Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
“Same play!” Coach Rogan shouts. “Alister, fire the fucking ball off!”
Not on my watch.
I smirk around the hunk of plastic in my mouth, chuckling when Alister shoves his mouthpiece back in with angry, jerky movements.
My eyes do a swift scan of the field, watching as Chase and our other receiver swap places, spreading out until they’re on opposite sides of the field.
Alister’s knee is bouncing slightly, a tell of his I learned last year. He’s letting his anger get the best of him, and it’s affecting his play.
He’ll never be able to lead a team at this level if he can’t find a way around that, and he’ll never even get the chance to lead this one after Mason’s time is up if he doesn’t find a way to gain the respect of his teammates. Where he stands currently, he doesn’t have it, and it’s got nothing to do with his annoyance at me or the shit he stirred with Mason last year.
Nah, it’s all him and his inability to trust those around him. He’s a quarterback who wants to run more than throw, and that makes no fucking sense, especially not with Coach Davies, who runs the offense here. He’s all about the passing game, and Alister doesn’t trust his receivers enough to make the catch, let alone trust his line to block well enough to allow him time to read the field.
Now that I will take all the credit for.
I’m in the backfield more often than not, and practice is no different. When Coach first asked me to make the transition from offense to D-end, I wasn’t so sure. It’s always been me and my boys on the field together: Chase as the receiver, Mason the one throwing him the ball, and me, the guy who makes sure they can’t fucking touch him. But man, that very first week practicing at the new position, something just clicked.
This is where I was meant to be.
I got three sacks in the very first game this season. My first fucking game at a position I’d only been practicing at for weeks rather than the twelve years I’d spent on the other side of the ball. That is just wild. Some people go full seasons without a sack, and I managed three in one game.
We’re six games in, and I’m already at seven sacks, tied for the division’s leading spot.
I’m ’bout to make it eight, not that this will count toward my real stats.
Coach blows the whistle, and Alister steps up, casting a look across the line. He lifts his foot once, twice. The ball is snapped, the line holds strong, but I shove my way through just as Alister steps back.
He’s in full windup, but before the ball leaves his fingers, I wrap his ass up, taking him to the turf with a satisfying thump.
The ball rolls out of his hands, and I snatch it up, jogging toward the end zone for what would be a defensive touchdown, but just like I figured—hence the jogging—Coach is already blowing the whistle, and I fight a laugh when he starts to chew me out.
“Goddamn it, Lancaster, what the hell are you doin’?” He stomps out on the field, clipboard held out and pointed in the air. “You don’t take the fucking quarterback down!”
“Sorry, Coach!” I shout, shrugging like an innocent schoolboy, and bite back my retort that Alister isn’t our real quarterback. “Couldn’t stop my momentum.”
He scoffs loudly, slapping his leg with the thin plywood. “Take a lap, asshole.”
“Yes, Coach.” I grin, jogging back over to where Alister has pulled himself off the ground, turf stains on his ass. I toss him the ball, and he bats it away, his glare following me as I take off for my lap. I’d bet money he knows exactly where I’m headed.
I go wide on the field, running along the edge without getting my cleats on the track, and when I reach the benches on the opposite side, I cut a quick look back. Good, Coach ain’t watching…but guess who is.
I smirk, tear my helmet off, and run over the small walking path, jumping up until I’m half hanging over the ledge to the bleacher.
The girls laugh, textbooks and notebooks in their laps, having come out to study while we practice, something they’ve been doing since high school.
“Ari, Paige.” I smile at them, then turn to Cameron. “Hi, Fake Girlfriend.”
Cameron crosses her arms with a playful narrowing of her eyes. “Hi, Fake Boyfriend. I take it laying him on his ass wasn’t satisfying enough?”
“Not nearly. Wanna make out, celebrate our eight-day anniversary?”
She laughs, but I’m already jumping down, having only been teasing.
“Gotta go. Don’t let my hot body distract you from studying too much, okay?”
“Oh, however will I manage that,” she teases, still looking at me as I turn around and finish my lap.