Page 122 of The Off-Limits Play

“Come on, McAvoy! Where’s your head today? Let’s go!”

I ignore the offensive line coach, my mind crowded with Nylah’s face and that sad look she gave her dad when she realized I’m not actually the guy worth fighting for. I’m not the loser you fall in love with. I’m the guy you get wild with and then store away in your memory bank.

I’ll only tear her down.

I’m just a loser who will ruin her.

I’m not good enough. I’m not good enough. I’m not good enough.

The words are thrumming through my head as I jog down the field, my vision hazy as the ball flies through the air toward me. I’m so busy trying to see the fucking thing that I miss the tackle coming right at me.

A shoulder takes me out right in the stomach, and I’m careening toward the ground.

“Oomph!” I hit the dirt, the wind knocked out of me, and Fleischer is laughing in my face.

“Watch your blindside, shithead.” Slapping the side of my helmet, he spits on the bars protecting my face. His saliva hits my lips… and I fucking lose it.

“Ahhh!” I roar, grabbing his shoulders and shoving him back like I’ve been possessed by a bear.

His eyes flash with a quick look of surprised fear before I roll him over and rest my forearm against his throat.

“You fucker!”

“Can’t breathe,” he rasps, trying to push me off him.

I increase the pressure, his spittle still coating my lips. I want to kill this arrogant asshole.

“Carson, stop.” His voice is strained as I lean on his neck, cutting off his air supply.

“Carson!” someone shouts, but I don’t know who it is until I’m being hauled off Fleischer and thrown backward. “What the fuck, man?”

Fleischer rolls to his side, coughing and hacking, while Zander stares at me like he doesn’t even know who I am. Tyrell has his arm around me, holding me up and not moving an inch, even when I try to fight him off.

“Just chill, bruh. I’m not letting you go until you’re calm.”

“MCAVOY!” Coach Jones booms, striding over to us. His expression is thunderous, his eyes ready to cut me in half. “Get off my field.”

“He spit in my face!” I shout, wrestling a little harder to get Tyrell off me.

“It’s okay. Let him go.” Coach flicks his fingers and Tyrell releases me, but he hovers close by.

I can feel him breathing down my neck, and I want to turn and punch him for it.

“Fleischer, get up!” Coach barks over his shoulder.

The asshole struggles off the ground, his hands shaking as he holds his throat. He’s still coughing and wheezing. Drama queen.

Coach gives him a pained look, then tips his head at one of the assistant coaches. “Get him inside. Have him checked out.”

The coach nods and steadies Fleischer, leading him off the field and leaving me all alone to face judge and fucking jury.

My teammates stand around me, looking weirded out—shocked—by my behavior, and all I can do is stare at the ground and hate myself.

Coach takes in a few slow breaths, like he’s finding his inner Zen or some shit, and then his voice comes out soft and steely. “You’re benched. I’m not letting you play until you can show a little self-control.”

“What?” Zander steps forward. “Coach, no. Come on, it’s the playoffs. He just had a lapse in judgment. We need him.”

“He’s drunk,” Tyrell softly murmurs. “I can smell it on him.”

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