Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86614 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86614 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“I’m going in confident that I can help this team go to the Super Bowl, yeah.”
The guy and the director exchanged a look, and then the reporter nodded at me with a smile. “We’re good. Thanks for your time, Garrett.”
I snapped the mic from my collar, handed it over to them, and jogged off. One irritating interview down, probably five hundred more to go.
The fucking gassers during the second practice were what finally broke me. I’d managed to hold my own through play executions and full-speed drills, but every muscle in my body was on fire and my stomach was queasy going into the torturous fuckers. I swallowed bile the first three rounds and barely made a respectable time on the fourth. As soon as my toe touched the sideline, I curled over, spewing bright-blue Gatorade on the manicured grass. Relief was instantaneous.
So were the hoots and shouts.
“Got another!”
“Rooookkkkkiiiiieeeeee.”
“How’s lunch for the second time?”
I was pretty sure that last one was Nance, judging from the delight in his voice.
Cross trotted to a stop next to me. “Okay?” he asked, concern darting through his eyes.
“Yeah. I didn’t hydrate enough.” This fucking day. I couldn’t wait for it to be over. At the end of the field, Ramsey turned in my direction and shaded his eyes. Please don’t come over here, I thought, and for once, he didn’t.
“McRae,” Coach barked as I mopped my face with an icy cool towel one of the trainers had handed me. “Follow me.”
Fuck my life. I had a brief flicker of terror that I was about to get cut—it was gonna happen to a few guys for sure—but they wouldn’t have put up the money they did only to cut me. Not when I’d been keeping up just fine until today.
I followed Coach into the office and nearly moaned in relief at the air conditioning that blasted us as soon as we stepped inside.
Coach gestured to a chair. “Sit down before you fall over and break your nose.”
“Not gonna happen,” I said stubbornly, but I parked my ass against the arm of the chair anyway as he sat in the one behind his desk.
He rubbed a hand over his chest and looked out the window. After a long moment, his attention snapped back to me. “Bringing you onto this team right after Houston’s injury was a calculated risk. There were a lot of good options this year.”
“Yessir.” Shit, was he already having regrets? What else had I fucked up and been unaware of? I racked my brain but kept coming up empty.
“The average person in your position would come into this kind of situation feeling a lot of pressure to fill in a gap. Live up to something. That look on your face right now says you’re well aware of it.”
“Yessir.”
“That’s just part of the reason we chose you. My guess is, that pressure is gonna fuel you on this team in a different way than if, say, you’d gone to Dallas or San Fran. I know that sounds a little manipulative on our part, and it is. No doubt. But we also picked you based on your college career and what we think you can add to the team.”
“Yessir.” I was still waiting for the part where he said something about my performance or told me to step it up or I’d be cut.
“What I’m saying is, don’t let your head get the best of you this season. Now go get cleaned up, then sleep off whatever happened this afternoon. Start fresh tomorrow.”
“Yessir.”
He shook his head with a chuckle. “Christ. You’re definitely Houston’s brother. Both of you say ‘yessir’ the same way.”
I waited until I was well clear of the office before I slumped against the wall in relief.
I wasn’t feeling dinner, so I grabbed a protein shake and headed back to the room. While I was tempted to climb into bed after showering and soothe my bruised ego with some SportsCenter or The Good Place—my guilty pleasure—until I passed out, I forced myself to pull out my binder and study plays.
My eyes were starting to glaze over when the click of the door jolted me to attention. I awaited the inevitable teasing as Ramsey let the door fall shut behind him, but he only kept a thoughtful eye on me as he pulled off the long-sleeved tee he was wearing and reached into his bag.
He pulled out two mini bottles of Jack Daniel’s and held them up to me.
“Isn’t alcohol forbidden?”
Lips quirking, he tossed one my way. “The irony of you asking that… Yeah, it is. I keep them for emergencies.”
“This qualifies as an emergency?”
He shrugged. “You had a shitty day, and you’re wearing it all over your face.”
I rubbed a hand over my face like I was trying to wipe something away. “Damn, must’ve missed a spot. Yeah, I had a shitty day,” I confirmed. “I can’t believe I puked.”