felt, yet they didn’t appear to be struggling like I was.
As I turned to approach Gray, it was as if all control of my body was gone.
There was a sharp pain in my head. I felt myself fall forward.
Suddenly everything went black.
MILLIE
Referee whistles seemed to be sounding from every corner of the stadium. Security was rushing
onto the field. Trash was flying around the sidelines. Assistant coaches were pulling players off the field, while Coach Hardy and the offensive coordinator joined the drama.
I cried in the stands, big fat tears running down my face. I kept telling myself it was all part of the plan. My documented breakdown would pull at the heartstrings across the nation.
Except the longer I watched the mess on the field, the harder I was finding it to breathe. The action wasn’t looking right. There were too many offensive linemen on the 45-yard line, and their expressions of distress were different from the looks we’d practiced at Gray’s house. I noticed they were tired when they started leaving the field and worried that we didn’t factor their energy levels into our plan. My anxiety was skyrocketing because a group of them had fallen into a pile, blocking what was happening on the ground.
When the boys on the sidelines dropped their act and grew completely still, I felt the ground beneath my feet begin to shake. My heart stopped.
I watched the referee and coach talking. They were no longer yelling at the players, instead lifting each one up and having them race off for help. When paramedics ran toward the view being hidden from the spectators—more paramedics than we needed in our original plan—I started to shake.
When both Grayson and Cooper were put on stretchers, my crying stopped.
The act ended.
And the screaming began.
COOPER
MY VISION WAS WHAT CAME back first.
Blurry colors swirled in front of me. Then the sharp pain of having a bright light shone in each eye. The noise quickly followed: the beeping of heart monitors, the constant chatter between doctors and nurses, the sound of doors opening and closing.
When I tried to raise my head to look at my body, I felt the neck brace.
Oh shit.
“Sit back, nothing to worry about,” the nurse told me from somewhere near my feet. “The brace was just a precaution while you were unconscious,” she continued, as if reading my mind.
“What happened—” I tried to ask before the pain in my head exploded.
“You passed out during the game,” D explained from the corner of the hospital room. I followed his voice with my eyes and found him alone, languidly spread out in a spare blue chair. Casually chewing on a protein bar, it looked as if he didn't have a care in the world. It was as if we hadn't just played a football game with more on the line than just winning or losing.
“How—” The pressure in my head prevented me from finishing my sentence.
“You were dehydrated,” D said as he continued chewing. “Not enough water before or during the game apparently,” he told me before winking.
“Water?”
“It might be best to wait a couple of hours before trying to engage the patient in conversation,” the nurse scolded D as she finished checking my vitals and finally removed the neck brace. “At least until the IV has done its job and his body is fully recovered.”
I saw D put on an apologetic facial expression for the pretty nurse, but I tried again to get answers.
“Was anyone else hur—” I managed before the pain had me giving up.
“Sir, if you like, we can get a doctor to come in. He just left to check on another patient. I can have him come back in a moment and explain to you what happens now that you’re awake,” the pretty nurse told me. I nodded, then heard her whisper to D. “Does he have family we should call?”
“A doctor would be good, babe, but no need to rush,” D told her softly, sitting up properly and smiling at her. “And no family. We don’t want to panic them. My boy’s awake. I’m just gonna wait here with the fool and teach him shit I thought he already knew about H2O,” D replied angelically, turning the charm on thick.
As soon as the girl left the room, smiling coyly at D, he closed the blinds and sat beside me, smiling.
“Dude, that was epic. Gray’s totally fine, by the way. He’s in a room down the hall. Everyone was going crazy when he got here, afraid the superstar had broken his arm or leg. He’s got like a mountain of flowers already, but he’s still pretending. He’s all good. Mostly worried about you. We decided you needed my company more than he did.”
“Yay me,” I groaned.
“I jumped in the ambulance when you guys were carted off. No way was I missing this shit. After we all got out, Gray told me to listen to the doctor’s instructions until Millie gets here. Dude, no one knew what put you on your ass. A few guys were afraid they’d pushed you too hard in the tussle and had actually hurt you.”
“Did they accidentally—”
“Nah. Pretty much as soon as they ran your vitals, all the bigwigs in this joint have been bitching about the same shit. Players working out too hard before games, not enough water, yadda yadda yadda. Football’s the worst for dehydration no matter the weather, we should all be better at taking care of ourselves or find another sport, bitch bitch bitch. Coach should’ve known with your history that you might not take the best care of yourself, moan moan moan. No matter what they say, dude, your play was genius. Passing out in front of everyone like that was total blockbuster shit. Although we probably should’ve practiced your fall. Even I thought you’d broken your neck.”
“I didn’t plan to pass out on the field,” I growled, no longer sure if the pain was in my head or simply sitting beside me.
“Sure, whatever. Either way, we couldn’t have planned it better. The medics were yelling about disorientation being a classic sign of dehydration. It’s why everyone thinks you were playing like crap and starting fights. Gray said Rissie sent him a message that we got enough photos for people to think it looked like a serious fight. Your pulling Gray by the helmet is already being played on repeat by the media. Trick also texted and let us know that Coach was on a rampage after we left in the ambulance. Apparently the dean was in the stands, then in the locker room. He reamed Coach’s ass for not realizing you were playing terrible because you were exhausted. Everyone thinks you were too busy trying to prove yourself to him still that you deserve to keep starting. All the assistant coaches are asking if we’ve seen you hydrate during practices. If you were tired after starting last game. On the upside, apparently you’ve now got a nickname: Machine. Totally unstoppable—unless you forget to give it fuel,” D chuckled. “It’s not as good as the D, but I guess it means they won’t be kicking you off the team tomorrow.”
When we heard a knock on my door, D hid his wide-ass smile. Expecting the doctor, he opened the door solemnly, his posture hunched and concerned.
Until he was pushed out of the way by a pixie on a warpath.
Lizzie’s yellow sundress and combat boots brought both light and destruction into the small sterile room.
“Sorry, guys, fans aren’t allowed—” D tried to tell them, mistaking the three people before him for zealous groupies.
Lizzie yelled over him. “Cooper Joseph Daniels, you better not be dead or I’m going to kill you.”
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath as I took in Lizzie, Beth, and Al standing before me, each with concern in their eyes—although in Lizzie’s there was also a ton of anger. “I’m fine,” I said gruffly.
“Do you have any fucking idea what you did to us?” Lizzie asked me angrily as she checked my vitals and began poking and prodding my body. “You told me you were just going to do some pushing. Dance moves, you said.”
“It looks worse than it was. I’m only here because it turns out I forgot to drink enough water,” I tried to explain. When she ignored my statement and instead elbowed my knee, I was no longer feeling the guilt. “Hey!”
“I’m checking that your legs still work. I’ve given up on your brain. Quit your complaining.”
While Lizzie and I glared at each other, little Beth climbed onto the bed and wrapped her arms around my waist. At twelve, she was still tiny for her age. With long black hair and big brown eyes, she could easily be mistaken for a ten-year-old model. When I moved a strand of hair to take in the face I hadn’
t seen in years, she whispered, “You okay?”
“I’m all good, ladybug. I just forgot to do something pretty important. I was stupid today.”
“You’re never stupid.” She smiled.
“Today I was,” I said quietly.
“You can say that again,” Lizzie growled as she slumped into the seat D had abandoned, her anger subsiding and a look of utter exhaustion etched into her forehead.
As she closed her eyes, mine moved to the monstrous man in the corner. Always larger than life, his more salt than pepper hair the only difference I could identify since our last meeting in the first weeks of my incarceration.
Al took a hard look at my coloring and ran his calloused hand over his pained face.
“Scared the shit out of us, watching you pass out on the field, boy,” he muttered. “The girl drove like a bat out of Hell to get us here so quickly. Confessed to me that you’d called her before the game, told her some stupid plan you had to get your old cellmate off your back. He been taking photos of the girls?”
“Al, I was going to call you—”
“You think because you refuse to let me see you locked up and chose to go to college, I’m not there for you anymore? You better than everyone else now?”
“No. Shit, no. I just thought I could handle it all. Then I spoke with some of the guys from the team. We thought if we could make it look like I’d followed Tony’s orders—”
“You got teammates now. Friends,” he said as he took in D leaning against the doorjamb. “I’m glad. Been proud watching you run onto that field, even when all you did most of the time was warm the bench. I was worried what path you were going to take after you got out. Stopped worrying when I heard you’d been accepted onto the football team. I figured you’d gotten your priorities straight. The girls and I, we’ve watched every game since you put on that jersey. Never thought I'd see this though.”
Flash (Penmore #2) Page 22