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I put my hands on my waist and faced him, my eyes beading and my whistle in my mouth. The assistant coach was trying so hard to pull Coach Peyton away that it was almost comical.
How was it that he looked even better when he was in a fit of rage? Rage directed at me? It was like I had a defective attraction meter and instead of finding a nice, calm, and civilized man to lust after, my body chose the crazy coach.
While he was still yelling, I grabbed my flag from my waistband and brought it up into my hand. Then, like the petty woman I felt like being, I gently tossed it at his feet and blew my whistle.
I waved my arms, indicating I called another penalty and Coach Peyton stood as still as a statue as I smirked behind my whistle. Then I turned to Martin, who was approaching me for the penalty call, and I shouted to him so everyone could hear.
“Personal Foul, abusive language toward an official.”
Martin nodded and made the announcement, moving the Jets fifteen yards back and out of field goal range. I turned back to get to my spot on the line, but Coach Peyton was still not moving.
His arms were crossed, his headset was tossed to the ground, and he was eyeing me like he was dead set on killing me after the game.
When I got closer, I turned around in front of him and blew my whistle again to signal I was ready for play to begin. Only then did he come up close to me. He didn’t say anything, not even to his team. But it was awkward as the game ensued.
Finally, I couldn't take it. I looked toward him, tilted my head a little, and said, “Should have stopped at the eye doctor comment. That was actually a good one.”
Chapter12
Levi
Istewed beside Charleigh as the Jets lost the game, not being able to overcome the fifteen-yard penalty flag that she threw at me.
Fuck her.
The guys in my headset that coached from the booth told me she made a good call. They watched the replay over and over again and said it was right. But that didn't matter when ultimately, she threw the flag at my feet in an obvious act of spite. The cameras and the world probably wouldn't have even caught the difference, but I did. I knew enough about Charleigh Wright to know when she tilted her head a little, she was raging inside.
Join the party, Apple.
As if my stress hadn’t mounted past a level worthy of threatening my health, my job got even harder when Tyson Black showed up at my apartment after midnight a few days before with issues I couldn't even begin to fathom–his girlfriend had been shot. He couldn't even play the last preseason game and I wasn't even sure he would be at the first game of the regular season the following week.
Not only that, but I had also spent that entire rest of my week bouncing between calming him and seeing her in the hospital since she was an acquaintance of mine as well. The whole situation was fucked up, but I had to try to keep my focus on the team. Ty understood that, and I managed to refocus by the time the game had started Sunday.
Or I thought I had. My blood boiled to levels that my body couldn't compute, but somehow, it must have softened my heart at the same time. I had to take a moment to just be thankful Ty was okay, that his girl would be fine.
As I ran to the center of the field to shake hands with the opposing head coach, I saw Charleigh being pulled off to the side by a few people. No one of importance, probably just someone wanting to kiss her ass as she apparently made history in the NFL. But it was just enough of a distraction to keep her on the field as long as I was.
By the time I started jogging back to the corridor, she was doing the same along the side of the wall where the fans booed her for the penalties. I laughed a little to myself and slowed down to watch the show, wanting to revel in her affliction from the fans.
“You suck, you stupid cunt!”
“Bitch needs to get off the field.”
“You better watch your back, LJ.”
I cringed a little, not liking the way they were talking to her, blaming the small soft spot that had developed over the week. Sure, I had no room to talk since I had threatened her at every turn, but that was my job, not theirs. She kept her head lowered and had almost made it to the entrance to the corridor when a fan threw a beer can at her. On instinct, I ran a few feet to get to her and wrapped an arm around her back, guiding her away from the crowd.
I motioned to security as I held on tight to Charleigh, my arm moving up over her shoulder and pressing her face into my neck to protect her from any more flying objects. I forced her to walk faster, the crowd getting even crazier as they realized I was helping the referee escape their wrath.
“Traitor!”
“You need to be fired!”
“Whose side are you on, Coach?”
I ignored them and by the time we cleared the area, security was taking over. We walked like that further into the corridor than necessary but for some reason, I didn’t want to let her go until we were at her locker room. She wasn’t fighting me either.
She reeked of stale beer and her hat was nowhere to be found, lost in the mess we left behind. She didn’t seem upset, just anxious to get to her room.
