Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Devon scrubs a hand across his jaw. “You don’t talk to Beck about our plays and shit, right?”
“No,” I say with a scoff. “I don’t.”
Devon shrugs. “So it’s no big deal.”
Thank the Lord. Two down.
Xavier unfreezes, scratches his chin, and rubs his ear. “McKay. What the fuck? Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” I bite out. Do not fuck with me now, X-Man.
He whistles, long and low, like a warning. “Coach is gonna lose his shit, bro.”
As if I don’t know that.
“Yes, and now I’m going to tell him.”
I leave and head straight for Coach’s office. A minute later, I rap on the open door. He’s at his desk, head bent over his iPad. When he looks up, his face is made of stone. “You come to apologize, McKay?”
You wish.
“No,” I say.
He lifts a brow as if to say how dare you. “Then why are you here?”
Whatever is going on with Coach isn’t my issue. It’s his. But it’s clear from his comments that he monitors our social media. Someday, I’ll post about Beck. The prison warden should hear it from me now.
“I’m in a relationship with Beck Cafferty,” I say.
His eyes turn into torches. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
“No.”
He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and shakes his head. “I hate distractions.”
That’s coming through loud and clear. But I came here to say my piece, then get the fuck out. “I don’t share plays with him. I would never do—”
“The show wasn’t enough?” he interrupts. He stands and stalks around his desk. “You couldn’t just do Monday Morning Quarterback with him? You had to get involved with him too?”
“I didn’t have to. I wanted to,” I spit out.
“Well, maybe you should want home-field advantage instead,” he says.
“Who I love has zero impact on whether I want home-field advantage.”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t go all ‘love is love’ on me. That’s not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?” I ask, reining in my anger as he tries to play a reverse psychology game on me. But it won’t work.
“It’s about you being the center of attention on this team. We are a team. But this season, it’s been all about you,” he says.
Holy shit. That’s his issue. He’s jealous of me. That’s what this is about. He hates the attention I get as the quarterback. Well, too bad, Coach.
“And management isn’t going to be happy about this. Good luck with that,” he adds.
I fight off a grin. I swear I do. But I fail because he comes back with: “What are you smiling about?”
“Nadia knows, and she’s cool with it,” I say.
It’s like watching the air leak out of a balloon but infinitely more satisfying.
Then, Coach scrambles. “Your teammates won’t like it.”
I cross my arms. “You may be right. But I told my teammates already. They know too.”
“Fans will be pissed,” he adds quickly.
Like Grandma Sarina? Like the bruiser lady? Like the fanboy? I don’t know anymore. I think they might like Beck and me together. We’re on fire in every way. We drove attendance, ratings, and excitement this season.
But that’s not the point I want to make to the man who hates everyone and everything except perfection.
I square my shoulders. “But the fans don’t get to police who I date. Who anyone dates.” I take a beat, staring at him, man to man. “Do you have any other questions, Coach?”
He grinds his jaw. “No.”
Some people are homophobic assholes. And some people are just assholes.
I leave the boxing ring, bloody and bruised, but having won that round. As I head for the parking lot, I drop my shoulders, but I can’t shake off the day entirely. Then, when I reach the row where my car is parked, I’m surprised and a little baffled to see Devon, Orlando, Nate, Elroy, Johnson, Andre, and a bunch of other guys gathered around my blue Tesla.
Xavier is nowhere to be seen.
Curious but wary, I walk to my car. One by one, the guys come up to me, clap my shoulder, pat my back, high-five me, or tell me it’s all good.
My throat tightens, but I don’t give in to the emotions swirling inside me. I just mumble a thanks I feel deep in my soul, then I get in my car and go home.
For the first time in ages, when I slump down on the couch, my cat jumps on me, curls up, and purrs.
“Well, you got what you wanted,” I tell him. “Beck will be here later.”
Taco purrs louder.
“Fine, it’s what we both want,” I say, then I pet the cat, and he lets me.
45
CHANGING OF THE GUARD
Beck
Once I’m dressed and ready for practice, I scan the locker room one more time, judging the mood, and noting the attendance. Most of the team is here. They seem chill. No red flags. Carter’s by my side, playing wingman.