The Game Plan
Page 86
“This media circus will die down soon enough. In the meantime, take this as the opportunity it is. Channel that rage, Dex.” His expression goes brutal and dead serious. “But keep it on the fucking field.”
“Sure thing, Coach.” Because what else can I say?
I’m no less angry once I’m on the field and playing. Not by a long fucking shot. Oh, but I channel that rage, pushing it through my lungs until they burn, forcing it into my muscles until they twitch with the need to punish. I use it to break apart the defense, and I soak it up when the crowd roars it approval.
It feels good. All of it so fucking good—an adrenaline rush, the likes of which I’ve only come close to while thrusting into Fi.
I love football. Always have. Lived and breathed it. But it’s never been like this. This rage, the way it suddenly flows through me without hindrance, is something different. Something inside has finally broken free. No more holding back. No more fear.
But my logical brain can’t switch off entirely. Because I still know it’s Fi’s pain that has set this part of me free. How fucked up is that?
At the line, the defense scrambles around, and I sense a zone blitz coming. You can see it, if you pay attention, not just in the way the defense positions themselves, but in their eyes, the tension around their mouths.
I know they think Finn is too inexperienced to deal with them. They’re wrong.
I signal the play, and my guys adjust quickly. I get the snap off and we’re countering with an offensive blitz before the defense knows what’s happening.
It’s a beautiful play, and it clearly pisses them off. Norris, a nose tackle, and the fuck-nugget who outed me to the tabloids, whistles long and low. “Feeling good, Dexter? Yeah, I would too if my girl had them perky titties.”
Red fogs my vision. “The fuck?” I lunge forward, only to bump into Rolondo, who braces a palm against my gut.
His eyes are dead serious. “Let it the fuck go, man. He’s only trying to get to you.”
From behind him, I hear a laugh. “Sucking on those titties…”
My teeth gnash. But my guys are surrounding me.
“Save it for the play,” Ryder says at my side. “We will fuck them up.”
Someone gives me an encouraging slap to the helmet. I move back to the huddle, trying to concentrate. Finn gives me a quick look, but he’s calling the next play.
Breathe. Focus. Get it together.
I try. I really do. But I miss a beat, and when I snap the ball, a defensive end blows by me and sacks Finn.
“Shit.”
Norris is at my elbow again, snickering. “Fiona Mackenzie, eh? Sweet little honey, D. Looks like she’s a natural blonde—”
I don’t see anything but a haze and the whites of Norris’s eyes as I grab hold of his helmet and rip it from his head. Mine is off too. Not sure how. Don’t care. My fist connects with his face, smashing into it so hard I feel it in my spine.
Whistles blow. Yellow flags fly.
Guys pile on top of us. Mine. His. Blows hit my head, back. I don’t feel them. I’m pounding Norris, who is stuck beneath me.
And then I’m thrown on my back with a jarring thud. It clears my head enough for me to pop up. A ref struggles to step into my path. I duck around him as other guys scuffle.
“Cool it,” shouts a ref.
Finn is at my arm, pulling me back. “Easy, Dex.”
But then Norris is coming at me, blood pouring down his nose and in his teeth. “That’s why your girl took the money, cuz you’re a fucking pussy!”
I’m two steps into coming at him again, when his words hit me and I go ice cold.
Took the money?
Guys are getting into smaller fights again. Rolondo is now up in Norris’s face, calling him a punk-ass bitch—refs are plucking them apart.
Someone is walking me backward, pushing me toward the sidelines as shouts continue. But I’m numb, my ears ringing and all available blood rushing to the pit of my stomach.
Took the money?
The ref ejects me and Norris from the game, and the stadium erupts into a chorus of boos.
On the sidelines, my offensive coach is shouting at me that I fucked up while slapping my shoulder to say it’s okay I nearly tore Norris’s head off. My head coach is bellowing in my ear about being a dumbass. But I’m barely listening.
I find an assistant coordinator. “You got a phone?”
He glances around as if trying to find an escape.
“Give me your fucking phone,” I snap. Blood trickles in my eye, and a medic is trying to press a cloth to the cut on my forehead. I wave him off, grab the phone that’s offered to me with a shaking hand.
One glance around confirms that everyone’s been keeping something from me. I find out soon enough when the headlines pop up.
Fiona Mackenzie claims her million dollars
There’s a picture of Fi and me, fuzzy and taken from a distance. We’re laughing, my arm slung around her slim shoulders as we stroll through Jackson Square.
And under that, the confirmation that Fi called Bloom this morning, demanding her prize.
Chapter Forty-Four
Dex
I don’t go home. I can’t.
Rolondo takes me to his apartment. I head straight to his guest room and into the shower. I hadn’t bothered washing up at the stadium, just sat on a flimsy chair in front of my spot until the guys came back in and Rolondo hustled me out of there.
Now I stand beneath cold water, letting it pummel me. Images flash through my mind: Fi’s smile. Fi crying. Norris’s ugly grin, blood running down his nose. Fi arching beneath me as I take her. Fi and me laughing in a grainy picture. Fi telling me she wants to go to London.
“Sure thing, Coach.” Because what else can I say?
I’m no less angry once I’m on the field and playing. Not by a long fucking shot. Oh, but I channel that rage, pushing it through my lungs until they burn, forcing it into my muscles until they twitch with the need to punish. I use it to break apart the defense, and I soak it up when the crowd roars it approval.
It feels good. All of it so fucking good—an adrenaline rush, the likes of which I’ve only come close to while thrusting into Fi.
I love football. Always have. Lived and breathed it. But it’s never been like this. This rage, the way it suddenly flows through me without hindrance, is something different. Something inside has finally broken free. No more holding back. No more fear.
But my logical brain can’t switch off entirely. Because I still know it’s Fi’s pain that has set this part of me free. How fucked up is that?
At the line, the defense scrambles around, and I sense a zone blitz coming. You can see it, if you pay attention, not just in the way the defense positions themselves, but in their eyes, the tension around their mouths.
I know they think Finn is too inexperienced to deal with them. They’re wrong.
I signal the play, and my guys adjust quickly. I get the snap off and we’re countering with an offensive blitz before the defense knows what’s happening.
It’s a beautiful play, and it clearly pisses them off. Norris, a nose tackle, and the fuck-nugget who outed me to the tabloids, whistles long and low. “Feeling good, Dexter? Yeah, I would too if my girl had them perky titties.”
Red fogs my vision. “The fuck?” I lunge forward, only to bump into Rolondo, who braces a palm against my gut.
His eyes are dead serious. “Let it the fuck go, man. He’s only trying to get to you.”
From behind him, I hear a laugh. “Sucking on those titties…”
My teeth gnash. But my guys are surrounding me.
“Save it for the play,” Ryder says at my side. “We will fuck them up.”
Someone gives me an encouraging slap to the helmet. I move back to the huddle, trying to concentrate. Finn gives me a quick look, but he’s calling the next play.
Breathe. Focus. Get it together.
I try. I really do. But I miss a beat, and when I snap the ball, a defensive end blows by me and sacks Finn.
“Shit.”
Norris is at my elbow again, snickering. “Fiona Mackenzie, eh? Sweet little honey, D. Looks like she’s a natural blonde—”
I don’t see anything but a haze and the whites of Norris’s eyes as I grab hold of his helmet and rip it from his head. Mine is off too. Not sure how. Don’t care. My fist connects with his face, smashing into it so hard I feel it in my spine.
Whistles blow. Yellow flags fly.
Guys pile on top of us. Mine. His. Blows hit my head, back. I don’t feel them. I’m pounding Norris, who is stuck beneath me.
And then I’m thrown on my back with a jarring thud. It clears my head enough for me to pop up. A ref struggles to step into my path. I duck around him as other guys scuffle.
“Cool it,” shouts a ref.
Finn is at my arm, pulling me back. “Easy, Dex.”
But then Norris is coming at me, blood pouring down his nose and in his teeth. “That’s why your girl took the money, cuz you’re a fucking pussy!”
I’m two steps into coming at him again, when his words hit me and I go ice cold.
Took the money?
Guys are getting into smaller fights again. Rolondo is now up in Norris’s face, calling him a punk-ass bitch—refs are plucking them apart.
Someone is walking me backward, pushing me toward the sidelines as shouts continue. But I’m numb, my ears ringing and all available blood rushing to the pit of my stomach.
Took the money?
The ref ejects me and Norris from the game, and the stadium erupts into a chorus of boos.
On the sidelines, my offensive coach is shouting at me that I fucked up while slapping my shoulder to say it’s okay I nearly tore Norris’s head off. My head coach is bellowing in my ear about being a dumbass. But I’m barely listening.
I find an assistant coordinator. “You got a phone?”
He glances around as if trying to find an escape.
“Give me your fucking phone,” I snap. Blood trickles in my eye, and a medic is trying to press a cloth to the cut on my forehead. I wave him off, grab the phone that’s offered to me with a shaking hand.
One glance around confirms that everyone’s been keeping something from me. I find out soon enough when the headlines pop up.
Fiona Mackenzie claims her million dollars
There’s a picture of Fi and me, fuzzy and taken from a distance. We’re laughing, my arm slung around her slim shoulders as we stroll through Jackson Square.
And under that, the confirmation that Fi called Bloom this morning, demanding her prize.
Chapter Forty-Four
Dex
I don’t go home. I can’t.
Rolondo takes me to his apartment. I head straight to his guest room and into the shower. I hadn’t bothered washing up at the stadium, just sat on a flimsy chair in front of my spot until the guys came back in and Rolondo hustled me out of there.
Now I stand beneath cold water, letting it pummel me. Images flash through my mind: Fi’s smile. Fi crying. Norris’s ugly grin, blood running down his nose. Fi arching beneath me as I take her. Fi and me laughing in a grainy picture. Fi telling me she wants to go to London.
