I spun left, faked delivery to Danny, pulling it back at the last second. I took a short drop back, and found Kurt with a glance. Threw the quick pass, hitting his open hands on the slant route through the middle. He ran a couple of yards before being pulled down.
"First down." The officials announced.
The clock stopped. A glance at my wristband said we still had a minute twenty left—and we’d just made it over the fifty yard line.
We found our positions. With the broken speaker, Coach sent another player in, calling a “buck sweep” play—again. The defense countered with a blitz formation.Shit.
"Hut hut!" I took the snap, turned to my right, but instead of handing off, sprinted wide.Fucking Lindsom missed his mark, again!I couldn’t afford to take another sack. So I scrambled, ran, both hands wrapped around the ball. Spun and bounced to the outside lane.Need to get out of bounds.
Rain sloshed, I kept my head up as I dove for the ground. My right arm tucked the ball close, but my cast hit cold turf and stuck. The defensive back crushed me beneath him.
The ache in my forearm sharpened, like bone tearing through muscle. I roared as another player joined the pile.
My vision split. Liquid agony pulsed through every part of my body. The other team picked themselves up.
Sato pulled me to my feet. "Nice. Six yards."
"Arm." I panted as fire seared my already broken limb.I cradled it against my ribs.Fuck. It burns. Dammit."Didn’t make it out of bounds." I willed myself to release my arm, trying not to tip off the other team. I gulped and swallowed air.
The official motioned for a time out.
"Brigadiers getting antsy," Sato said with a smirk and a nod. "Afraid they won’t have any clock left."
"Hell, the way this is going”—Kurt joined our loose huddle—“we won’t either. Can’t keep running these short routes."
“We need a Drakes special Hail Mary. Get the points on the board and pray the D can stop ‘em," Danny panted. “I’m gassed.”
"There’s time. We have control." My arm burned hot from my fingers to my shoulder. Deep breaths helped control the pain. The smell of vinegar from my helmet pads mixed with the must of rain. "We just need to keep it ti?—"
"If it was Drakes, he would just know, you know?"
I grabbed Danny by the arch of his pads, yanking him forward. “Don’t,” I snarled.
Heavy breaths shushed in the air. “Come on, Mick.” His eyebrows peaked in the center of his forehead. “Weneedthis.”
The ache in my forearm turned to throbbing agony. I gritted my teeth as the muscle shook. He ripped from my hold. “But Drakes could?—”
“I’m not him."
Chapter One
MADDOX
February 14
Charity Flag Football Game
If there was one truth to co-ed sports, it's that there’s never enough girls.
Which has nothing to do with my ego needing more attention from women, and I'm not being sexist. I've always held a healthy respect for women—thanks to my mother clobbering it into my head when I was still an idiot teenager. I’ve also served alongside female combat engineers during my time in the Marines.
I don't know what it is. Take the other day, for example. Texas State Tech has been fielding top notch women's sports teams for well over two decades—everything from swimming to our internationally ranked soccer program. Our visitor tours make a point of trying to impress future enrollees with our "industry-leading" women's facilities, including a new locker room with fancy "spa-like" showers.
The men's football locker room? Still looks and stinks like it was built in the 1970s. Pipes groan and shriek and we stand on bare, stained concrete.
Not the kind of stain that's another word for paint. Just…stained.
But the women athletes get "niceties."
