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TATUM
Mason Miller barreled forward and pummeled me to the ground. The Tennessee cornerback had been glued to my ass all damn day.
My shoulder pads clattered as I hit the turf and tumbled across the twenty-yard line. I groaned and shifted to my back.
“You alright, bro?” Mason asked with a laugh. He offered me a gloved hand and pulled me to my feet.
“Yeah. Good hit, man.” I reset my mouthguard and caught my breath. “Still smoked your sorry butt.”
My neck burned under the August sun, and my entire body dripped with sweat. I didn’t mind, though. Playing football in Rhode Island meant we’d be freezing our nuts off before long. Had to enjoy the heat while it lasted.
I scanned the stadium and breathed in the excitement. Cheerleaders hyped the crowd with a dance routine. The fans roared loud enough to drown out the Pitbull song that blared from the speakers. My last team had wild home games, but Rhode Island Reds fans were a different breed.
“Hurry your ass up, Bryant!” Gideon shouted, snapping me back to reality. My quarterback locked eyes with me and scowled. “And wipe that stupid smirk off your face. We haven’t won yet.”
I jogged over and found my spot in the huddle. Gid was right. Our three-point lead didn’t leave enough margin for us to slack off. If we fucked up, Tennessee had ninety seconds to turn things around—practically an hour in football time.
“Alright, ladies,” Gideon hollered as sweat trickled down his face. “Let’s get this win in the books so Bryant can go stand outside his girlfriend’s house with a boombox.”
I smirked. “And to think I was gonna let you meet her after the game.”
Time was running out. I forced thoughts of my girl from my mind and tuned in to Gid’s instructions.
Hum short… Eight-four… Half-back shallow… Right pocket… On two.
It was clever for the yards we needed to gain. Gideon got paid the big bucks for signal calling like that.
A sideline reporter barked into his microphone and caught my attention. “Wide receiver T.J.Bryant Jr. has a lot to prove this year after being traded last minute to Rhode Island. He’s shown tremendous potential throughout his career but has never been the same caliber of player as his father, hall-of-fame legend T.J.Bryant Sr.”
I saw red and nearly lost control. Comments like that shouldn’t have bothered me after all these years, but honestly, I wanted to grab that asshole by his neck and throw him through the uprights.
“Ignore that shit,” Gideon said and hooked his fingers through my facemask. “Stay in your lane and do what you’re getting paid to do. Fuck the commentary. Turn your ears off and catch the damn ball.” He yanked on my helmet to punctuate his point.
I hadn’t expected our reunion, but damn, it felt good to be back on the field with my old quarterback. We played together in college and operated like a hive mind. After the draft, we found ourselves on different teams but stayed in touch. Pro football was a tight-knit community. This season would make or break my career, and I was thankful to face it with Gideon on my side.
His eyes bore into mine. “Keep your head on straight, and this week will be ours. Fuck the noise.”
I pounded his fist. “Hell yeah.”
We dropped into formation along the line of scrimmage. The Tennessee defense stared back at us like rodeo bulls waiting for the gate to open.
My route appeared in my mind like a painting.
Gideon called the snap, and I bolted.
I leaped over a pile of blue and gray jerseys, pulling my knees to my chest. The spikes of my cleats reconnected the grass, and I thundered toward the ten-yard line.
Gideon would have already faked a pass to our halfback.
I turned my head just in time to see Theo struggling to hold off a defensive lineman. Gid avoided a sack and fired the ball toward me as the offensive line collapsed around him.
Mason charged in front of me and leaped into the air to intercept the throw. His hands came up empty, though.
Sucker.
He recovered quickly and sprinted after me like a high-speed train.
I weaved to the far-right corner of the five-yard line and jumped with my arms up. Shit! Gideon had pitched it higher than I expected. A few more inches, and I’d have the damn thing. My back arched as I reached behind my head, desperate to save the play.
