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1
BRADY
It was just a scrimmage, but I wasn’t looking at the defense as members of my team, the New York Nighthawks. I was in the mindset of a real game because I needed to play at my peak if I was going to impress the coaches and offensive coordinator.
We took our spots on the line of scrimmage, the offense forming a spread shotgun formation, with four of our receivers on the field—two on each side—and a halfback in the backfield. We were on our second down after losing four yards on the defense’s thirty-six-yard line.
When the whistle blew, the center, Huck, snapped the ball to me. Then I handed it off to Gage, one of our running backs. He headed for the inside hip of the left guard while I executed a QB keeper fake, running to the backside of the play to keep that end occupied.
The offensive linemen moved downfield, blocking the first defender to come into their assigned zone. All four wide receivers worked to leverage inside their corners and block defense to the outside, away from the play.
Gage saw that I’d sold the trick play and accelerated downfield. He made it another five yards before Micah—one of our biggest linebackers—tackled him, ending the play.
“Fucking hell,” I grunted. Seeing as this was a practice game, I knew Micah had taken it easy, but still, that had to hurt.
I wanted a touchdown so badly, I could taste it. But we were at third and nine, so I was running out of time. The end zone was fifty-nine yards away, which meant I needed a long fucking pass. I was exhausted from a grueling practice but wasn’t about to show weakness and risk not achieving my goal. I had the skill and power to complete it, as long as my wide receivers had my back—which they always did. This team was a well-oiled machine.
Rhodes, an offensive lineman and my best friend, shot me a look, silently telling me to go for it.
I might not have made the same call in a real game, but I needed to showcase my skills if I wanted to snag the spot as QB while our starter was on the injured reserve list.
So I called a passing play, and we lined up. When the ball was snapped to me, the offensive line formed an upside-down U to keep me protected while I looked between Dempsey, Saxon, and Clay—our fastest wide receivers.
Nixon—one of our defensive linemen—was bearing down on Clay. Dempsey was clear, but Saxon had outrun him by a few yards.
Drawing my arm back, I inhaled deeply, then exhaled as I threw the football with precision and the last of my remaining strength. It spiraled through the air, sailing right into Saxon’s hands as he bolted the last seven yards into the end zone.
“Fuck yeah!” I heard shouted, and my head twisted to see our starting quarterback, Prentice, exclaiming as he pumped his fist. He winced when the movement shifted his other shoulder but grinned at me with pride.
Prentice had been the QB with the New York Nighthawks before I was drafted, and as a second-string, he’d been my mentor. After he hurt his shoulder and ended up on the IRL, he’d been all over my ass to step up my game and take his spot.
I wasn’t the only one vying for the position, and he tried to be unbiased in public even though, in private, he was determined to help me earn it. But his reaction to my touchdown wasn’t exactly subtle and had Kellan, an assistant coach, whacking him on the back of the head.
I laughed at Kellan’s scowl because his eyes were full of amusement. Prentice shrugged, then winced again, but smiled as I jogged over to him, my helmet dangling from my fingers.
“You killed it today,” he said, slapping my back.
“Learned from the best,” I grunted, shooting him a tired grin. “Now I need ice and a fucking bed because I am dead on my feet.”
“Looking good, Summers,” Kellan murmured as he wrote something on his clipboard. “Keep that shit up, and we’ll be wearing rings at the end of the season.” He nodded at Prentice, then walked over to talk to the head coach and Lennox Madison, the team owner, who’d stopped by to watch practice.
Lennox came to as many games as he could and frequently stopped by during the practices. He was a hands-on owner—smart and business-minded but with a love for the game—and a dedicated family man. Everyone respected him and enjoyed working for him.
He was one of the many reasons I’d signed a six-year contract two years ago. I’d been drafted straight into the Nighthawks with a four-year contract, and when it was up, I debated trying to get a starting QB spot with another team…for about thirty seconds. But the Nighthawks were my home, and when Prentice retired, I intended to fill his shoes.
I would never wish an injury on any of my teammates, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t take full advantage of this opportunity to prove myself. And my mentor was right there, pushing me hard to accomplish the goal.
“Brady,” Lennox called as he sauntered over with a smile. We shook hands, and he cocked his head toward the field. “You were a fucking beast out there.” He grinned. “Either you’re determined as hell to start or you're taking out sexual frustration on the field. Although, I’m honestly not sure which since Prentice tells me you live like a monk.”
Prentice burst into laughter, but it quickly turned into a painful groan. I shot him a smug look. Served him right for being an ass. But he just grinned in return.
Lennox smirked and slapped me on the back. “Whatever is motivating you, it’s working.”
Then he turned and walked off, leaving me with Prentice, who I shot a glare at. “Since when did the two of you turn into gossiping old ladies?”
Prentice chuckled. “It wasn’t us gossiping. It was our wives.”
“And how the fuck does Naomi know anything about my sex life?”
