Page 13 of The Rookie's Sister

“Yo, Johnson, you see the latest on your ex?”

I clench my jaw so tight it aches. I suspect I know what Chase is going to tell me, but I pretend like I don’t, just in case.

“What now?” I ask tightly.

“Oh man, it’s bad. She’s strutting all over New York with that Mark Collins punk attached to her hip. They’re calling them a power couple.”

My hands ball into fists around my towel. Of course, the queen snake is flaunting her new boyfriend for the world to see. For the press, it’s a juicy story - two rival NFL stars fighting over the same woman. For me, it’s salt poured in an already festering wound.

I battle the urge to chuck my phone at the lockers. Instead, I take a deep breath and head for the showers. I refuse to let Rachel’s petty games get in my head. I need to focus. Prove her and Billy and all the rest of the naysayers wrong.

The hot water sluicing down my back does nothing to wash away my simmering anger. By the time I towel off and change, a reckless idea has taken root in my mind. It’s time I turn this narrative around in my favor.

Grabbing my keys, I quickly swipe open my phone and send a text to Emma. “Heads up. We’ve got a charity event this weekend. Black-tie affair. Time to make our public debut. You in?”

I’m already picturing it—us walking down the red carpet, the camera flashes, the envious looks from my teammates, and especially the surprised, and perhaps slightly hurt expression on Rachel’s face. For once, I’d like to see her scramble to keep up with the narrative.

My phone buzzes, and I see Emma’s response pop up on the screen: A charity event? Is that where they auction off overpriced things to people with too much money and too little sense? I’ll need to practice my ‘impressed’ face.

Her text makes me chuckle, a welcome reprieve from the dark mood I’m navigating. God, she’s nothing like those other women—the Vegas bottle girls, the B-list actresses, the influencers—all desperate to snap a photo with me just to post it on their socials. Emma doesn’t give a crap about any of that. She’s all sharp edges and sharper wit, and it’s as infuriating as it is refreshing. And okay, maybe a little bit hot. That lithe, strong body…fuck.

Shaking my head, as if that could physically derail my thoughts from that precarious track, I shove my phone back into my pocket. My footsteps echo in the quiet hallway as I make my way towards the parking lot. And just when I think I can make a clean getaway, Coach’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Got a minute, Johnson?”

I paste on a smile and do a quick pivot. “For you, Coach? I’ve got two.”

As if my day wasn’t complicated enough already.

Coach gives me a stern look, his face as unreadable as ever. “Your footwork today was lacking, Xavier. You moved through those agility drills like you were learning to walk for the first time.”

I force myself to keep my composure, grinding my teeth quietly. Criticism from my teammates is one thing; from Coach, it’s something else entirely—the sort of thing that could bench me next Sunday if I’m not careful.

“Just an off day, Coach,” I say, striving for a tone that’s casual yet respectful. “The sun got to me, I guess. I’ll fine-tune it for the next practice.”

Coach holds my gaze with his piercing eyes. “Make sure you do. We can’t afford for our star receiver to lose his edge.” He lifts his hand and points two fingers at my eyes, then back to his. “Stay sharp. Got it?”

“Understood, Coach,” I reply, locking eyes with him. “I’ll bring my A-game.”

With one last scrutinizing glance, Coach heads back to his office. As he leaves, I’m hit by a wave of indignation. After all, I’ve given to this team—years of dedicated service, playing through injuries, navigating contract disputes—now he questions my focus?

Before I know it, my feet are carrying me back into the facility, down the corridor to the weight room. The place is mostly empty, a couple of stragglers lingering. I grab a towel and attack the weight machines with renewed vigor, channeling my frustration into each rep until my muscles quiver.

My thoughts drift, uninvited, to Emma. The contradictory emotions she stirs in me are perplexing. She challenges me in ways no one else does—certainly not like Rachel ever did. Is it so wrong to be intrigued by that kind of friction? Yeah, there’s the physical attraction too, of course, but it’s more than that, which is part of what confuses me.

I glance at the clock and realize an hour has slipped by. The remaining guys are shooting me quizzical looks, probably wondering why I’m overdoing it tonight. Ignoring them, I rack the weights and collect my things.

By the time I reach my car, I’ve pushed aside my run-in with Billy and Coach’s critique. I have too much on my plate to waste time doubting myself. The training has just started, and I’ll soon remind everyone why I’m irreplaceable.

And this upcoming weekend with Emma will serve as the perfect launchpad for my reputation’s recovery. Utilitarian as it may be, our arrangement will eclipse the drama with Rachel. Emma will play her part—I’m certain of it. By the time we stage our “breakup,” any concerns about my standing on the team will have been silenced. It’s a foolproof plan.

A nagging voice in the back of my head asks what will happen when Emma and I go our separate ways. Will I need another challenge, another fire to fuel me? I shake off the thought as I step inside. There’s no room for contemplating the long-term when the present is already a labyrinth of complexity.

One step at a time. That’s my mantra for clawing my way back to the top.

SEVEN

EMMA

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