AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I snuck quietly toward the direction of his voice, still trying to stay hidden beneath the bleachers.
“I don’t care, Patrick. You’re lucky we allowed you to come at all. Don’t you think it’s time you put this silly dream to bed? We’ve indulged you long enough. You’re a Whitt, and you belong at Whitt Industries.”
“It’s not silly,” Whitt replied. “This is what I want—what I’ve always wanted.”
Silly dream? What the fuck? This wasn’t what Whitt led us to believe about his dad at all.
“And what makes you think we always get what we want? You have for most of your life, but you’re almost eighteen. What are the chances you’re going to make it to the NFL?”
“Really good, which you would know if you watched me play. If you actually listened when scouts or Coach…” His words trailed off, and I couldn’t hear what he said next.
I was trying to figure out if I’d fallen asleep and was having a really weird Whitt-dream or something. His dad never watched him play? Now that I thought about it, Whitt always bragged about how supportive his parents were, but neither of them was ever at our end-of-camp scrimmage games. Whitt always made up some excuse about work shit.
“I’m tired of pretending like playing a sport your whole life is a viable career path. This business has been in our family for over a hundred years, and you want to throw that away for a silly game?”
“How many times do I have to tell you it’s not silly to me!” Whitt shouted. “It’s the only thing I’m good at! The only thing I love!”
Whitt’s dad’s cell rang. “I need to take this. I won’t be able to pick you up at the end of camp. I already had to rearrange my entire schedule to bring you since they want a parent or guardian here for drop-off and your mom was unavailable. Candace will pick you up though.”
His dad answered the call and walked away. Whitt closed his eyes and dropped his head back, his body language completely changing. Gone was the cocky shit-talker, and instead, he looked…fuck, he looked really goddamned sad. His shoulders curled in, and his body nearly slumped. This wasn’t the Whitt I knew.
I took a step forward, then another, watching as Whitt took a few deep breaths. When his eyes opened, they automatically landed on me, rotating through shock, embarrassment, then anger.
“Are you fucking spying on me?” He stormed at me as if he were going to punch me.
“Don’t give yourself that much credit. I was chillin’ under here and heard you… I…I’m sorry.” Why did he lie about his dad? I had no problem letting people know my sperm donor had been a son of a bitch.
His blue gaze hardened, hooded beneath his thick lashes. “Don’t feel sorry for me, and I swear to Christ, Tucker, if you say a goddamned word—”
“I won’t,” I cut him off. I didn’t like the guy, but I disliked his dad more now. And I wasn’t the guy who spread people’s business. Whitt’s shit was his own.
“Fuck off,” he replied like I hadn’t answered in agreement with him. Then Whitt turned and walked away.
PART ONE
First Half
* * *
This section crosses over with the timeline of Rookie Move, occurring during Garrett McRae’s first season with the Rush.
1
WHITT
Preseason was one of my favorite times of the year. Even entering my fifth season in the league as a cornerback, the anticipation of what was to come still electrified me, and it wasn’t just because every year meant the fresh possibility of getting to the Super Bowl. It was also the energy level of the team, knowing that all the hard work we’d been doing off-season and during training camp was about to be tested. I’d always been a competitive motherfucker, and this preseason was no different. We’d nailed our match against Tennessee last week, and a bunch of us had been gathering to watch the other team’s games whenever we could.
This afternoon, seven of the OG’s who’d been with the Royals as long as I had had gathered at our QB, Karim LaForge’s, Thousand Oaks pad to watch the Rush take on Las Vegas.
I was hoping they’d choke, but after the first quarter, I couldn’t deny the Rush were looking even better this season with the addition of Garrett McRae, their rookie wide receiver, andBrandon Cross, their new tight end.
“Okay, McRae’s pretty decent,” LaForge said with a groan as the Rush completed another pass. “He always play like this?” He looked over at me from his beat-up old recliner we called his throne. He’d had it since college, and it stuck out like a sore thumb among his other expensive furniture, but he swore it was good luck and that he’d never get rid of it.
“Am I his rep?” I laughed. “I have no idea.”
“You played with Houston in college, though, right?”
“For one year before I transferred to Franklin U. Garrett was still a kid then.” But apparently, one who’d grown up to be every bit the threat his older brother was before he’d been permanently sidelined by a knee injury.
