Page 82 of Hard to Score

I storm over to our offensive coordinator as he starts to walk toward Hobbs. “Goddammit, Lonnie, put me in the fucking game,” I demand.

He holds his hand up for me to calm down—or shut up—as he presses his hand to his earpiece so he can hear what’s being said. He nods as if he’s in agreement with the coordinators watching the game from above in the team press box, who are helping call the plays.

“C’mon, man. It’s my job to step up. He’s drowning out there and taking the rest of us with him.” I throw my hand out in frustration.

“He needs to learn from his mistakes, Drew.”

“He what?” I shout at him. “You’re going to lose another damn game because he needs his hand held? Are you fucking kidding me?”

When I stalk off the field, it takes everything I have not to throw my helmet as hard as I can at the ground.

But I can’t.

Team solidarity. And all that shit. Why can’t this team get its head out of its ass and see that I should be playing? I should be on that field. I should be the one leading them.

But I can’t see that changing any time soon.

Fuck.

Is it time I call my agent? Ask for what I want?

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

DREW

Brexton: That was a tough loss.

Me: Hobbs is in a slump. In his own head.

Brexton: You could come over. I could cheer you up.

I groan at the invitation. At the desire to get lost in her tonight after being so fucking frustrated during the game.

It pains me to type the response.

Me: I thought we said we were taking it slow. Three weeks? Isn’t that what we agreed upon?

Brexton: I may have been intoxicated when I agreed to that. Three weeks is a long time.

Me: We can do it. This getting to know you stuff is fun.

I laugh out loud when I hit send, because I can already hear her groan when she reads it. It’s the same sound she’s emitted every time I’ve walked her to the door and turned away.

Brexton: Why three weeks? Why is that the time frame?

Me: Because three is your favorite number.

Brexton: You actually remember what my lucky number is?

Me: You used to count everything in threes when we were kids. How could I forget?

Brexton: Thank God it isn’t twenty.

Me: No shit.

Brexton: Is that really why? The three?

Me: Yes.