I roll my neck, stretching. “It was urgent. You want a spot?” I stand, offering him the bench.
Ricketts frowns at my curt response, but I ignore it. “Nah, man. I’ve had enough for today. I need about an hour in the hot tub.”
“All right, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
He nods, and I feel his eyes track me as I head out of the weight room when that obnoxious voice halts my steps.
“Ah, what’s up, Rocket Boy? You show up halfway through practice and check out early? What kind of example is that from one of our captains?”
I should keep walking, but his mouth has been running non-stop, and my normal shit ton of patience is running a little low.
I turn and face T-Bone, who’s across the weight room with his small gang.
T-Bone is a defensive end and a total imbecile. His massive, broad frame holds two large dumbbells at his sides. A smug grin curls across his mouth. Cox, Roman, and Lautner do a sucky job of acting like they aren’t entertained by another one of his lame-ass jabs.
I don’t have time for their shit today. I have stuff to do. I need to get home to take a call from a sponsor and enjoy my last night of having my apartment to myself.
Ricketts’s gaze darts between us like he’s waiting for the day I finally have enough, but these guys don’t matter. I need their help to win games, but what they think of me isn’t predictive of my ability to do my job.
I relax my fists, running one hand over my damp hair. “I’m just easing up before the game, giving my body and mind rest. I’ll see you boys in the morning.”
T-Bone adjusts his grip on one of the weights. “Is this a new one of Daddy’s pregame rituals?”
My dad was one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time. He’s a legend, and certain people decided long ago that my way to the NFL was paved. Being Tim ‘The Rocket’ Matthews’s son, I’m used to people thinking I’ve piggybacked on his success.
The reality is, I’ve never walked onto a team thinking I deserved to be there. I’ve always earned my spot. It’s what my dad taught me—show up each day and work to maintain my place in the lineup.
After I signed with the Stingrays, the first half of the season went by, and they still called me Rocket Boy. We ended the season with more losses than wins, and I spent the entire off-season training and working to prepare myself to show this team what I could do.
Once again, I’ve stepped in to prove myself, ready to win, but it seems they’d rather do their time on the field, run their mouths, party, and piss away another season.
I keep my tone calm and cool. “His record and the fact that you’re referencing him prove he knew what he was doing. I’d be an idiot not to follow suit.”
I turn, ending the conversation, and head to the locker room. I grab my stuff as Jenkins, the second-string quarterback, enters.
I nod. “Hey, man.”
We slap hands as he passes.
“Are you joining us tomorrow?” He smirks.
After listening to T-Bone and his minions’ nonsense all afternoon, I’m sure he knows I’ve had enough for today.
“You bet your ass I will.”
He laughs as I exit. Jenkins is older, a father, and doesn’t give those fools the time of day. He’s quiet, works hard, and keeps his focus on the game. He knows why he’s here, and we have that in common.
I find my Range Rover in the parking lot, protected by the facility gates and security. As instructed, I do a quick walk around before driving home.
I park and enter my building, nodding at the security officer behind the desk, then ride the elevator to the sixteenth floor. This is my home for however many seasons I remain in Miami.
My eyes wander to the massive sliding doors that showcase the ocean beyond. The view is the reason I bought the place. The sunrises are the most magnificent I’ve ever seen.
I slide a door open, needing the fresh air. It’s a beautiful sight, but I miss the mountains. I try not to think about it, but I miss my family.
I weigh calling my sister, Maggie, to fill her in on these latest events. She’s likely to get on a plane and man a stakeout of her own. The thought makes me smile.
I drop onto the couch, tapping her name.
