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“Kingsmen.”
“What are we gonna do?”
“Win!” the team yells.
“Louder!” I demand.
“Win!” the team screams.
“Sure as fuck. Get your asses out there and beat the shit out of Chicago!”
The guys all jump and jog out of the locker room.
I lead the pack along with Miles and Brady because we’re the captains. We walk down the hallway where some press lingers, snapping photos. The coaches and other staff members, like the medical team, wait for us to run out to the field before joining.
The announcer yells, “For our opposing team, we give you the San Francisco KINGSMEN!”
We storm out of the tunnel and onto Chicago’s field. The roar of the crowd booing—since Chicago is known for loyal fans—gets me excited. Playing in front of all these people still gives me goose bumps.
The vibration of the noise soaks into my bones, gives me an adrenaline rush, and makes me feel as though I can do anything. Every year during the first game of the season it’s the same—I’m filled with the sense that I belong here. I’m doing what I was meant to do and it only acts as extra motivation for me.
A glance toward the sideline and I spot Shayna, but I quickly turn away before she notices me staring. Or god help me, a camera. I have to remember how often the camera turns my way. I have to keep my head in the game, and that doesn’t involve pining away for a woman who is happy with my friendship. Chicago is gonna make sure we work for this win.
Somehow, I do manage to keep my head in the game and we win 19-10.
I’m limping after the final play, my hamstring tight, so I head over to the medical staff to get stretched and massaged before my ice bath. My plan was to see Shayna, but Elijah’s ass is already stretched out on her table and her hands are on his thigh.
He better not be trying to get her pants.
Since Shayna’s not available, I go over to Randy because he’s stationed right beside her. How sad is this? I should be on the other side of the fucking room.
“How’s the hammy?” Randy asks.
“Little tight. Not like earlier this week though. I may have strained it more on the last play.”
“Anything else?” His fingers dig into my hamstring and it immediately feels better.
I consider telling him that my shoulder has been a little tender but think better of it. Randy wouldn’t be the first overenthusiastic athletic trainer to go overboard because of a little stiffness and pain. With it being early in the season, the medical team could absolutely pull me for a few games to see if it gets better.
Unless the shoulder starts to bother me more, I won’t say anything. I can’t let the upper office think I’m injured and expect them to sign me next year.
“Nah, just the hamstring.” I catch Shayna looking at me dubiously from where she’s working on Elijah.
“Good game, Burrows,” Elijah says.
He and I have played together for a year, but we’re not super close. Certainly not close enough for me to tell him to back the fuck off Shayna and not have him question me. He plays on the defensive line, so I don’t work with him as much as the offensive team.
“Thanks, man. Killer deflection in the third. We needed that.”
He smiles. “I have to say I love pissing off those wide receivers when they’re concentrating only on the ball and here I come like a ninja out of the dark.”
The whole room laughs.
Randy massages my hamstring, and while usually I’m talkative and would chat him up, today I remain quiet so that I hear Shayna and Elijah’s conversation. It’s nothing of importance, but I wish her hands were on me and I was the center of her focus.
When I’m done, I hop off the table and thank Randy, then say bye to Shayna and Elijah. For some reason, she’s still working on him.
After I strip down to my slider shorts, the stinging bite of the ice bath is a welcome distraction from the thoughts racing around my brain. Thoughts I shouldn’t be having. Being jealous of my teammates talking to Shayna isn’t an option for me.
