Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 95545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
It’s just another reason the last couple of practices are screwing with my head even more than Alyssa. Sure, everybody is entitled to an off day. It goes with the territory. But this has turned into more of a slump, and that scares the fuck out of me.
Especially with the season looming right around the corner.
What if I can’t turn it around in time?
This is my last year at Wesley. The goal has always been to go out on a high note with a winning season. I want to bring home a conference championship before taking my rightful place alongside my father in the personal finance company he founded. These are my glory days, the ones I’ll look back at with longing and fondness when I’m stuck sitting behind a desk for twelve hours a day, trading stocks and shoring up client portfolios. At this rate, I’ll be relieved they’re over.
I keep my gaze focused straight ahead. The last thing I want to do is field any questions or talk about the obvious elephant in the room. Everyone knows that once you do that, it becomes real. There’s no shoving the genie back in the lamp. With rough fingers, I rip off my jersey and toss it on the bench. Agitation wafts off me in heavy, suffocating waves. I’m all but choking on it.
The rowdy locker room turns quiet as Coach stalks through with his Wesley Warriors ball cap pulled low over his eyes and a clipboard clenched in his hand. Air gets wedged in my lungs as I wait for what’s coming down the pike.
As if I don’t know...
“Montgomery,” he barks, “get your ass in my office as soon as you’re dressed.”
I jerk my head into a tight nod but keep my lips pressed together.
Well, shit. This isn’t good.
Coach Taylor glares at the group of half-naked guys and barks out a few more victims. When he’s done, he slams the door to his office with so much force that it rattles on its hinges.
Devon Baker, a three-hundred-pound lineman, laughs, “Better bring some lube with you, Montgomery. Doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to give it to you gently.”
Like I don’t know that?
I glare at Baker before giving him the finger.
Our first game against Tennessee is in two weeks. If I can’t pull my crap together, there’s no way Coach will allow me to step foot on the field. They’re a tough team with a powerhouse of an offensive line. The thought of cooling my ass on the bench while Kwiatkowski takes my place makes me gut sick.
Beck clears his throat, drawing my attention to him. “So—”
“Don’t even say it, man.” I fall silent and rip off the remaining pads. It’s like they’re choking the life out of me. I’ve never felt that way before. I don’t understand why I’m failing at something I’ve always excelled at.
“Say what?” he asks nonchalantly, continuing to strip off his sweat-soaked apparel.
Even though it’s uncomfortable, I admit through stiff lips, “That my game is off.” Acknowledging the truth is like a punch to the gut. Expected, but still a surprise.
For the first time since we’ve entered the locker room, I give Beck a bit of side-eye to get a read on his expression. It’s just as I suspected. Concern mingled with confusion. Exactly what I don’t want to deal with. I’ve always found it easier to suppress my feelings and shove them deep down inside where they can’t see the light of day.
Keep it moving.
That’s my motto.
I do my best not to dwell on the reason this is happening. My hope is that if I ignore the problem long enough, it’ll work itself out. That’s what I’ve done all my life—ignored the bad shit and focused on the future, and I’ve been just fine. So why isn’t it working now? Why are the wheels falling off when I need them to stay put? This can’t be how I go out.
It just can’t be.
I need to get this situation figured out and fast before it becomes any more of an issue.
Beck shrugs, downplaying my plunging spiral. “Wasn’t going to mention it.”
I almost snort.
Yeah, right.
“Good,” I say with a grunt. Unable to help myself, I shoot an anxious glance toward Coach’s office. My voice drops before I reluctantly admit, “For once in his life, Baker is right. I’d better grab some lube. Coach is going to ream my ass.”
Beck flicks his gaze toward the inner sanctum.
Nik Taylor is one of the toughest coaches you’ll find in Division I football. He runs his program like a tight ship. If he’s willing to give one hundred percent to his team, he expects his players to do the same in return. If you’re not willing to bleed for the guys standing shoulder to shoulder with you on the field, there’s no place for you on this roster. Even though I have no intention of entering the NFL draft, I wanted to play for the best. With the best. Against the best.