Page 17 of Final Down

“How so?” Jerry encourages, both ignoring the tight smirk spreading on Phillips’s face.

“A lot of players claim to be there for the team, you know, program first. No individuals. Brotherhood, and all that. But when it comes time to sacrifice a little bit of glory for the greater good, how many of them put themselves first? And how many times does it blow up in a team’s face?” Peyton’s words seem to resonate as nobody responds for a few long seconds, and Coach Elgin simply nods as he wipes his linen napkin over his mouth, then tosses it to the table.

“Maybe,” Mickey finally speaks up.

He saws into the meat on his plate, spearing a bright pink piece of steak with his golden fork. He holds it up as if he were a hunter showing off a trophy, and his gaze squares with mine for the first time since we met. Until now, it’s been short glances through his tinted glasses.

“You know the saying about horses, don’t you?” His head cocks to the side, a tiny smile pulling up one side of his mouth, deepening the wrinkles that line his cheeks.

I shrug, my fingers now intertwined with Peyton’s on my thigh. Both of our hands are hot.

Mickey pops the piece of meat into his mouth and chews a few times.

“They shoot horses, don’t they?” He finishes chewing as a cunning laugh rumbles from deep inside his chest.

I don’t entirely follow, though I’m sure he’s not praising me. Peyton, however, seems to understand exactly what he’s gettingat. She unfurls her hand from mine, balling both of hers together on the tabletop as she leans in.

“You’re talking about how horses can no longer race when they’re injured,” she says flatly.

“Hmm,” Mickey grunts, popping another bite into his mouth before he pinches his lips into a tight, affirming grin and shrugs a shoulder.

“I’m not sure whether you know this, Mr. Payne, but my family owns a rescue ranch for horses back in Arizona, and some of them were once racehorses. Just because they were injured doesn’t mean they don’t have purpose.” Peyton’s not really talking about the horses now. She’s not even talking about me. She’s standing up for herself, but I’m the only one here who knows that.

“That’s sweet,” Phillips adds, drawing my gaze to him in a flash.

“It’s pretty amazing, actually,” I say, doing little to hide my ire. This guy can dislike me all he wants, but he has no right to be a dick to my wife.

“Oh, yeah, I don’t doubt it. It’s just . . .” He waggles his head.

“What?” I challenge.

He pushes his plate forward, folding his napkin on the table, then folding his hands together on top of it as he leans in and meets my glare.

“You wouldn’t put one of those horses back in the race . . . ever. Which begs the question, would you put the broken guy in as quarterback?”

I hold my tongue between my teeth and guard my smile as I snicker. Leaning back in my seat, I blink my gaze over to Coach Elgin, whose amused expression is a little reassuring. I don’t think he believes a word coming out of this guy’s mouth.

“I dare you to show me a football player in this league, no . . . hell . . . on this planet, who isn’t broken in some way. This sport,it’s brutal. It’s not for the weak. And anyone who steps onto your field with the false expectation that they won’t get hammered into the turf from time to time is a fool.”

I know my volume is up, and I sense the encroaching servers stepping closer to our table as if they might need to taze me or something. This evening is not bringing out my best side, and I regret that. But right now, I’m not even sure I want to play for an asshole like Michael “Mickey” Payne. And I’m not sure I want to let my best friend play for him, either.

“Oh, don’t get your shorts in a wad,” Mickey says before tossing the rest of his second brandy back.

He plunks the snifter down on the table and runs the napkin over his lips before tossing it on top of his plate. He leans back, hands threaded together, and stares at me long and hard. I cross my arms over my chest and give it right back to him.

“I guess we’ll see what you’ve got tomorrow,” he says, his eyes shifting toward Phillips. The two of them share a quick glance, and I straighten my spine, suddenly feeling as though I need to be ready to take a hit twenty-four-seven, and not only on the field.

“Can’t wait,” I respond.

And when Peyton’s nails dig into my thigh, I know she wants me to teach these assholes a lesson tomorrow too. And then, I think, she might just want to murder them.

Chapter Eight

Ididn’t sleep. I have my dad’s temper and my mom’s defensiveness when it comes to the people I love. Of course, I’m also a stubborn competitor despite my spinal injury, and when Mickey attacked my very core, whether he knew it or not, he lit my inner fire.

When I told Wyatt I had half a mind to show up alongside him and Whiskey this morning and lay out a few of the guys on Mickey’s prized O-line myself, I was only half kidding. I may have been delusional, but I was pissed. And I’m not so sure I want our family tied to that man and his organization. What I am sure of is that the last thing I want to do right now is traipse around a winery with Tasha while Wyatt and Whiskey tap dance for that asshole. I’m not sure how I’m going to keep my mouth shut around my friend. If I repeat anything to Tasha about things said during last night’s dinner, she’s going to make a scene. It’s her nature, and I love that she’s so loyal to our family and friendship that she’d throw away her and Whiskey’s future in solidarity. I can’t let her do that.

Tasha’s rap on the door to our suite comes a few minutes earlier than I expect, so I toss one of Wyatt’s T-shirts over my head and skip to the door to let her in.

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