"Real men don't hit women," I shot back. "Only worthless sacks of shit."
"You're not our quarterback," Lindsom gritted out. "Just some uppity fucking jarhead."
I rubbed my hand against my quad and glanced down the line of scrimmage. "On two. Hut hut!" Sato snapped the ball. I grabbed it, turned to my right and faded back, handing the football to Danny. He charged toward the offensive line. Lindsom was losing the battle with his mark.
Tripped up, Danny gained only a yard on the play. The two-minute warning sent both teams to the sidelines. We drank water and stretched.Need to keep limber.I paced the sideline until Coach called me over.
He flipped his headset from his ears to hang around his neck. "Cool as a cucumber, Mick. Call the plays I send in. No heroics, just steady. Grind it out." He nodded at me. "It's what you're best at."
I sucked in a breath. Not sure why that felt like an insult. Maybe it wasn't. Drakes had been a spectacle. His antics cost us some games back in the day. But a few paid off. And the ones that did made everyone forget about the ones that didn't. He was that good.
"I'm gonna beat that asshole within an inch of his life if he can't block his assignment." Seager punched his fist into his hand.
I didn't say anything.
"Thought they'd get over themselves by now. But they're still missing—too fucking often."
I glanced at him out of the side of my eye. "Can't you block, catch, anything besides run your mouth?"
He grinned. "I'll go play left tackle. Show these fuckers how it's done."
I chuckled. He'd do it if Coach would let him.
"I'll play a role, don't worry your pretty little head."
I tried to scratch at an itch through my sleeve. "If it wasn’t for this damned cast…"
"Tired of you using that as an excuse. 'I broke my arm when I got sacked.' Boo fucking hoo. I thought you were a Marine."
I flipped him off. "Enjoy riding the bench."
"Not for long, pretty boy."
I shook my head, but the next breath came a bit easier. Seager knew how to get under my skin, and he knew how to get me out of my moods.
"I know you like pretending to be the hero and all that." Seager paused at his weight station and glared at me. "Could try giving the arm a few weeks to heal. Come back."
The trainer, Scott, grunted as he finished wrapping a flexible bandage around my cast. “Right?”
"Do I need to take time off for this?"
He ran athletic tape over the end of the fabric to hold it in place. "I mean, playing the rest of the season like this is a bad idea, but if Coach Kenbrough and the head trainer cleared you, then it's your call."
I eyed the kid. Dark hair, a swath of freckles spread across the bridge of his nose.
Seager growled. "Tell him it's not normal. They shouldn’t be signing off on this shit."
"I can ask my dad if you want,” Scott said with a shrug. “He's on the board of the booster club. Played for the school way back when. If anyone knows about NCAA football, it's my dad." His lipspressed together. He didn’t look at me. Just clipped the tape, smoothing it along the edge of the bandage.
"Sure, Whitney."
"That's my last name, dick." He scowled at Seager before grabbing his duffel bag and moving toward the exit. "Make sure you ice it tonight. See you tomorrow, Mick."
"I can't give your fan club the satisfaction. They want me out—out of the game, out of contention." I set up the cable machine for isolated bicep curls.
"Out of your mind,” Seager grumbled. “Not my fucking fan club.”
I executed a set of curls with a single dumbbell in my right hand.
