Page 37 of Hard to Score

Klaus throws his clipboard at the ground, and then his headset, as Hobbs’s next throw is intercepted. The Lions run it all the way down the field for a touchdown.

And four minutes later as the clock ticks below the twenty-second mark and they’re still in possession of the ball, they win the game.

* * *

“Tough game out there today,” I say as I walk by Hobbs. His head is down, his forearms are braced on his thighs, and his shoulders are sagging in defeat.

“Fucking bullshit is what it is.”

I nod and take a seat in front of my locker, waiting for the press to clear. “It happens. You can’t be a hero every game.”

“Says who? Says a guy who’s played second string his whole career? Rumors are you’d throw a game just like your old man did, but since I don’t see you touching the field any time soon, I’m not sure why people even talk about you anymore.”

“I warned you to never say that to me again.” Fury is ripe as I kick his feet farther apart. His head yanks up in shock, and I’m right there in his face. My dad may be too much of a pussy to set people straight but I sure as shit will. “This is coming from a snot-nosed rookie with less than eighteen months in this league.” I see the rest of the guys in the locker room take a step forward as they wonder how far I’m going to take this.

It takes a lot for me to lose my cool—I’ve been on this team long enough for them to know this—but fuck if I’m not on edge right now. I don’t want to put up with this shit.

Besides, Hobbs has a history of lashing out—at me, at others—every time he doesn’t live up to his own hype and I’m sure as fuck not going to take his shit. Not with my frustration mounting and with him playing the whole game after making errors left and right.

“Back the fuck off.”

“I’m doing you a favor and ignoring what you said.” I fist my hand in his shirt and yank him up to a standing position. “I’m going to chalk it up to you being too young and too stupid to realize it doesn’t matter if a fucking meteorite hits the field and causes you to lose, that you are the goddamn leader of this team and so you take responsibility for the loss.” I give him a shake. “You’re good, Hobbs. Maybe too good for your own damn good, but you keep this shit up and no one’s going to want to touch you with a ten-foot pole. Lose with grace. Win with humility.”

I push him back down, shake my head, and point to all of our teammates standing around in various states of undress watching us. “You owe them all an apology. It’s their respect you need to earn before anybody will give you theirs.”

And without another word, I storm out of the locker room and back onto the field.

The custodians are busy cleaning up the mess the fifty thousand fans left behind when I hit the turf. There are some media still shooting the shit. There are people when I don’t want there to be people, but there is no practice field here for me to go to and I sure as shit am not going back into the locker room.

So I glance around for Raptors’ personnel.

I ask them to find Steve on their radio for me.

I tell him I’m ready to run my drills.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BREXTON

THE NEW YORK RAPTORS ARE on the field in front of me. They’re running drill after drill with both Justin and Drew taking their turns throwing passes. Coaches congregate in the center and talk about who knows what.

The sounds of helmets knocking and cadences being called out fill the air as I shift on my feet and take it all in.

If anyone asks me, I’m here for my client, Whittier. He’s a punt receiver currently having some issues with the special teams coordinator, and I’m here to smooth things over.

In my head though, I’m still trying to get over that kiss from Drew the other night, our flirty texts, and possibly, maybe, I’m a little desperate to see him again.

“Did you come to see how being an agent is done?” a voice says to my right. I don’t turn to show the owner of the voice, Finn Sanderson, an iota of interest.

“Look what crawled out of the gutter and decided to see the light of day?” I say in the cheeriest of voices as in my periphery, I see him step beside me.

“What is it about you Kincade women, huh? Is hostility a family trait?”

“It goes hand in hand with our greatness.” I slide a glance his way and smile.

“Greatness, huh?” He chuckles. “It must be hard at night to fall asleep with all of those lies you tell yourself running around in your head.”

“You mean kind of like the ones you tell your clients?” I shift so I face him.