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)
Tucker canted his head toward me, a half-smile playing on his lips. “This is the part where I say you were there in spirit. Or some romantic shit like that.” I flipped him off, and he sobered. “I wish you could’ve, too.”
“We’re never gonna have that, though. We can’t.”
He sucked on his lower lip, nodding slowly. “I guess not, no. We’ll just have to make the best of what we have. Maybe—”
He cut himself off and, when I prompted him with a look, shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t know. Would you rather not do this at all anymore? Like, we leave today and cut it off? I wouldn’t like it, but I’d do it.”
“It’s not. I’ll take this over nothing at all.” Because I wasn’t going to be able to cut it off. I couldn’t, even as I suspected I wanted so much more than we would ever be able to give each other.
“Me too.” Tucker rolled fully toward me. “Hey, serious question.” The playful glint in his eye said it was anything but. “Are you gonna be a supportive boyfriend when the Rush takes the Super Bowl this year?”
I rolled my eyes with a grin. “Never gonna happen ’cause we’re taking it. We’ve got Parker now and Ronson.” I whistled low as I mentioned a seasoned guard who had been traded from Tennessee and our rookie wide receiver. “We’re unstoppable.”
“Psht. Parker is, like, eighty-two years old, and Ronson is an untested rookie. You should see G and Cullen. I’ve been working out with them, and we’re gonna run circles around y’all. Yeah.” He poked me. “Even you, Mr. Lightfoot.”
I chuckled as we devolved into smack talk, one of our favorite pastimes.
Just before we crawled out of bed and showered so we could catch our flights home, Tucker yanked me back toward him, nose grazing over my jawline. “I would be happy for you if the Royals took the bowl, you know.” I knew he meant it, too. “It’s just never gonna happen, baby.”
Coach Grant flipped off the flat-screen TV and dropped into the chair next to it, facing me and the Royals’ key defense. We’d been in the film room for the last hour, going over the preseason game we’d played against San Francisco earlier in the week.
“I’m going to level with you, fellas. I think we’ve got the best shot at the Bowl that we’ve ever had.”
Barker, a safety, chuckled. “You’ve said that exact same thing the last three years.”
“He means it for real for real this year, though.” Wyatt, one of our linebackers, grinned, and Coach flipped him off.
“I do. You all represent my dream defense here. We’ve got two solid seasons under our belt. We worked out some kinks during camp, and the win against Vegas proves that. There’s no damn reason we shouldn’t get there as long as you all keep your heads out of your asses. It’s time to bring it home, boys.”
“Fuck yeah,” Wyatt whooped, and we all joined in until the room sounded like a zoo gone wild. Coach rolled his eyes with a smile and then smacked his palm against his thighs, his usual signal he was done talking. “Now, get out of my film room and go rest up. I’m planning on tearing all of you new assholes at Tuesday’s practice.”
“Sounds kinky,” someone joked as we all stood and started filing for the door.
“Whitt, lemme talk to you for a minute,” Coach called out.
“Sounds like you’re up for asshole tearing first.” Barker clapped me on the back as he passed, and I laughed, checking him with my shoulder.
I hung back, waiting for Coach, and then we stepped into the hall, heading for the locker rooms, where I’d left my gear.
“You’ve become a true shutdown cornerback,” he said as we walked. “You read the quarterback’s eyes, jumped the route, and made that interception the other day. That little game changer fired up the whole team. You’re making smart decisions and capitalizing on them. I just want you to keep doing it the whole season.”
“I will,” I promised, trying not to let my expression show how fucking chuffed I was at the praise. I didn’t know if it had something to do with all the time Tucker and I spent together or the shift in our dynamic having a trickle-down effect, but I’d been able to focus during camp and preseason like never before, and even I could feel the difference when we played.
“How’s the hip?” he asked next. I’d had a rough meeting with the turf during the game, but it’d been worth it for the win.
“Nothing to worry about.” It’d been twinging today, but it wasn’t anything some ice and heat therapy couldn’t resolve, I didn’t think. Still, it was a reminder that my body wasn’t gonna hold out in this sport forever, and one bad hit would probably knock me out permanently. That knowledge was like a shadow that never fully left me. I hoped to manage at least one more season after this, though, and possibly two. Beyond that, I had no fucking clue. Tucker and I had talked about it extensively because he was feeling the same pressure. And, like me, he was hoping for a few more seasons. “I’m not leaving this career without a ring,” he’d said, and by the determination in his voice, I knew he meant it. Didn’t mean either of us wouldn’t be forced out, though. It happened all the time. Contracts weren’t renewed or were bought out. I didn’t want that for either of us. I hoped we both could leave on our own terms, and I hoped that was reflecting in how I’d been playing.