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Darcy is right.
I really haven’t smiled this much in years.
SEVENTEEN
SHAWN
The final whistle sounds,and I check the scoreboard.
We lost.
We didn’t just lose—we lost to a team that hasn’t won a single game all season.
I rip off my headset and throw it at the concrete wall behind me. I flex my fingers and shake out my hands. My eyes close, and I rub my chest as I take a deep breath, hold it for a count of five, then exhale. I haven't felt like this in years. The slow and gentle claws of anxiety and panic latch onto my back and crawl up to my shoulders.
Breathe,I tell myself.You’re fine.
I inhale again, and when I exhale, I feel better. I’m more stable and aware of my surroundings.
The roar of the crowd doesn’t help me think—it hasn’t helped me think all game. The half-full stadium of fans has been incessant, screaming at the top of their lungs and slapping the seats to distract us.
Andfuck,did they distract us.
We had a chance to tie with ten seconds on the clock, but Jett, our quarterback, didn’t notice the Grizzlies defense shifting. He got sacked—hard—by a four-hundred-pound defensive tackle who drove him into the ground like he was a dog’s chew toy as time expired.
And that was that.
We kissed our undefeated season goodbye.
I hear a whistle. I blink, and I see Dallas taking off from the sidelines. He runs straight for the player who took down his teammate and throws a punch at him. The benches start to clear, and I stare, flabbergasted, as mayhem unfolds. The refs blow their whistles again and try to regain order.
It's useless. I sprint onto the field and pull my players off the opposing team. I nudge them toward the tunnel and shake my head when they try to defend their actions.
I have to pick up Dallas around his middle to get him off the defensive tackle. He’s never so much as hurt a fly, and now his fists are running rampant, trying to punch anyone wearing a white jersey.
“Hey,” I snap. “Knock it the fuck off.”
“That was an illegal hit,” he exclaims. He thrashes in my arms and tries to break free. He’s barely a hundred and sixty pounds with all his equipment on, a weight I can easily lift with one leg, and it’s funny he thinks he’s going to get very far. “He grabbed Jett’s facemask and probably gave him a concussion.”
“And you think trying to hit someone three times the size of you is going to fix it?” I deposit him on his feet and motion toward the locker room. “Get out of here.”
“But Coach—”
“But Coach nothing. You’re supposed to be my captain, man, and you’re out here acting like an idiot. Get it under control,” I say.
Dallas hangs his head. He nods and pulls off his jersey. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and he sounds so much like the shy and introverted twenty-two-year-old we drafted four years ago, my heart hurts a little bit.
The walk through the tunnel with my assistants is quiet. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. A headache blooms across my forehead and down my neck, and I try to rub the ache away. When I get to the locker room, I find fifty-three men with towels over their heads and disappointment on their faces.
“Hey,” I say, and they all look up. “Before I get started, I want to say that what happened out there at the end of the game was unacceptable. I don’t care if we get beat by fifty; storming the field and going after their players like that isn’t who we are. I get you’re mad. I get you’re fired up. I get that losing sucks, but trying to be a marauder?” I scan the room and level Dallas with a look. “That shit isn’t going to fly here.”
“Yes, Coach,” Dallas says.
“I should suspend you for instigating a fight,” I say. “If I don’t, the league might.”
“I understand,” he mumbles. “It won’t happen again.”
I know it won’t. His record is pristine, and the anger was a clear spur-of-the-moment thing, caught in a heated battle to protect his teammate. I won’t tell him this, but I’m proud as hell he had the guts to do that.
