Chapter 1
Thewindwassteady,the tape attached to the top of the goal posts fluttering in it. Dawson lifted his head, letting it wash over him. Cataloging every minute brush of the air against his skin.
Wind, despite popular opinion, wasn’t the end of the world when it came to a field goal.
Spending the entirety of his career before this playing in Baltimore in December and January meant he’d had to figure out how to kick even if there was a wind. Especially if there was wind. Because if there was inclement weather, there was going to be wind. And in Maryland and Pennsylvania and Buffalo—all places he’d kicked over his ten-year career—there was one fucking guarantee from September to January and that was inclement weather.
“Hey, Daws.”
There was only one person who would attempt to talk to him right now.
Dawson sighed, resigned, and turned towards his holder, who also happened to be the punter.
The rookie.
Cameron was not the only rookie on the team, but he was the rookie on the team who routinely broke the unspoken bubble of space that Dawson kept for himself during games.
He looked up at the rookie.
Marty, the special teams coordinator, had said he’d talk to him, but apparently he hadn’t done it yet or he hadn’t done it clearly enough that the rookie got it.
This Sunday, they were in Miami, which wasn’t usually the windiest, except when there was the dreadedinclement weatherand yep, it was coming. During halftime, Marty had come up with the latest weather report, and it looked like they were going to just get this game in before a storm rolled in.
But right now, there was only that steady wind. Enough that it needed to be compensated for, mental calculations that Dawson needed space and time and focus for.
Space and time and focus that the rookie was currently dividing up.
“What’s up?” he asked flatly.
He was going to have to talk to Marty again, and Dawson didn’t love that.
In Baltimore, this never would’ve happened. In Baltimore, he’d moved on the sideline like he had a physical barrier between him and the rest of the team. But this wasn’t Baltimore.
Baltimore had dropped him like a hot potato when he’d had the season from hell last year, all those years of loyalty and blood, sweat, and tears erased with one simple fact: professional football was a business, and he’d become a liability.
Cameron rocked back on his heels. He was tall for a punter, and Dawson had to crane his head a bit, just to look into his light brown eyes. “Just wanted to check in. The wind—”
“Yep,” Dawson interrupted. “I felt it.”
“Figured you did. Gonna have to compensate some.”
Back in Baltimore, Dawson would’ve given any guy who approached him right now the kind of stink eye that would have them avoiding him for the rest of the season. But now, today, he couldn’t stop thinking about how everything had changed. He wasn’t in purple and black anymore. He was in bright blue with silver accents, his dark blue helmet sitting behind him on the bench. Toronto colors, now, and he wasn’t exactly in a position to be an asshole to the rookie. Who also happened to be his holder.
“Agreed.” It was harder than it should’ve been for Dawson to grit out the word and he wondered when it had become so tough for him tonotbe a dick.
Oh right.
The divorce. The criminal proceedings against his ex-father-in-law. The money heshould’vehad in his accounts.
Dawson took a deep breath, felt the wind again for a second, and added, “What do you think?”
“Couple of degrees, but keep it steady, ’cause it’s not gusting,” Cameron said.
Dawson nodded his agreement, telling himself firmly that the fact he and the rookie agreed was a good thing. It meant he knew what the fuck he was talking about. But then that hadn’t really ever been under debate. Cameron had won the punting competition in camp and had barely seemed to break a sweat doing it.
Heshouldbe damn good.
“It kinda sucks we’re in Miami in September. Would’ve preferred the sunshine in December,” Cameron said.
