Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
The quarterback, Jason McKay, is a steely-eyed missile man, and he connects, matching the score.
But no biggie. I’ll keep putting my guys ahead.
Except on the next play, when I take the snap and hunt for an open receiver, I find nada.
I tuck the ball under my arm, ready to scramble for a few yards, when out of nowhere, a Hawks linebacker slams me to the ground.
All the air evacuates my lungs.
My head rings.
And I wince as my left tackle offers me his hand, tugs me up. “You okay, man?”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks,” I say to Theo.
I try to shake off the sack, then I get back in the huddle. But on the next snap, I fire too early and send a pick right into Xavier Walters’ arms. The Hawks cornerback returns it for a touchdown.
“Fuck me,” I mutter as he celebrates in the end zone.
I walk off the field, head down. Clements pats my back.
“I brought a blue hacky sack today,” he says, but I’m not in the mood to play games.
I shake him off, then when we get possession again, we’re over and out in four. We punt, and I fail to move the ball the rest of the half.
Somehow, the second half is even worse. I throw another interception on our first drive. On our next possession, I’m sacked, and this might be the worst game of my life.
I cannot find a rhythm.
When the game mercifully ends, I feel beaten and bruised.
I trudge into the locker room, away from the scene of the pummeling. In front of his stall, Rand scrubs a hand over his smooth jaw.
“This is my fault,” he says. “I was growing a beard, and my girlfriend said it was itchy, so I shaved and look what happened.”
“Pretty sure it was my shitty throws, not your beard or no beard,” I say.
Rand shakes his head adamantly. “No, man. You never fuck with a streak. It ruins your luck. And I did. I fucked with the football gods.”
The conversation nags at me as I shower, as we fly home late that night.
Maybe you don’t fuck with a streak.
But not for the reasons he said. Not because of luck, or superstition, or football gods shining in your favor when you grow a beard.
You don’t fuck with a streak because it ruins your focus.
Focus in football is everything. The sport isn’t just a physical game—it’s a mental one. Quarterbacks who win need to blot out the world. They need to stay in the zone, and only in the zone.
Once inside my home, I flick on the TV and force of habit takes me straight to the Sports Network. I crank up the volume. The anchor launches into her football recap and, soon enough, lands on my team.
“Drew Adams has been playing impeccably, but today the Los Angeles Mercenaries earned their first L of the season in one of the worst games of his career. Let’s dig into what broke their four-and-zero record.”
Part of me wants to shout, “It was just four games.”
But another, deeper part of me knows that every goddamn game matters. Muting the TV, I close my eyes, replaying the game from the start.
Where did I go wrong? The Mercenaries have played like a smooth, well-oiled machine for the last month.
Until…
I shudder at the thought.
But then I say it quietly aloud.
“Until I stopped focusing on football,” I mutter.
The second I leveled up with Brooke, my game play fell apart in spectacular fashion.
Maybe I can’t have romance and football. Maybe I need to choose one or the other.
No!
Stop that shit.
I’m not buying into that.
That’s ridiculous.
Instead, I send Brooke a text so she knows I’m thinking of her. Hey honey, I’m zonked. Going to bed. See you tomorrow.
We meet the next morning for an early coffee on the Promenade before she goes into work. Patrick and Cara join us at an outdoor table at Big Cup Café.
“Tough loss,” Patrick says with sympathy.
“I played horribly,” I reply, still sullen.
“You didn’t seem that focused,” Patrick says without judgment. Just the awareness of someone who’s seen most of my games.
Brooke tilts her head, listening. “You think that was the issue?” she asks, she’s not quite buying what he’s selling.
“It reminded me of your senior year,” Patrick says. “When you had a few rough games that October.”
I blink. Holy shit. Yesterday’s game did feel a lot like those clunkers.
The painful memories crawl to the surface. Marie was an exchange student at college my senior year. I met her at a party at the start of the semester and was instantly taken. I started spending more time with her, seeing her on the reg.
“Just…” Patrick starts, then stops.
“What happened then?” Cara asks.
Patrick waves a hand, like he’s covering it up. “Just a few bad games.”
“And what was the reason, sweetie?” Cara asks Patrick, pushing harder for an answer from him.