Page 3 of 40-Yard Line

He left the training room, rubbing his bald head, realizing that was why he had a bald head. Forty years of playing and coaching would do that to you. Frustrated? Rub your head. Confused? Rub your head. In the end, you ended up with ulcers and a bald head.

It was nearly an hour later that he decided to finally head home and maybe, if luck were on his side tonight, not be on his wife’s shit list. Looking down the hallway, he spotted the lights still on in the training room.

“Damn. He can’t even turn off a fucking light.”

As he approached the room, he heard the soft hum of the ice bath. Did he leave that on as well? Turning the corner, he stopped, staring at the picture in front of him. What the hell happened?

“Oh, damn.”

CHAPTER TWO

“We’ve only got one potential client that’s coming in today. Didn’t really give a lot of information, only that they suspected that a friend was murdered,” said Whiskey.

“Well, I’d say that’s a plus for us. Not for the dead guy, but we could use a break. We’ll take this one and be done until after the holidays. If possible,” said Nine, shrugging with a grin. They always said they’d ‘take a break,’ and the break never happened.

“What’s the word on baby patrol?” smirked Gaspar.

“Maddie and Daphne are both due any day now. I’m honestly surprised that Maddie has lasted this long,” said Wilson. “She’s on bed rest, but those babies are damn near ready to pop out for sure. Then, of course, there’s Brooke, Harlow, Lyra, Dana, and Caroline, all ready to pop at any time.”

“More babies,” smirked Miller. “Mama must be in seventh heaven. Hell, even I’m smitten with all the little ones. Those damn twins of Marcel’s are the cutest kids I’ve seen in a while.”

“There’s something about them that’s a little magical,” said Antoine. “I don’t know what. But they’re different. Like they can read your thoughts or something. They just stare up at you with those big eyes and tilt their heads one way, then the other, and they do it at the same damn time.”

“Who knows?” shrugged Gaspar. “Anything is possible around here.” Ace tapped the doorframe and stepped inside.

“Hey, uh, our client is here.”

“Okay,” said Ghost. “Show him in.”

“Well, I will, but I’m telling y’all right now if this guy decides to get pissed off, you’re gonna need Tailor, Alec, Rory, and the rest of Team Big.”

The men all frowned at one another. Trak stood and moved toward the corner. If needed, he could move quicker on his feet than in a chair. They heard Ace speaking to someone and then the sounds of heavy footsteps. As the man appeared in the doorway, he ducked, turning slightly sideways as he moved through the big frame.

All of the doorways were taller and wider than usual to accommodate the sizes of the men on their teams. If this guy was ducking and turning, that said a lot about him.

“Jesus,” muttered Alec. “That must be what people see when we walk in the room.”

“Team, this is Trevon Marks, center for the New Orleans Fire.”

“I can damn sure see that,” smirked Ian. “Have a seat, Mr. Marks.”

“Just Trevon,” he smiled. He turned to see Alec and Tailor and raised his brows. “Your doors are a bit higher and wider. That’s nice for a guy like me and I suppose for all of you as well. You two played?”

“Some,” said Alec. “High school and a bit in college for both of us. Nothing like what you do.”

“Looks to me like you could still play,” he smiled. The others chuckled, then his face sobered, and he looked down at the table, his massive hands folded in front of him.

“Are you okay, Trevon?” asked Ghost.

“No, sir. I don’t think I am. I’m not sure if you keep up on minor league sports, but we lost our longtime quarterback this week, Butch Cavet. They suspect that he committed suicide, but I don’t buy it for a minute. He’s been my best friend for ten years now.”

“I’m damn sorry,” said Nine.

“Me too. Butch took a nasty hit a few weeks ago, a cheap shot if you ask me. It was his fourth or fifth concussion, and it was bad. Dude was having serious mood swings, forgetting things, acting strange all the way.”

“We’ve all had concussions from our time in service,” said Gaspar. “They’re damn sure no fun.”

“No, sir. They are not. Butch, he was hardheaded and wanted to play again. The league, the doctors, even the team were telling him he should retire. I’d had a couple of conversations with him to get him to see that he could still be part of football without dying while playing. He didn’t care for those thoughts at all.”

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