I left New York for Birmingham with my teammates, and Fallon assured me that upon my return, it would be to a fully furnished apartment. I had little time to think about my condo or Fallon—we left on a Friday, and then it was a whirlwind of practice, media interviews, and downtime, which I used to stay in my hotel room and study the playbook, even though I knew it by heart. Saturday was more of the same.
Game day finally arrived, and we won the coin toss and elected to receive. Coach gave the signals, and the crowd was rocking already, as we were playing the Birmingham Comets, divisional rivals. The bad blood between the two teams had begun the time their tackles had taken Dev out with a post-play cheap hit. The players had been fined, and they’d lost the game,but Dev had ended up in the hospital with a bad concussion that had eventually led to his retirement. Since then, the on-field shit-talking had only increased, but I was prepared.
Coach caught me by the arm before I joined the guys. “Sloane. I don’t want any crap on the field. We’re here to win a football game, not a street fight. Don’t let them goad you into anything that’ll cause penalties, lose us yardage, and ultimately the game.”
“Got it, Coach. I won’t.”
We took to the line of scrimmage, and I blocked out all the garbage talk I heard from the Comets tackles and linemen. My guys got into position, and I had the play memorized. We were set.
“Blue 42, Blue 42, hut, hut.”
Troy Watkins, one of the league’s top receivers, eluded the linebackers and was open downfield. I passed a beautiful spiral to him and grunted in satisfaction as he not only made the catch but zipped downfield for a gain of thirty yards.
“Yeah, baby, that’s it.” I whistled and clapped, and the fans roared their disapproval, but that only spurred us on. And our winning plays continued throughout the game. I connected for two touchdowns, and my teammates rushed for two more. I threw for over two hundred yards, and we beat the cleats off those fuckers with a final score of 31-10.
“Trick, Trick,” the broadcasters called out as we made our way to the locker room. “How does it feel to play for the Kings? Any predictions for the rest of the season?”
“It feels awesome.” I fist-pumped. “I’m not jinxing it. One game at a time.”
In the locker room, music blared, and we were all in a good mood with the big win. The team was on top of the division. Coach came in, and we all stopped and listened.
“Good game. Trick, I like how you connected and didn’t let their smack talk affect you. Troy and Rio, you made the big catches. Defense, I liked what I saw, but I thought we missed a couple of opportunities for interceptions. A Super Bowl championship team is one that capitalizes on every single one of their opponents’ mistakes. Let’s level up for next week. Go get your massages and treatments, and I’ll see you all tomorrow to go over the films.”
I was already half-undressed, and my body screamed for a massage. The ice pack on my shoulder could only do so much. The music was turned up, and I rolled my shoulders. I felt a presence behind me and turned to see Rio Durant.
“What’s up? Good catch there.”
His teeth flashed white beneath the dark scruff. “Thanks, bro. Good to have you here. A bunch of us gonna have dinner at the hotel restaurant. You up for it?”
“Sure thing.”
“Catch you there around eight?” His eyes crinkled with laughter. “Troy spotted some hotties when we checked in. They might be up for some fun.”
I snorted. “Man, you must be tougher than me. Or younger. I’m usually dead on my feet by eleven. Midnight at the latest.”
A lazy grin kicked up Rio’s lips. “Depends on what they’re offering up to give me a second wind.”
Bunch of the guys groaned, and Milo Masterson, the huge All-Pro receiver, megaphoned his hands. “Don’t listen to him, Trick. Rio’s got a mouth like the river he’s named after—big and dirty.”
“Aw, come on, Candyman.” Eyes sparkling, Rio teased Milo. “You’re just jealous ’cause you’re an old married man who’s gotta go home every night to the same lady.”
“And damn happy about it.” Milo stripped off his team jersey.
“What’s with Candyman?” I asked.
Clearly exasperated, Milo rolled his eyes. “’Cause my initials areMandM.”
Troy jumped on his back. “And he’s the sweetest, aintcha?” Troy leaned in as if he were going to kiss Milo, and Rio winced.
“Aw, come on, man. I don’t wanna see that kinda shit.” Rio made a face.
My jaw hardened. “What shit?”
“You know. Men-kissing-men stuff. I know you’re friends with Dev and Brody, but I still can’t believe they’re gay.”
“Because?”
“I dunno.” Rio’s gaze shifted away.
