Page 3 of Mr. Irrelevant
The rest of the game goes by at an agonizingly slow pace, and by the time the clock runs out, almost every seat in the place is empty. People started funneling out in the third quarter, when it was apparent we weren’t going to come back from the twenty-four-point hole that was only getting deeper. On one hand, I don’t blame them, because it was hard to watch. But on the other, the team needs their support, and I wish they’d have stuck around.
My mom and sister were the first to head out, leaving me with my dad, who I’ve barely even talked to since this morning, with how busy the day has been. But now that we’re alone in our otherwise empty box, we can finally catch up.
“That was a tough one,” I say, leaning against the bar where he’s pouring himself a glass of beer. He exhales a slow breath, taking a sip before looking over at me.
“I can’t help but feel like this is my fault. I set this team up for failure. I was so concerned with getting Kingsley here after West got hurt, I didn’t even consider what we’d do if we lost Baker. We can’t afford another starting QB, and I don’t think Dane is ready yet. I have a rookie coming over from Dallas this week as our new backup, but he’s only seen one preseason game. We have no real experience under center, and if we keep relying on our run game, we’re going to end up with even more injuries. I don’t know what to do.” His shoulders slump, and he stares down at the golden liquid as if it holds all the answers to his problems.
The reality of what I’m seeing hits me hard. The man I’ve idolized my entire life and seen as nothing less than my very own superhero, beaten and dejected, second-guessing the choices he’s made…when one of them was believing in a player because I told him to. He trusted me, and I have to find a way to make this better.
Even if that means taking matters into my own hands.
THREE
MADDOX
I hitchthe strap of my duffel bag over my shoulder, wincing as the pressure pushes on a particularly tender part of my neck. It hurts, but it’s nothing a day off and a massage gun won’t heal. With the amount of times I had my bell rung today, I’m lucky I didn’t sustain any serious injuries.
The whole game was a disaster. I thought having a week to practice together would help me fall into place with my offense, but there’s no substitute for really being on the field with an opponent. Every play we beat to death over the last six days, making sure we had perfected them all, came crumbling down as soon as the first snap hit my hands. Seattle has one of the worst pass-rushing defenses in the league, yet they managed to keep the heat on me all day. I did my best to get rid of the ball quickly, but ended up making silly mistakes that cost my team more points than I’m proud to admit. I’m feeling every ounce of my inexperience after that one.
Post-game interviews were brutal, with journalists questioning my shitty decisions left and right. I felt like I was back in elementary school, getting pelted in the face with dodgeballs as I unsuccessfully attempted to duck out of the way. But every bit of it was warranted. I fucked up, and now I have to face the music.
I sat, staring into my locker, until the rest of the team had funneled out, not even realizing I was alone until a janitor came in and started vacuuming. Normally, I stick around after a hard loss to hype my teammates up, but this time I was too focused on my own shortcomings to put on a happy face. I know it’s my job as a leader to do that, but I’m giving myself this one Get Out of Jail Free card. Next time, I’ll suck it up and move on. But today?
Totally Bummed Out, party of one. Your table’s ready.
Pushing through the stadium doors, I make my way through the empty players’ lot. I’m a little shocked to see that the sun is already beginning to set over Lake Erie as I approach my pickup truck. My body aches, my eyes are incredibly heavy, and all I can think about is getting home and crawling into bed. I plan on using every hour of my day off to sleep and recover, so I can get back to the drawing board with my offense on Tuesday. We travel to New York on Saturday, so we’ll really need to put in five solid days of work to avoid making the same mistakes we did today.
I toss my bag into the back seat, and just as I’m about to climb in, a firm hand wraps around my shoulder, causing me to practically jump out of my skin. I immediately go into survival mode, readying myself togive the mugger my wallet, keys, and anything else he wants, which is ridiculous. I’m a six-foot-four, two-hundred-twenty-pound professional football player. Whoever he is, I could probably take him—unless he has a weapon. My blood goes cold, panic washing over me at the thought, and I raise my hands in surrender, turning slowly.
“Please don’t stab m—” I croak, cutting myself off as a tiny blonde comes into view. She’s over a foot shorter than me, and I can’t stop myself from scanning her features, which are as close to flawless as I’ve ever seen. She looks kind of familiar with her icy blue eyes and plump, bubblegum-colored lips, but I haven’t been in Cleveland very long, so that can’t be right. I feel like if I had met her already, I’d remember—especially with tits likethat. Small and perky, just like I like them, and…Fuck. I’m staring at her tits.
“Hello?” she says, pulling my attention back to her face, which is now twisted in annoyance. Her hand settles on her hip as her brows pull tight, and I grimace because I’m absolutely busted.
“I thought you were trying to roll me,” I explain. As if ogling her body wasn’t bad enough, now she thinks I’m a little bitch who wouldn’t even attempt to defend himself in the throes of danger.
I hate it here.
She raises a brow. “You’re a very large twenty-five-year-old man. This is a private parking lot with security. Your mind flew right past rational thought and went to Grand Theft Auto?”
I swallow. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“And the part where you stared at my boobs for three minutes straight while I tried to get your attention? Was that some sort of defense mechanism?”
My shoulder lifts into a shrug and I lean back against the truck, giving her a cocky grin now that I’ve reigned in my masculinity. “I figured if these were my last moments on Earth, I should spend them doing something I love.”
Her eyes go wide as she chokes on a laugh, jutting her chin forward in disbelief. She opens and closes her mouth several times, but no actual words come out, and I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have said that out loud. She asked, though. I only gave her an honest answer.
She shakes her head rapidly, as though she’s trying to reset her brain, before finally speaking. “Let’s start over. I’m Livvy Grant. My family owns the Renegades.”
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
I haven’t always been the most noble man. I’ve snuck out after one-night stands. I’ve rolled through stop signs. I even stole a pack of gum from the grocery store in my hometown when I was nine because my best friend, Dylan, said I was scared, and I had to prove him wrong. But I don’t feel like any of that would be grounds for this kind of brutal karma. I just objectified the fuck out of this woman, whose father holds my entire livelihood in the palm of his hand—and by the look on her face, she’snot impressedat all.
“Fuck,” I mutter quietly. “I’m sorry. I’m Maddox.” I extend a hand between us, and relief washes over me as she takes it, wrapping her delicate fingers around mine firmly.
A knowing smile blooms across her face as she pulls back. “I’m aware. I actually came out here to ask if you were busy tonight. Around midnight?”
Goddammit.
