We huddle around Wolf and he tells us the plan.
I chuckle despite myself. “Brandon Campos is not going to be impressed.”
“Sure, he will,” Wolf says with a wink. “Let’s see. Macy, Stacy, Allison, Keisha... They all seemed impressed by my?—”
Grey holds up his hand in the universal gesture to stop. “We do not need to hear about your latest conquests.”
Chase shifts uncomfortably.
“I think Rylen would approve,” I say.
We hash out the plan to prank the newest member of the team, throw our hands into the center of our tight-knit circle, and holler, “Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’”—the team slogan.
We convince Chase, the most amiable of the crew, to send Brandon a text inviting him to hang out in the team lounge at the Bruiser’s training facility here in Boston.
Chase’s phone pings with a reply a moment later. “Brandon says that he’s on his way.”
Wolf grins. “Perfect.”
Grey rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why I let you guys talk me into this.”
Wolf stops short and shoots Grey a glare. An outsider would think the two men are going to throw fists, but it’s just one football brother to another, reminding him of who he was. Grey needs that from time to time. Otherwise, he wanders too far down a lonesome path. He’s one of us, like it or not.
“Who started the newbie initiation, Grey?” Wolf asks a moment later as if to reinforce his point.
Grey Adams is the oldest player on the team, and arguably the best, because the guy can practically play football with his eyes closed. The game is knit into the fibers of his muscles. Imprinted on his palms. It’s in the platelets of his blood.
The linebacker doesn’t answer but holds his ground with a grimace.
“Who was the original mastermind behind all the pranks?” Wolf probes, knowing the answer.
Grey’s lips form a thin line and his jaw twitches.
“Don’t forget who you are. Don’t let it get you.Hewouldn’t want that.” Without another word, Wolf turns back to the room.
Grey exhales and then nods. No more needs to be said for him to glean the meaning behind the reminder.
Despite our winning smiles, attitudes, and abilities, we don’t have good-boy pasts, which results in being bad boys at present. Chase being an exception.
Following the play we just drew, which has nothing to do with offense, defense, or gaining yards, the four of us assume our positions while waiting for Brandon.
Footsteps echo from down the hall. It’s go time. I live for this—for shock and awe. But mostly to make people laugh and feel good. Although in this case, I don’t think Brandon will feel good. More like want to wash his eyes with bleach, but that’s the point.
I lean in. “On the count of three...”
The guys adjust their stances, preparing.
I count down. As the door opens, I say, “Now.”
...And at that moment, whoever stands in the doorway gets an eyeful of four Boston Bruisers’ star players’ backsides.
“It’s a full moon in Boston,” I shout over our laughter.
Wolf howls.
Someone gasps.
A camera flashes.
