Page 19 of False Start

“Good to know.” At least I wouldn’t have to skulk around the stadium until he came back. Coach Simmons had his hands full with our starting quarterback last season, and I’d slipped under the radar. But now that Salazar had righted his own PR nightmare, I’d be back in the spotlight.

Not that I’d minded the attention. Coach Simmons could threaten whatever he wanted, but even only half-interested in the game, I was head and shoulders above any other receiver in the league. Letting me go free agent would be a death knell to the Breakers.

Coach Simmons knew that. Coach Baker knew that. Hell, even Coach Henson knew that. No one was letting me go.

And for my first few years in the NFL, I ignored the critics and followed the gossip columnists who hand waved away my off-field antics. I charmed my way through interviews and happily believed that I’d grow out of the more damaging habits I’d picked up on the way to superstardom. A huge contract and sponsorships padded my mistakes.

I wasn’t some drunk loser. I didn’t crash at my mom’s house in between benders. I had an apartment, a job, and a future.

And then I’d run the 40-yard in 4.30 flat.

Not 4.25 or six. Not even a tie for my previous year’s effort of 4.29.

I’d gained 0.01 seconds. A fraction of a fraction. Within the margin of error. But I’d never done it before. I’d never gotten worse.

And in that one one-hundredth of a second, I could feel my dominance over the sport slipping away. The late nights and the drinks and the sleep deprivation that I could overcome during my first year in the NFL faltered. I botched a catch in the playoffs. Lost my focus and let a defender strip the ball from me in the opening game. I showed up to a game hungover and nearly threw up on the sidelines, earning an ass-chewing from the head coach.

At twenty-five years old, my body might have started a slow decline, and I couldn’t say for sure until I’d purged it of booze and bad decisions. The late nights and the snack food. The women and the occasional drug use.

“Hey, Coach!” I called to Coach Henson as she turned to walk away. She stopped, tilting her head, her face impassive. “What do you do when you’re trying to get through the off-season?”

She pursed her lips, a slight dimple forming on her right cheek. “Paintball.”

“Paintball?”

The answer took me off guard. Despite her sideline outburst, Coach Henson would have looked as at home dressed in a skirt and holding pom-poms as she did with a headset and whistle. Not that I’d ever dare say that to her face.

“It’s good for getting out aggression. Sure, it’s not like game day, but it’s close enough. It’s a rush.”

A rush. My heartbeat picked up at the thought. Sure, paintball wasn’t a week drunk in Mykonos or cave diving in Mexico, but it was a hell of a lot more fun than morning yoga and kickball.

“And the head office allows it?” I asked.

The list of things I wasn’t allowed to do under my NFL contract was extensive. Wakeboarding, horseback riding, basketball. Sure, I’d done them all, happily ignoring the contract stipulations, but that was before. Back when I could spend a night out drinking and play a flawless game that weekend.

And I’d only done those things on vacation, never in Norwalk. I didn’t dare risk it now.

She nodded. “It’s fine as long as you’re wearing safety equipment at a legit paintball place. Don’t take an ATV behind some friend’s house and go after each other without pads. The front office would flip their shit. But at an actual paintball course with refs and rules, you’re fine.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said, settling back onto the bench for another rep as she exited the gym.

Paintball. I’d never done it before. It sounded exciting. And maybe it’d scratch the itch I had to get into some kind of trouble.

“Rob!” I held up a growler of beer in one hand and a basket of candy in the other, a peace offering as I approached myteammate’s subdued country farmhouse. Well, subdued except for the expensive cars in the driveway and the copper tankards poking out from the brewery in his backyard.

“Candy? Is that candy?” Rob’s daughter darted out between his legs, pigtails bouncing as she raced off the white wraparound porch and beelined toward me.

“Mila!” Rob barked. She froze, wide eyes darting back at him. “What did I say about answering the door?”

She cast her big brown eyes onto the porch, holding her hands behind her back. “Don’t rush visitors at the door. It’s rude.”

“I’m pretty fast. You can rush me at the door if you want,” I said with a wink. I handed her the basket.

“We haven’t had dinner yet,” Rob grumbled as Mila returned to the porch with her gift, picking through the pile of candy. Alright, maybe the gesture was a little much, but Rob was the only other player in Norwalk for the off-season, and we weren’t exactly close.

Sure, we’d hung out together, but begrudgingly on his part and always with his best friend to act as a buffer. But Noa was on an extended baby moon, so I chanced visiting Rob by myself. But not without bribing Mila first. Rob might be a beast on the field, but he melted when it came to his daughter.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

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