Page 6 of Home Game

I grabbed my phone, navigating to one of the dumb, sensational news articles that had been published about me a few days ago.

“Bunch of bullshit,” I said, showing him the phone. “Police Called on Storm Rosling Again—Badass or Menace to Society?How am I a menace to society?”

He scanned the headline. “Wow, police actually came down,” he said quietly.

“The headlines make it seem like I was causing a scene. But the other asshole was the one trying to start something.”

Zeke chuckled. “That’s what they all say.”

“Fair. But it’s actually the truth.”

He nodded. I turned around as he started to place the tattoo stencil onto my back shoulder, and I checked it out in the mirror and approved.

“So what happened?” he asked as he finalized the placement.

“Well, I was at the bar down in Denver with Kace Tomlin,” I said.

“God, that guy’s a good player,” Zeke said. “You’re the best player, of course, but Tomlin is a beast.”

“Oh, he’s beyond my level, no doubt,” I said. “Best thing about being part of the Ferals is that I get to play alongside a QB like Kace. But this meathead in the bar called Kace something that I couldn’t tolerate.”

Zeke frowned at me. “What did he say?”

“The kind of thing that a fucking homophobe calls an openly gay guy like Kace,” I said. “I’ve only known Kace personally for a couple of months, but I’m not lettinganyonecall him that. So, I threatened to sock the guy in the jaw.”

“But you didn’tactuallypunch him?”

“Got close,” I said. “But the police got called, and because I’m the media’s favorite darling these days, the headlines end up making me look like a ragehead.”

Zeke whistled. “You’re not a ragehead. You are a badass, though. They got that right.”

I gave him a little wink. “You know it.”

“Sit back,” he said. “This claw ain’t going to tattoo itself.”

I pulled in a long breath, lying back down face-first on the tattoo bench. I groaned. “I’m not ready.”

“You never are.”

The buzzing of the tattoo gun began, and I groaned as Zeke put the tattoo needle to the skin above my shoulder. I winced, breathing deep.

The upper back wasn’t even the most painful place to get a tattoo. If anything, it should have been relaxing. Most people didn’t bat an eyelash at upper back tattoos, but even the small claw I was getting today hurt like a bitch.

I’d been knocked out on the football field, had broken bones, and gotten into plenty of fights back when I was a teenager, but tattoos were still the one thing that made me feel like a little baby.

But I was getting the little claw, no matter how much it hurt.

Because I wasproud as fuckto be a member of the Denver Ferals.

The team that had always beenmyteam, growing up. When I was poorer than dirt, made fun of, and told I was trash as a kid in school, I’d come home and watch recorded Ferals games over and over, wishing I could be one of them.

I thought it could never happen.

But Iwasone of them, now.

I’d now been a pro football player for six years, after starting out as a late-round draft pick for Texas who nobody cared about.Over the years, I’d become better and better. Awhole fucking lotbetter. A wide receiver good enough to be picked for the Ferals.

MyFerals.

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