Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
I finished off my whiskey, focusing on the way the smooth slide of it down my throat soothed my burning thoughts. “It’ll be a team effort, as always, Mom. But I agree that we’re strong this year.”
She made some small talk about the weather and other topics that hardly seemed important before getting to the reason she’d probably asked me to call in the first place. “We’re hosting another gala this year, and your father and I would love it if you could make it,” she said, excitement creeping into her voice. The Whitt Industries annual gala was a revered who’s who of industry leaders she’d started hosting a decade ago. “And before you can say no, we’ve scheduled it during your bye week this time, so no excuses!”
My brow wrinkled. This was new. Though they asked me to attend every year, I usually couldn’t go due to football commitments. I straightened in my chair, on guard. Was it possible they just wanted to see me? Or was there some ulterior motive? The fact that I was even considering the latter made my head hurt. “Then I can probably make that, sure,” I said, even though flying to Naples to hobnob with their business associates was about the last thing I wanted to do during my only break of the season.
“Ahhh, I’m so pleased to hear that, Patrick.” After a few more minutes of chatter, she excused herself from the phone call, saying she and my dad had a dinner to attend.
Restless, I thumbed through my phone contacts after hanging up. There were plenty of names and numbers in there. I’d never had trouble finding anyone to keep me company, both when I’d played college ball or when I’d first gone pro, but for the last couple of years, nothing had stuck, nothing was exciting, and I was sure, as always, it was me, not the women. I was gone too much, was too closed off.
Could you be a more miserable bastard? The thought flitted through my head as I scrolled, then paused to squint at the three Madelines listed one after another—one of whom didn’t even have a last name listed, just the letter T—trying to conjure up their faces. The no-last-name one kept tripping me up. Whatever. Regardless, what I could remember of them wasn’t more tempting than my bed down the hall.
I scrolled down further, then zipped back up and halted at the name that had caught my eye. Malik Tucker. Why the fuck did I have his number? Had he put it in my phone? Had I? And when the hell would that have happened?
I scratched my jaw and racked my brain, the pleasant buzz I had spreading to my limbs and making me drowsy. Try as I might, I couldn’t recall any time in my life when we’d exchanged numbers.
I hesitated over his contact, considering asking outright, then thought of his face on the screen earlier and shook my head at myself before pocketing my phone and carrying my glass inside. Fuck that dude.
2
TUCKER
I loved playing center. It was what I’d wanted from the moment I’d fallen in love with football. The guards and tackles to my left and right were badass and athletic as fuck, which I was, too, but I loved that the offensive line revolved around me. That it was me who made sure my line was in the right places to block the correct defenders, me who had to be able to make split-second decisions and understand the defense of each team we played.
People talked shit sometimes, said centers didn’t have what it took to play some of the other positions or we were a slower step, but the quarterback and I controlled the offense. Every fucking offensive play we ran, I was the director of traffic. Nothing happened without me and my quarterback kicking it off.
I took my spot at the line of scrimmage, my Rush teammates around me. Ramsey had called a play, and I watched Pittsburgh closely, trying to read what their plan was. I couldn’t ask for a better first game of the season since we were currently wiping the floor with them. As cocky as I was on the outside, I didn’t let it affect me inside, and I sure as shit didn’t let it risk my game. Until the final second of the clock ticked off, I wasn’t going to count this as a win. Anything could happen.
“White eighty! White eighty! Set! Hut!” Ramsey called out, and I snapped the ball to him, immediately blocking the nose tackle to keep his ass from crossing the line and getting close to my QB.
Phillips was a big motherfucker and wasn’t backing down as I fought against his massive body weight. Every muscle inside of me was bruised, but I didn’t feel it during the game. It was just something I knew was there. Later, I’d be miserable, though, and I fucking loved it.