Page 58 of Against the Clock

“Well, I can’t say I didn’t expect that,” Rhett mutters.

“What the fuck?” Ty Matthews asks.

The last thing I want to do is the right thing. In fact, I’d like to be anything but nice. Rhett Edwards is the linebacker who fouled me last night, throwing me down in the end zone and then kneeing me in the gut.

Before telling me to go home.

Before calling me an old man.

I make myself stand up, taking my time. Wiping my hands on my sweats and making my way to where Rhett and the defensive line coach stand, taking in the scene of belligerent athletes.

“Rhett Edwards,” I drawl, holding out a hand for him to shake. “Welcome to my home.”

His hazel eyes heat, his mouth turning down into a scowl, but he takes my hand.

“If you hit that hard all the time,” I continue, “then we’ll be glad to have you on our side.”

“He should apologize,” Ty says.

“It’s in the past,” I say, and I force myself to let Rhett’s hand go. “We’re good.”

The look Rhett gives me is calculating, but not ill-natured.

That’s right. You’re on my turf now.

“As long as he doesn’t pull that shit again,” I say, nodding at the coach next to him.

Rhett makes a low noise in his throat but doesn’t say anything else. Guys like that, with more anger than good sense, won’t last much longer in the AFL. Anger is a tool, like anything else on the field, but unchecked, it’s a disaster. Teams have to work well together.

Rhett turns, shouldering past the coach, who throws me a reproving look before nodding to the rest of the guys in the weight room.

“Fucker,” Ty says. “I can’t believe they traded him to us.”

“We’re the lowest ranked team in the league. They’ll send us whoever they want, and we’ll tell them thank you,” I say. “Guy might be an asshole, but he’s an asshole who knows how to throw his weight around. That was a good hit. Illegal hit, sure, but it was a good hit. If we can use him, then we’ll fucking use him.”

I’m ready for this day to be over, I decide.

I want to see Kelsey. I don’t want to make the guys feel better about this new asshole on our team. But this is how the sausage is made. Men get traded in and out. One day one guy’s wearing a jersey, a part of the team, and the next he’s replaced by a new face.

We’re all expendable, each of us a combination of stats weighed against a stack of papers detailing every injury we’ve ever had in the name of the game. And one day, for all of us, those injuries will outweigh everything else, and then we’ll be done.

For most of us, it’s worth it. For most of us, we’ve breathed, dreamed, lived football our whole lives.

The familiar spiral of my thoughts has a new coloring to it, a new name.

Warner Cole, Kelsey’s dad. Across the training room, someone drops their weights, the noise echoing across the expanse of mirrored walls. Sweat drips down my neck and I grit my teeth, inhaling through the required reps.

Fuck.

I shouldn’t want her as much as I do.

It’s selfish. I homed in on the one woman who has a great reason to stay far the fuck away from me, and I don’t want to let her go. A better man for her would be younger, wouldn’t have an ex-wife he didn’t deserve, wouldn’t have had more serious injuries than she’s had birthdays.

But none of those men would treat her the way I will. Someone closer to her age might have more in common with her… hell, even someone who isn’t addicted to the sport she hates might be better for her.

I hate the idea of it. Can’t stand it.

I strain, putting more weight on, until my muscles are shaking and fatigued.

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