Sworn Enemies - Rebel Hart Page 0,12

the Black Widows walked out onto the field. Assuming forty women hadn’t called in sick today, the Black Widows team was made up of a measly eleven players. That was just enough to play legally in a semi-pro league. Every single person ran the entire game? That was psychotic. I saw the short roster on the website but figured they were only listing starters, not the entire goddamn team. Who plays in a league with only eleven players? What sort of masochistic shit were they into?

“Hike!”

The first snap fired back to Quinn, and she started to back away from the center. I’d been slumped in the bench but sat straight up at the sight of her. She moved like a pro. Her back was straight up and down, something I’d been trying to get half my guys to do for the entire year I’d been there. If she was scanning the field for a receiver, I couldn’t tell. Her head was unmoving. Was she taking in the entire field without moving her head? It was like I was watching a movie that glitched. One second, she was upright and backing up, and a second later, she was ducked and running. She charged through players, skipping her way through the defense until she was over the first-down line. She was only barely over when one of the tackles slammed into her. I expected her to go down instantly, but she didn’t budge. Another player came in and plowed into her, and then she went over, but not without a struggle.

“Shit.” The word left my mouth without my permission. She was good.

She was even more of a force on defense. She was strong and could tackle like no one’s business. The team they were playing against was a coed team, and one of the men on the other team managed to get his hands on the ball. He was running straight at Quinn like he was going to blow right through her, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. Quinn tucked in and rammed into him like a loose bull. Not expecting her strength, he hit the ground, and the ball got loose. She hopped over him like he wasn’t anything more than a piece of the grass, scooped up the ball, and ran it straight into the Widows end zone. My heart raced, and chills rushed over me when she casually tossed the ball to the ref and ran back to her team for a victory bump. I’d never been electrified like that watching someone play before. I barely knew what to do with myself.

I managed to drag my eyes away from Quinn long enough to watch the rest of the team, and the impressed feeling I had quickly left. They had one player on their team who was pile-driving through people like she was suffering from roid rage, and the rest of the players were struggling to keep up. Everyone seemed to be doing her own thing. I could tell that Quinn was stressed trying to keep her team in line. It was unfortunate, sad even. All respect I had for Quinn jumped headfirst out the window. What did she think of football if she was actually willing to submit this team for semi-pro consideration?

The game ended with a Widows’ victory, though by the skin of their teeth. All of Quinn’s hard work had gone to waste, yet when they removed their helmets, she patted them on the back and gave them high-fives like they’d done something worth doing. What a waste of good talent. People who were weak-minded on the field pissed me off more than dictators. I’d rather someone scream at me when I play like shit than pat me on my head and tell me I did a good job. Her team would never get better under her leadership. What a pity.

I waited for a majority of the spectators to pick up their chairs and blankets and clear off the field before I walked over. Quinn had walked over to thank the opposing team for the game and was making her way back to the rest of her team when I was close enough to call out.

“Quinn Dallen,” I called. She stopped and looked over at me. She still had her pads and jersey on, but her helmet was off, showing her face, flushed red from the game. Her teammates looked up, and all stared in our direction.

“Who’s wondering?” Quinn asked.

I tipped back the hood of my