Happily Ever All-Star: A Secret Baby Romance - Sosie Frost Page 0,309

myself get taped to the goal posts for the second time.

But the worst mistake of all was missing Cole Hawthorne’s blitz during full-pad practice. He drilled my ass into the field, and I was pretty sure I saw my life flash before my eyes. At least I got an encore show of me and Elle in Vegas. That made the pain worth it.

I blinked on the ground, gasping. I could still breathe. That was good. Meant Cole hadn’t ripped holes through my chest on his way to Jack.

Coach Thompson blew his whistle before Cole ripped our quarterback in two, though Jack scrambled anyway, just in case The Beast forgot he had been traded to our team last season.

“Reed!”

Coach Thompson wasn’t a patient man. He grabbed my shoulder pads and hauled me to my feet.

“What the hell are you doing out there?” He yelled and accidentally spitting in my face. Or maybe it wasn’t an accident. “You realize you’re supposed to be playing football, rookie? It sure as hell doesn’t look like you understand a goddamned thing that’s happening out there!”

I jerked a thumb toward the field. Even that hurt. My entire body was one bruised and pulled muscle. My eyes hurt. My teeth hurt. My pride hurt.

I tried to explain. “I misread—”

“So you can’t block a linebacker. That’s good to know.”

“I can block—”

“If I get Carson to throw you the fucking ball, are you gonna catch it this time? Or you think you’ll bat it away again like some prissy fucked schoolgirl?”

“I thought—”

“No. You don’t think. You do what I tell you. You block who I tell you to block. You catch the balls I tell you to catch. Say yes, coach.”

The field quieted. Everyone watched. Just my luck. I gritted my teeth.

“Yes, coach.”

“We only got a six-week training camp, rookie. Start figuring out what the fuck you’re doing on my field.”

“Don’t worry about me, Coach. I got this covered.”

“You think so? Then tell me why I’m bitch-slapping our first-round draft choice after every goddamned play. What’s the problem? Is it too hot out here for you?”

“No, Coach.”

“Is it harder than you thought it’d be?”

Yes.

“No, Coach.”

“You miss playing in college?”

Certainly felt more welcoming.

“No, Coach.”

“Maybe you were hot shit on campus, rookie. But here you’re just the filth we scrape off the bottom of our cleats.”

It took a lot to piss me off, but we were getting pretty damn close. “Yes, Coach.”

“You better shape the fuck up. Memorize the playbook. Run the routes. Block the pass rushers. Keep Hawthorne out of the goddamned backfield. Do your goddamned job or you won’t have one by the end of this camp.”

“Yes, Coach.”

He’d already walked away, blowing the whistle to dismiss the team from practice.

Fuck me.

I stayed behind, gathering the team’s equipment. It was worse after practice, when I was tired and irritated. Jack waited by his bag, sipping Gatorade before tossing his gear at me.

“You good?” Jack asked, watching as I hobbled with his stuff, Cole’s pads, and two of Bryon’s bags—that cocksucker filled his duffle with extra bricks to piss me off.

“Yeah. Me and Coach Thompson had a nice heart-to-heart.”

“From where I was standing, it looked more like your lips to his ass.”

“He said his piece. I said mine. We’re on the same page now.”

“I know that page. Looks like a pink slip.”

“Anyone ever tell you what a funny asshole you are?”

“Easy, rookie.” He slapped my shoulder with a grin. “You’re doing fine. It’ll take some adjustment. And everyone’s gonna piss off the coach at one point. Gotta make the example out of you since you’re the playboy.”

More like whipping boy. “I’ll take one for the team.”

“Yeah, you’re real magnanimous. Who you gonna marry now to get him off your ass?”

“You, Jack. Told him the truth about us. Said we were real cuddle-buddies.”

“Just as long as everyone knows I’m the big spoon.”

We dumped the equipment in the facility, and I took my shower. But before I could leave for the night, the guys hollered at me and the other two offensive rookies.

“You’re meeting us at McCree’s Bar in an hour,” Caleb said. “You rookies owe us a round.”

More than a round I bet.

As much as I loved a good hazing, nothing good happened when half the team got blitzed. At least in public, our shampoo bottles wouldn’t mysteriously fill with stone-ground mustard, and our clothes wouldn’t magically transform into tutus and Little Bo Peep costumes.

It’d be an expensive night, probably dropping a grand on food and drink for the guys, but I