“Excuse me?”
“Yes. Because you’re your own worst enemy, Luca.”
“What the fuck are you babbling about?”
“You self-sabotage. You’re pushing me away, so if things don’t go well for you, you can say, ‘I didn’t even try my best. If I did, I totally would have succeeded.”
I roll my eyes like that’s preposterous. “That’s not it.”
Is that it, though? If you ask me, it’s more likely I’m deeply worried and pissed she’s going to be spending so much fucking time with the team’s superstar in the coming weeks. Say what you want about Moriarty’s nasty personality, he’s one hell of a good-looking motherfucker. Plus, he’s now filthy rich, too, which kind of makes up for his shortcomings in terms of personality. Now that Chelsea’s assigned to Moriarty, what are the odds I’ll ever get to be alone in a room with her ever again, let alone in a hotel room where I’m gleefully removing that cute little pragmatic bra from her tits while she hungrily kisses me back and runs her hands furiously through my hair?
Chelsea starts to reply to my latest denials, but before she manages more than a few chastising words, a sudden roar from the distant crowds of spectators surrounding the field cuts her off, and a half second after that, a veteran lineman stretching near me on the field bellows in a deep baritone, “Moriartyyyy!”
Every head on the field snaps toward the entrance to the field. And there he is. Jacob Moriarty. The Mastodons’ only star player, striding onto the field in full pads, holding a black helmet in his huge hand, and carrying a fuck-ton of new cash in his proverbial pocket.
The die-hard fans standing closest to the field on the other side of the security barrier, the craziest ones who’ve somehow remained loyal and optimistic despite years of disappointments and blunders, scream at Moriarty to come over, and since pretty much all of them are wearing jerseys emblazoned with his number, he dutifully swaggers over and begins robotically signing everything they shove at him, whether it’s jerseys, hats, shoes, or swag.
“They love him,” Chelsea murmurs.
“Yup.” He’s an asshole. But in this town, he’stheirasshole.
Before this morning, when I glimpsed Moriarty with Chelsea from a distance, I’d already seen him a few times in person. Mostly when I’d been warming a bench and had to sit there watching my team’s offensive starters get terrorized by him. And of course, I’ve seen Moriarty in person whenever I’ve attended a family member’s game against the Mastodons. Plus, I’ve seen the man I now consider my archnemesis on TV countless times and in film reviews. Coaches often use clips of Moriarty to make a specific point. Sometimes, about good form and technique. More often, about relentlessness and tenacity—the kind of grit nobody can teach. Say what you will about Jacob Moriarty’s moodiness and stoicism, but he’d rather die than give up a single inch on the playing field.
But even so, despite all that prior familiarity with Moriarty, seeing him here now, in the flesh, up close and personal, feels intimidating as hell. He’s larger than life. Kinda scary looking, too. In fact, despite what I just now said to Chelsea about me having everything handled on my own, the sight of Moriarty is rattling my supposed confidence.
I get up from the ground, just in case Moriarty’s planning to come over here to say something to me. Not that he would, since I’m a nobody to him. It’s been years since all the talking heads compared me to him in college, after all—with lots evensaying I was better than him. And when I’m vertical, I realize my rival is taller than me, which is hard to do. Denser, too. Also, far meaner looking than I could ever be. Which, to be fair, isn’t hard to do.
“I should go talk to him,” Chelsea whispers.
“Godspeed.”
“Don’t let him distract you.”
“Go, Chelsea. I’m fine.”
She flashes me a look of rebuke before taking off at a jog, her dark ponytail swinging adorably. And a second later, when Moriarty sees his new personal coach heading toward him, something unexpected and horrific happens—something that sends rage and panic coursing through my already simmering veins: Jacob Moriarty’s stony, rugged face lights up with a wide, beaming smile.
Excuse me?Why the ever-loving fuck is that normally stoic motherfucker smiling at my girl? In every media interview I’ve ever seen of the man, dating all the way back to his college days, he’s a goddamned brick wall. A robot. A monster. But now, suddenly, he’s got butterflies, rainbows, and cheeky smiles for my little mathlete?
“Let’s get started!” Coach Parker shouts. “Gather around, everyone!”
We all crowd around to hear our head coach’s opening remarks before the all-important scrimmage, and not surprisingly, he welcomes Moriarty to camp as his first order of business. I steal a glance at my adversary, the guy everyone compared me to in college who went on to do great things, while I didn’t. And when I look over, it’s just in time to see Moriarty lean down—way, way down, considering his height—to casually whisper something to Chelsea. Something that makes her nod in agreement.
Motherfucker.
Suddenly, that murder hypothetical I was thinking about earlier seems like something I’d gladly do for the sheer hell of it—and maybe not quite so hypothetically. Like I always say: Fun is fuel. Well, as I’m suddenly realizing, murdering Jacob Moriarty would be the best kind of fun—my version of jet fuel.
CHAPTER 22
Chelsea
IT’S PAST CURFEWfor the players. Past my bedtime, too. And yet, I’m lying awake in my hotel bed, secretly working on Luca’s personalized playbook. Seriously, though, what sane woman could even think about falling asleep after watching Luca smashing it at two straight scrimmages? Luca’s triumph has been especially thrilling, because Moriarty’s looked sluggish, sloppy, and rusty alongside Luca’s sharp performances.
I realize I should have been rooting for Moriarty to show up in top form, given that he’s the Mastodons’ poster boy and I’ve been tasked with whipping him into shape. But I couldn’t help but feel enthralled watching Luca wiping the turf with him, over and over again. Thankfully, when Luca quickly realized Moriarty wasn’t keeping up with him, he stopped acting like such an insecure little prick toward me and everything went back to normal between us. Whatever that means. Ever since Raul interrupted us almost having sex the other night, I’m not quite sure what’s normal for us any longer.
But anyway, based on Luca’s recent performance in scrimmages, I’m now more determined than ever to get Luca across the line and onto the active roster, even though I’m not technically assigned to him anymore. Following tomorrow night’s preseason exhibition game at our home stadium, if there’s anyindication Luca’s not an easy “keep” for the following week, then I’ve already decided I’m going to go balls to the wall with my father in that night’s meeting and beg him to give Luca another game to prove himself. Rinse and repeat, as necessary, until Number Ninety-Five is wearing a Mastodons jersey at the opening game of the regular season.
I’m going to fight for Luca, not only because I’d kill for that job in operations but also because I know deep in my bones Luca is the impact player the Mastodons need to boost their defense. Moreover, he’s a perfect fit for the team in terms of personality and leadership skills. Everyone in our locker room adores Luca Maguire. And that makes him especially effective at inspiring his teammates to give their all, just like he does, during each and every play.
