Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 600(@200wpm)___ 480(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Did I mention I’m also a student? Every week, I study, learn, memorize. Playbooks are my life. I read over them at night, during breakfast, whenever I get the chance. But right now?
I want out.
My head isn’t in it. It’s past five on a Friday, I’m fucking tired, and we’ve been here for hours, reviewing footage and now the playbook.
Fingers snap, the sound catching my attention. Altman’s cold blue eyes bore into me. He’s about fifteen years older than I am, once a backup quarterback who got traded around toward the end of his career. It’s the thing we fear most, being tossed aside, scrambling to find work, and finally realizing no one will pick you up.
But Altman made the most of it. He’s an excellent offensive coordinator and will probably be a coach one day.
“You got something to share with the class, Manny?” he asks now.
This is my second year working with him. I can read him well and know he isn’t pissed. Yet.
I give him an easy smile. “Yeah, I’ve gotta use the can.”
“Can’t hold it in, Manny?” Dillon teases.
“Heard it’s bad for the prostate,” I say blandly.
Wooster snorts. “Wouldn’t want Manny to lose his shit on the field, now would we?”
That’s exactly what he’d love. But, despite what people might think, we’re not exactly enemies, either.
Even so, I give him the finger. “Spin on this a bit, Rooster.”
Altman snorts. “Dick around on your own time, kids.”
But he lets us go. Thank fuck.
As soon as we’re out in the hall, Dillon is on the phone, making no effort to keep his voice down. “Hey, baby,” he croons. “Just got out. Yeah. Yeah.” He nods along to whatever his wife is saying.
I know it’s his wife because he always calls her after meetings, and he always calls her baby.
I walk a little ahead of him, trying to get out of earshot, but maintenance is buffing the floors and it’s slow going.
“She sleeping yet?” Dillon asks his wife. There’s a pause, and then the man truly croons. “Baby girl. That’s right, it’s Daddy.” The sound of a babyish squawk comes from the vicinity of the phone, and he chuckles.
I move around an equipment hamper, but get caught up at the door to the gym.
Dillon ends the call with his wife, promising to be home soon. The look on his face is so contented and softly joyful, it feels like I’m invading his privacy.
But he catches my eye and grins wider. “Vera’s starting to stand up now.”
Vera. Right. I knew that. “She’s about a year?”
“Ten months.” He pulls a photo up on his phone and shows me.
Dillon’s wife is blonde and beautiful in a homecoming queen sort of way. Their daughter is a perfect blend of them, her hair a riot of tight brass-colored ringlets, her skin light brown and dewy with youth. Bright hazel eyes shine as she smiles at the camera, displaying two front teeth.
It almost hurts to look at her, she’s so cute and happy. “She’s beautiful, man.”
“I know this,” Dillon says proudly. He gives me a friendly clasp on the shoulder. “Best thing in life, man, having a family. No matter what shit these guys tell you.”
The family men are always trying to convert us poor, soulless singles. Jake claims it’s so they feel better about being trapped. I used to agree. Now I’m not so sure.
Dillon heads out, and I’m left rubbing the tightness along my chest. The place is fairly deserted right now, most of the guys having long since gone home. I turn the corner and enter the gym on the way to the locker room. The familiar scent of metal, rubber, and lingering sweat soothes a little.
Rolondo is working the leg press, his muscles straining as he huffs and pushes his legs out straight.
“You should be working with a spotter,” I tell him. “At least if you’re going for the free weights.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The weights clank as he lowers them too fast. He grabs a towel and wipes the sweat from his face. “What you doin’ here, Manny? Everyone else has scattered like roaches to the light.”
I laugh. “I could ask the same of you.”
He rises with a groan and then stretches. “Lost track of time.”
Wooster walks in, wearing the smarmy expression that he never truly seems to drop. “You guys hear about Dex?”
“I heard.” Rolondo shoots him an annoyed look.
“I haven’t.” Concern makes my words sharp. “What’s going on? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine,” Rolondo says. “It’s nothing but some nonsense bullshit.”
Wooster ignores Rolondo. “PR released a few photos of that beefcake calendar you all are in.”
Beefcake? I feel an eye roll coming on. But it’s news to me that PR sent out photos. I’m guessing I’m not in them or I would have heard. I think about Chess looking over the shots we took and feel exposed all over again. Shaking the sensation off, I wave my hand at Wooster to continue.