Surely my punches are causing more pain to my fist than Moriarty’s head, given that he’s fully protected by hard polycarbonate and foam padding. But I’m not thinking clearly right now. In fact, I’m out of my head, unleashing weeks of stress, anxiety, and white-hot jealousy, here and now, all at once, onto Jacob Moriarty’s helmet.
In record speed, a gaggle of whistles are blown. Yellow penalty flags go flying. And the next thing I know, my nemesis and I are surrounded by a flurry of black-and-white-striped refs, Mastodon coaches, and players, some of them shouting at me to stop and others physically yanking me back and away.
A ref makes the standard hand signal for unsportsmanlike conduct while shouting my number and crime into his mic for the entire stadium—and everyone watching at home, too—to hear. “Ninety-Five is disqualified!” he adds with authority, and the entire stadium erupts with cheers at my ejection and boosabout my behavior. Apparently, the Mastodon faithful who’ve come here tonight hoping this season will be different aren’t going to put up with anyone, least of all a linebacker scrub who’s never lived up to his famous last name, attacking their star player.
Of course, there’s no penalty called on Mr. Superstar, even though he’s the one who started it by coming over to taunt me. The one who bumped my chest and said whatever it took to make me lose control in front of the world. Nope, Mr. Golden Boy gets to jog back to the sidelines, unbothered, and spend the rest of the game watching the other guy vying for the backup spot taking every remaining rep.
What have I done? I’ve never gotten myself booted out of a fucking game. Not once. And certainly not during fucking preseason. It’s an even worse mistake than all the ones that preceded it.
Flushed and embarrassed underneath my helmet, I stalk angrily toward the tunnel, desperate to get the fuck out of sight.Defective Maguire.Moriarty was right about one thing, anyway: I’ve proved my haters right tonight in front of the entire world.
The thought provokes one last surge of rage inside me, one that compels me to roar, rip off my helmet, and throw it onto the ground just before I step off the field and into the tunnel. It’s yet another stupid mistake, even more proof that I’m totally out of control. But who cares about that now, when I’m already done for? If the point is proving my haters right tonight, I might as well not leave a single shadow of a doubt.
“What the fuck was that, Luca?!” Coach Martinez screams at me. He’s suddenly striding alongside me through the tunnel.
I don’t answer him. There’s no excuse or explanation for anything I’ve done tonight, so there’s nothing to say.
Out of nowhere, Chelsea’s voice comes at me from my other side.
“Luca, what happened?” she yells. “Have you lost your goddamned mind?”
I can’t look at her without breaking down, so I gruffly swing open the door that leads to the locker room and ignore her question. How could I possibly look into Chelsea’s ocean-blue eyes and attempt an explanation or apology, when there are no words to change what I’ve done? Not only to myself, but to her, too.
When I enter the corridor that leads to the locker room, nobody follows me, thankfully. Which means I’m all by myself when I punch a locker and scream at top of my lungs as the pain in my knuckles reverberates all the way up my arm.
I’ve grown accustomed to me screwing things up for myself. Proving the haters right. Like Chelsea once said to me, self-sabotage is my favorite crutch. Although admittedly I’ve never relied on it quite this spectacularly before.
This time, I’ve taken the sport of self-sabotage to a whole new level, though. I’ve torpedoed not only my own hopes and dreams, but those of Chelsea, too. The only woman I’ve ever truly loved. The woman who makes me feel worthy of my goddamned name.I swear to God, I’ll never fucking forgive myself for it.
CHAPTER 29
Luca
“HI, LUCA. TAKEa seat.”
I slide into the chair across from Coach Parker’s big, mahogany desk, forcing myself not to wring my hands or fidget. I feel sick to my stomach. Sleep deprived. Ashamed.
It’s morning on Final Cuts Day across the league, not only here at the Mastodons—which is also known as Roster Day for those lucky enough to celebrate the holiday. All morning long, as a bunch of us players on the bubble have been working out together in the Mastodons’ gym while awaiting our fate, guys have been called up here to the big guy’s office to find out if they’ll live or die. And now finally, it’s my turn.
After all the ways I screwed up during last night’s game, it’s a no-brainer I’m about to get the axe, even though my family on FaceTime insisted there’s still a sliver of hope for me. I’ve never shared their optimism, really, but sitting here now and staring into Coach Parker’s stern face feels like a gut punch all the same. It’s real now. I’m a goner. And worst of all, I did this to myself.
Coach Parker sighs from the depths of his soul and leans back in his plush chair. “You threw me for a loop last night, Luca.”
I hang my head. “I know. Sorry.”
“You tossed a wrench into all my big plans, son. I hated to see it.”
So there it is. Confirmation that I’m getting cut. Would the result have been different if only I’d performed last night like I did in my prior two preseason games? It sure sounds like it, based on that comment. It only makes the situation all the more heartbreaking.
“What happened to set you off like that? Explain it to me.”
When I look up, Coach Parker looks deeply sympathetic. Like this moment is as painful for him as for me. Although that can’t be true, obviously. Tomorrow, he’ll continue working at his dream job, while I’ll most likely be out of the league for good and forced to figure out a game plan for the rest of my life at age twenty-six.
“I just let the pressure get to me,” I murmur. “If you give me another chance, I won’t let it happen again.”
To my surprise, Coach Parker doesn’t roll his eyes or scoff at my last-ditch plea. Instead, while maintaining intense eye contact, he clasps his hands on his desk and asks, “What’s the beef between you and Moriarty about?” When I don’t reply, he pushes. “Is it something personal, or just the usual dick-swinging contest that happens when two talented alphas are forced to rub shoulder pads one too many times?”
Weirdly, my first thought is to feel complimented that he’s called me a talented alpha. But almost as fast as my ego inflates at that miniscule victory, my brain remembers the big picture. Despite how people compared us in college, Moriarty is now the biggest star on his team, and I’m a big fat nobody who publicly went after him. If I tell Coach the real reason I did that—if I reveal what his highly paid star said to rile me up to the point of losing control—Coach will probably think I’m fabricating the worst possible offense, one involving Coach’s beloved daughter, as a last-ditch ploy to cast my rival in the worst possible light and save myself.
