The Hot Shot(17)

I am a cheerleader. I don't have pom-poms, and while my ass is  admittedly cute, I don't shake it-much. But I am absolutely cheering my  guys on. Pride is a powerful motivator. So is loyalty. I create both  when I tell them how fucking brilliant they are on good plays, for them  to keep pushing, never let up.

I am a leader. They look to me to set the tone, to take the game in hand. Even if some of them will never admit it.

And I am an actor. If I fold, if I show fear, it's game over for my men.  There isn't a play in which I'm not faking the defense out, putting up a  good front, and playing mind games.

On the field, it's mind, body, sprit working in perfect harmony.

As I said, best job in the world.

And then we have the other days of the week.

I suppress a sigh and flip through the massive binder on my lap. In the  armchair next to me, is my backup QB, Dillon. Wooster, the third string  quarterback, is sprawled on the couch. Not sure why that fucker gets to  lie down. But house rules regarding seating has always been first come  first serve. Somehow Wooster always get to the couch first.

Altman, our offensive coordinator is droning on, explaining the new play  calls that I can read for myself if he'd end this meeting and let me.  One hundred and thirty new play calls, to be exact.

Did I mention I'm also a student? Every week, I study, learn, memorize.  Playbooks are my life. I read over them at night, during breakfast,  whenever I get the chance. But right now?

I want out.

My head isn't in it. It's past five on a Friday, I'm fucking tired, and  we've have been here for hours, reviewing footage and now the playbook.

Fingers snap, the sound catching my attention. Altman's cold blue eyes  drill into me. He's about fifteen years older than I am, once a backup  quarterback who got traded around towards the end of his career. It's  the thing we fear most, being tossed aside, scrambling to find work, and  finally realizing no one will pick you up.

But Altman made the most of it. He's an excellent offensive coordinator and will probably be a coach one day.                       
       
           


///
       

"You got something to share with the class, Manny?" he asks now.

This is my second year working with him. I can read him well and know he isn't pissed. Yet.

I give him an easy smile. "Yeah, I've gotta use the can."

"Can't hold it in, Manny?" Dillon teases.

"Heard it's bad for the prostate," I say blandly.

Wooster snorts. "Wouldn't want Manny to lose his shit on the field, now would we?"

That's exactly what he'd love. But, despite what people might think, we're not exactly enemies either.

Even so, I give him the finger. "Spin on this a bit, Rooster."

Altman snorts. "Dick around on your own time, kids."

But he lets us go. Thank fuck.

As soon as we're out in the hall, Dillon is on the phone, making no  effort to keep his voice down. "Hey, baby," he croons. "Just got out.  Yeah. Yeah." He nods along to whatever his wife is saying.

I know it's his wife because he always calls her after meeting, and he always calls her baby.

I walk a little ahead of him, trying to get out of earshot but maintenance is buffing the floors and going is slow.

"She sleeping yet?" Dillon asks his wife. There's a pause, and then the  man truly croons. "Baby girl. That's right, it's Daddy." The sound of a  babish squawk comes from the vicinity of the phone, and he chuckles.

I move around an equipment hamper, but get caught up at the door to the  gym. Dillion ends the call with his wife, promising to be home soon. The  look on his face is so contented and softly joyful, it feels like I'm  invading his privacy.

But he catches my eye and grins wider. "Vera's starting to stand up now."

Vera. Right. I knew that. "She's about a year?"

"Ten months." He pulls a photo up on his phone and shows me.

Dillon's wife is blonde and beautiful in a homecoming queen sort of way.  Their daughter is a perfect blend of them, her hair a riot of tight  brass-colored ringlets, her skin light brow and dewy with youth. Bright  hazel eyes shine as she smiles at the camera, displaying two front  teeth.

It almost hurts to look at her, she's so cute and happy. "She's beautiful, man."

"I know this," Dillon says proudly. He gives me a friendly clasp on the  shoulder. "Best thing in life, man, having a family. No matter what shit  these guys tell you."

The family men are always trying to convert us poor, soulless singles.  Jake claims it's so they feel better about being trapped. I used to  agree. Now, I'm not so sure.

Dillon heads out, and I'm left rubbing the tightness along my chest. The  place is fairly deserted right now, most of the guys having long since  gone home. I turn the corner and enter the gym on the way to the locker  room. The familiar scent of metal, rubber, and lingering sweat soothes a  little.

Rolondo is working the leg press, his muscles straining as he huffs and pushes his legs out straight.

"You should be working with a spotter," I tell him. "At least if you're going for the free weights."

"Yeah, yeah." The weights clank as he lowers them too fast. He grabs a  towel and wipes the sweat from his face. "What you doin' here, Manny?  Everyone else has scattered like roaches to the light."

I laugh. "I could ask the same of you."

He rises with a groan and then stretches. "Lost track of time."

Wooster walks in, wearing the smarmy expression that he never truly seems to drop. "You guys hear about Dex?"

"I heard," Rolondo deadpans while shooting him an annoyed look.

"I haven't." Concern makes my words sharp. "What's going on? Is he all right?"

"He's fine," Rolondo says. "It's nothing but some nonsense bullshit."

Wooster ignores Rolondo. "PR released a few photos of that beefcake calendar you all are in."

Beefcake? I feel an eye roll coming on. But it's news to me that PR sent  out photos. I'm guessing I'm not in them or I would have heard. I think  about Chess looking over the shots we took and feel exposed all over  again. Shaking the sensation off, I wave my hand at Wooster to continue.

"Press was all over Dex's photo." He glances at Rolondo with a glint in his eyes. "Guess they found it the most interesting."

Rolondo makes a lazy jerk off gesture.

But Wooster goes on. "Dex's old teammate gave an interview, claiming  that Dex is a virgin. Next thing you know, some crazy ass dating service  got wind of the story and is offering a bounty of his virginity."

For a second, I can only stare, my mind spinning. "What the hell?"                       
       
           


///
       

Seriously, what the hell?

"How did I miss this?" I ask no one in particular.

"Too busy searching for your own press?" Wooster throws out.

I glance at Rolondo. "He okay?"

"He's fine. Like I said … " He gives Wooster another nasty look. " … It's just some dumb bullshit."

I doubt Dex is as okay as Rolondo claims. Dex covets his privacy like a  miser hoards gold. Not that I blame him; none of us exactly relish our  private life being exposed. I make a note to call Dex as soon as I'm  alone.

"I heard the photographer is a woman," Wooster says, cutting into my thoughts.

My head snaps up, my gaze narrowing as something hot surges in my gut. "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

Rolondo starts shaking his head. "Man," he mutters under his breath.

Wooster, however, clearly sees blood in the water and is just that  stupid. "Guess it doesn't. Just heard that she was hot in a The Fast and  the Furious kind of way."

I take a step in his direction. Blood pounds in my head. "Fast and the Furious?"

"Yeah, you know a lowrider hood ornament that you fuck fast and furi-"

My hand is wrapped around his throat before he can finish. I don't  remember moving, but I'm not letting go. "You want to keep that tongue,"  I grit out, "I suggest you shut the fuck up."

Wooster claws at my arm, but he can't get free. But then he relaxes with  a smile. "I get it. You're fucking her. Nice, man. Bet she's getting  around with a job like that."

Two steps forward, and I'm slamming him into the wall. "You need to shut the fuck up, asshole."

Rolondo steps between us, but he's looking at me. "He's not worth the fines, Manny."

Debatable. But I loosen my grip.

Wooster shakes me off and then smirks. "Can't forget that paycheck, can we?"

Rolondo makes a noise of disdain. "Stop playin' as if a fine won't hurt  you more than it does either of us, punk ass. And stop disrespecting  women. Didn't your momma teach you better?"

"Pretty sure you'd be singing a different tune if you had any interest in women," Wooster drawls.