AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“A man never deserves to have his dick talked down to like that.”
“And a woman never deserves to be pushed against a wall while she is trying to undress.”
I stood up, towering over her and taking a step closer. “You didn't mind in New York.”
“Yeah well,” she crossed her arms over her chest and rolled her eyes, “New York was headed toward a happy ending. You were just bullying me last week.”
I stayed quiet and squinted my eyes at her. Truthfully, Iwasbullying her. She pissed me off just by being there and being so untouchable. She added more stress to my job by just being there. I had been losing control, more and more since she turned around at that first game to face me.
“What are you doing here, at the gym?” I asked, almost annoyed again that she was invading yet another part of my life. My tone spoke of my discontent, and she picked up on it.
“I’ve worked here for years. This place is a second home to me, so it kinda feels like I should be asking you that?”
I didn't owe her any explanations. She saw by my fight with Sisco that it wasn't my first time. No one in my football life knew I boxed, though, and I started to ask her to keep it to herself.
“See ya next Sunday,Brett,” she turned before I could say anything else, not forcing me to explain. I didn't bother asking her to keep quiet about my extracurricular activities either.
Boxing wasn't against the rules, but Richard frowned upon on anything that could cause harm to players and coaches. Some guys even had it in their contracts that they weren't allowed to take risks, such as skydiving or driving motorcycles. I didn't, but the owner of the Jets would lose his shit if he knew I took hits to the head once a week.
He would also use it as an excuse to fire me from my contract.
I let Charleigh leave, but I came close to pulling her into my lap. It was hard to see her outside of the stadium and remember that we were enemies now. The word enemies may have been a step too far, but that was how it felt. We had to stay angry, even if it didn't make sense. It was the only way we could keep our jobs.
The league didn't excuse misunderstandings. They wouldn't care that we had no idea who each other were at the time. Once we figured it out, that would have been the best time to fess up. But that was weeks ago and now, we were stuck with our secrets.
Chapter11
Charleigh
Ihad walked in that locker room ready to yell and scream, give him everything he gave me when he invaded my personal space. But then I saw him sitting there, his shoulders slumped and tearing at his tape with his teeth.
Call me a wimp, but I couldn't be as cold to him as he was me. Especially when we were not on the field. As a fighter, I saw him differently, punching away his demons and stress.
I was also in shock that he beat Sisco. No one had ever done that and even though their sizes were comparable, Levi seemed softer by default.
Pampered.
When I met him in New York, he was wearing a tailored suit and tie. Something with an expensive name and high-end threads. I pictured him getting facials and having someone drive him everywhere.
Even when I pieced together that he was a football coach, I couldn’t separate him from the well dressed, put-together “Brett” I met before. Now I saw him a little differently. I still wanted to rip his face off for being such a jerk, but I was curious now. I wanted to know what had led him to the ring. Why would he risk his pretty face for a bout?
I mulled on that all week, and as I watched his interviews on TV, I couldn’t ever piece the two sides of him together. He obviously used “Brett” as his alias when he didn’t want anyone to know who he was.
The only thing that got under my skin now was his vehemence toward me. Couldn’t we agree to stay quiet and civil? Who cared if I was the referee? I still intended on calling a fair game.
When I walked into the stadium for the final preseason game that following Sunday, that was the mindset I had. I would be civil and call a good game. After being around each other in the gym, surely, we had come to an impasse of understanding.
“Hey Ms. Wright,” Martin smiled and waved as I walked onto the field. I gathered with my fellow officiating team, and we chatted about the game. Same stuff we always talked about—who to keep an eye on, what the teams were known for, and at what level we would let them “play it out.”
Not every penalty deserved a flag. Sometimes we had to be objective and not throw the flag and that was something we were going to try to do for that last preseason game. It made me nervous, though. Despite the uniforms we wore, calls were never black and white. But being told to make an extra point to “no-call” was making me jittery.
Any progress I made with Coach Peyton last Monday was going to go up in flames the second I didn’t call pass interference against the other team when they tested one of his precious tight ends. Tyson Black and Lawrence Anders could do no wrong.
I glanced to the sideline where Coach Peyton was watching his team warm up. He had his legs spread, his arms crossed, and a clipboard dangling from one hand. His eyes were darting from his quarterback to his wide receivers, then back to his defense. How he kept track of everyone was somewhat impressive.
The officials around me got off topic and talked about their wives, kids, and grandkids. I had none of that, so I was lost inside my own head, watching Coach Peyton and trying once again to combine him with “Brett.”
His face looked stressed–even more than usual–like whatever was going on inside his head was becoming harder to mask with his features. It couldn’t just be me, could it? Surely his stress was coming from somewhere deeper than the line judge he once fucked seven ways to Sunday.
