Page 1 of Sack

Chapter One

Colt

The sun burned the back of Colt’s neck as he looked down the sea of green to the goal post at the end of the field. His helmet, held by the faceguard, dangled from the fingertips of his left hand, but his right told a different story, clutching a football in a tight grip.

It felt good to be back on the field. He’d missed it.

A presence came up beside him. He ignored it, not wanting to ruin the moment. He knew Oz would respect his silence. Oz Olsen wasn’t much of a talker. At six foot four and two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of pure muscle, he was a quiet giant, and at times like this, Colt appreciated that. Too soon, the field would be overrun with the rest of the team, and his time of contemplation would be lost.

He studied the stands, empty now, but in a few short weeks, they’d be full. Fans outfitted in black and silver, cheering and clapping and stomping their support and encouragement for the team they loved above all others—his team—the Portland Phantoms.

Football had always been a part of Colt’s life and one of the few things, still to this day, he and his dad could truly bond over. One of his earliest memories was Sunday afternoons parked on the couch in front of the television. Dad with his beer, him with a soda, eating the junk food his mom would only allow that one day a week. Back then, it didn’t matter who was playing, he cheered for them all, but his dad had been a steadfast Niners fan. So, when Colt had discovered his aptitude to throw a football with precision and accuracy at the age of fourteen, that was when his dream of becoming the star quarterback for the San Francisco team had been born. His dad had idolized Joe Montana and later, Steve Young and Jeff Garcia, and Colt couldn’t wait to one day follow in their footsteps.

But some dreams die a grisly death.

Even with the high stats to back up his performance, coming from a small university in California without scout presence, he ended up one of the last picked in the draft. Disappointment had lain heavily in his gut when he got the call he’d been accepted to thePhantomsas a second-string QB. And worse, he’d seen the same disappointment in his father’s eyes.

He’d spent the next five years proving the 49ers had made the wrong choice, spending countless hours perfecting his timing. And once he became starting QB for the Phantoms, he spent the next five years after that, proving to the world he could make a failing team a star by taking them to number one in their conference for the past three years running.

Stick that where the sun don’t shine, San Francisco.

He had only one goal left. Take his team to the Super Bowl and win a ring.

And he would make that happen this year or kill himself trying. His career would be coming to an end soon, and he didn’t have too many chances left. He’d trained hard during the offseason and was pumped and ready to go.

The quiet serenity was broken as more players walked onto the field followed by their head coach, Marvin Cress.

“Listen up.” Though short of stature, Cress had a booming voice that carried across the field. “Craig will be here in a few minutes to run drills with you. After that, we’ll be running plays.” He looked down at his clipboard, and his bald spot gleamed in the sun. “Colt and Linc,” he looked up, eyeballing him and then his wide receiver, “you guys will be with me. The rest of the offense will go with Wagner.”

“Defense, you’ll be with me,” Gregory Brown, defensive coach and all-around asshole, said. “Hope you ladies ate your Wheaties this morning.”

Oz mumbled, “Asshole.” Though a man of few words, the ones he spoke were usually right on the money.

Colt felt for the guy. He’d hate to be saddled with Brown, and as an outside linebacker for the defense, that’s exactly what Oz was—stuck with him.

Colt slapped him on his shoulder currently covered by a thick layer of pads. “Just remember, your dick is bigger than his.”

Oz snorted and even managed a small chuckle.

Drills were hell. Even with his extra time in the gym during the offseason, when their Strength and Conditioning Coach, Craig Rhodes, finally blew the whistle to stop, Colt was winded. No amount of hours in the gym could beat a workout of base rotations, squats, ankle jumps, and good old-fashioned sprints across the field. And he noticed as the team huddled around the side benches throwing back water, he wasn’t the only one sucking wind.

Shucking his helmet, Colt tossed it on the ground before reaching for a bottle of water and dumping it over his head. He closed his eyes as the chilly stream penetrated his closely cropped hair to his scalp and ran down his face. It rained more often than not in Portland, but July was Oregon’s hottest month. Add being outfitted in full practice gear to that and it was fucking hot. He grabbed another bottle of water and chugged it.

Lincoln Scott, or Linc to anyone who knew him, came up beside him. “We missed you at TJ’s party on Saturday.”

Colt raised a brow. “I’m sure I wasn’t missed.”

“Come on, man, don’t be like that.”

Linc was everyone’s friend. The life of the party. Especially the one-on-one kind. Getting the best from both sides of his mixed heritage, his flawless mocha skin and honey-gold eyes attracted the ladies. Not that Colt was judging, it just wasn’t the lifestyle he was into. Never had been. Sure, he’d hooked up a time or two—he was human—and had even had a couple of short-term relationships—very short term. He wasn’t sure if it was his reserved disposition or his complete dedication to football that turned the women he dated off, but something was the culprit. What he did know was it was ahimand not athemthing. He lost count of the number of times a woman told him he didn’t pay them enough attention or that talking to him was like talking to a brick wall.

He polished off his water and tossed the bottle into the recycle bin. “I’m sure the party was a huge success even without my illustrious presence.”

Linc snorted. “You’re such an ass. Why is it I’m your friend again?”

“Because I tell shit straight and don’t pamper your ego.”

He shook his head, trying and failing to hold back a smile. “Just saying, you missed out, man. Got some serious action.”

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