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)
“Seriously, though. I’ve been thinking about Elroy and Johnson. Remember how they played last year?”
“Like motherfucking badasses,” I supply. “But they haven’t been playing that way lately.”
“I know. What can we do?” Nate asks.
I go quiet for several blocks, trying to solve the puzzle of the linebacker and the tackle. Lately, they seem tense. Like Beck was with the media before he learned how to handle questions. He’s not perfect now, but the dude turned a weakness into a strength.
With his brain.
“I’ve got it!” I tell Nate my idea, and my right-hand man agrees.
We’re early for practice, but Dwight Elroy and Leo Johnson usually are too. Before we hit the field, Nate and I head to the weight room, hoping to find them.
Excellent.
The tackle and the linebacker are racking plates by a bench.
Nate struts in, giving a derisive look at the plates. “That’s all you can bench?”
Elroy glances around, then points to his chest. “You talking to me?”
Time for some trash-talk motivation from the team captains. “Nate, weren’t you telling me this morning you’d smoke them both on the bench press?”
Nate nods exaggeratedly. “It’s going to be epic destruction.”
Elroy whistles in shock. “No way. No fucking way, Chandler.”
“I believe you mean . . . it is on,” Johnson says, climbing to his feet with a fierce glimmer in his eyes that he’s been missing on the field along with his confidence. His cockiness.
“One hundred bucks says I bench the most,” Nate says.
Johnson snorts. “Double or nothing.”
“Let’s do it,” Nate says, then goes first on the weight bench.
Soon, the four of us trade reps in a full-on weightlifting competition.
I don’t push too far. I’m strong, but I’ll never win the award for benching the most. When I set down the bar, coming in last, Elroy hoots.
“Pay up, suckers,” he says.
I don’t hide a smug grin as I fish a big bill out of my wallet and slap it into Elroy’s waiting hand. “Great job. Now do that on Sunday.”
Elroy and Johnson blink from me to Nate, who nods to back me up. “What Jay means to say is, play like that on Sunday, like you know you can win.”
“Yeah, well,” Elroy crosses his arms. “We know we don’t suck in the weight room.”
“And you don’t suck on the field,” I say. “Coach is stressed about the team and his job. Get him out of your head. Focus on what you do well—finding weak spots on the other team and exploiting them. You don’t suck. You’re in a rut. You’re Hawks. You’ve got this.”
We leave the weight room and head to the field. It’s the best practice we’ve had as a team in a long time.
After a shower that afternoon, I change back into jeans and a polo, then head down the hall toward the parking lot to meet Nate at my car.
As I near the door, I catch the distinctive sound of high heels on the pavement. From behind me, a voice calls, “Hey, Jason,” and I straighten like a student called on in class.
Swiveling around, I come face to face with Nadia Harlowe. The team owner is sharply dressed in black slacks and a cranberry blouse, and the diamond in her wedding band nearly blinds me. “I just wanted to say thank you for doing Monday Morning Quarterback. You sounded amazing, and your chemistry with Cafferty was fantastic,” she says, and my gut tightens in worry. Did she catch some sort of vibe between us?
“Very zinger-y,” she adds, and I breathe easily, glad she noticed the banter rather than any sexual tension. “I think the show will gain fans and improve game attendance.”
If the big kahuna is happy, I’m happy. “Thanks for asking me to do it. I’m having a blast,” I say.
“Also, I have news!” She glances from side to side, then whispers, “I got us Xavier Walters.”
Am I hearing things, or did she just tell me she’s acquired one of the fiercest veteran cornerbacks in the league? The dude is still at the top of his game after more than a decade. “You traded for the X-Man?”
She smiles devilishly. “We’ll announce it tonight, and he starts tomorrow. I want to win, Jason, and I especially want to beat our local rivals. If Wilder Blaine and his Renegades take home another Lombardi this year, I will stomp like Rumpelstiltskin in Louboutins.”
I laugh at the image, even as I wince at her extreme emphasis on rival. “Same here.”
She says goodbye, and I meet Nate in the lot. Once we’re in my wheels, I give him an I’ve-got-a secret smile. “Dude. You are going to freaking flip. Xavier Walters starts for us this Sunday.”
Nate unleashes an ear-splitting war cry.
The next day, the newest Hawk bursts onto the practice field, all energy, and swagger. Xavier strides up to me, points at my chest, then says, “You. Me. We’re going to do this.”