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Monroe shouldered past me as the huddle split into offense and defense for drills. “That spot is mine,” he mumbled.
“Say that again, Monroe. Because I’m sure it sounded like you crying to your mom when I’m the one calling the shots against Marshall.”
“Thatch,” Gav warned but I was too wound up to see sense. Monroe had pushed and pushed and pushed last week and I hadn’t pushed back. But maybe it was time to. Maybe it was time to fight fire with fire.
“You think my guys are going to fall into line for an Eagle. No. Fucking. Way.” He got all up in my face.
“Thatcher. Monroe. Do we have a problem?” The offensive coach yelled.
“No problem, sir,” Monroe replied, glaring at me. “Just getting Thatcher up to speed on some plays.”
“Thatch, man,” Bryan slid his arm around my chest. “He isn’t worth it.”
“Yeah.” I shrugged him off and jogged into position.
I put all my frustration into my game, pushing myself hard. My passes were sharp, sailing down the field with precision and speed, and my runs were fast and unbeatable. I absorbed the coaches’ direction, switching up my throwing technique and losing myself in repetitive drills until Lily Ford became a distant memory.
Exactly where she needed to stay.
“Okay, good work out there QBs. Take a drink break then go work on those passes. Offense with me. Defense with Coach Macintosh.”
Monroe muttered something under his breath as we each made our way over to the water bottles. When we were done, he thrust a ball at me and said, “Ladies first.”
Asshole.
I got into position on my knees and waited for him to move back about ten yards. He bounced on the balls of his feet moving to the right and left and then lunged to the right, stretching his arm high.
Hiking the ball over my shoulder I pushed forward with my hips and let it sail out of my hands. He caught it easily.
“Not bad,” he smirked. He threw it back at me. Hard. It caught me off balance and I stumbled a little to stay upright. He sneered and I cut him with an icy glare.
We worked like that for ten minutes and then switched. Then we went up on one knee and did another round. It was a strengthening exercise, forcing you to throw from the upper body rather than your legs. And by the time Coach called us in, my muscles ached, and I wanted nothing more than to hit the showers and let the hot jets work out the kinks.
Monroe offered me his hand and I took it, letting him pull me up. But at the last second, before I’d gotten my balance, he let go and I stumbled back.
“What the fuck, man?” I leaped to my feet and got right up in his face. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“My problem?” He smashed his helmet into mine, “This is my team. My fucking team, Thatcher. You think you can just waltz in here and take over?”
“You think I want to be here? Trust me, I don’t. But I am here, so you’d better get used to it.” I shouldered past him just as Coach boomed our names.
“What?” Monroe called after me. “You think you’re too good to play with us, but good enough for our girls?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I ground to a halt and spun around.
“You know exactly what it means. We all saw you disappear into the boat shed with Coach’s daughter.”
Everything fell silent as his words pierced the air.
“Oh shit,” someone hissed. But I ignored them, my attention focused solely on the asshole in front of me.
“You need to stop talking,” I ground out, fists clenched at my sides. “Before I make you.” Anger rippled up my spine.
“Thatcher, my office, NOW!”
Blood swam in my ears as I glanced back to find Coach storming toward the doors to the locker room.
“Nice knowing you, Thatcher.” Monroe snorted. My eyes narrowed, as my body shook with rage. But then an assistant coach shouted, “Get walking, son.”
