Page 8 of Mr. Irrelevant
I haven’t stopped thinking about our meetup earlier this week. The way she reacted when I slid my hands between her legs had me fighting my body’s natural instinct to get hard as I stood behind her. My eyes were locked onto her ass, even though I know she’s off-limits, admiring every luscious curve as they stretched the thin material of her leggings. And the heat of her pussy against my fingertips? It’s a wonder I was able to play it cool as long as I did. But I could tell she was embarrassed, and I didn’t want shit between us to get weird. Her unique approach to coaching is unlike anything I’ve experienced before, and I’m slowly becoming more confident with every hour we spend together.
Did I go home and jerk off in the shower to the memory of the sounds she made as my hands grazedher center? Yeah, I did.Fucking sue me.I may be aware that we can never be more than friends—if we can even call ourselves that—but I’d be a liar if I denied the fact that Olivia Grant is one of the hottest women I’ve ever met. With her long blonde hair, captivating blue eyes, and a smile that could bring any man to his knees, I’d have to be crazy not to think so. As long as I keep those fantasies to myself, everything will be just fine.
In a flash, the third quarter comes and goes, and we’re fighting our way to the end of the game neck and neck with the Copperheads. It’s twenty-four to twenty-seven with less than two minutes left on the clock, and if I can’t figure out a way to move the ball about twenty-five yards to get into field goal range, we’re going to leave Nashville with our fifth loss of the year. Part of me wants the win because I know it’ll boost team morale, but the other part—the selfish one—wants to bring it home for Livvy. I want her to be proud of me—and see that her coaching made an impact on the team, even if people in her past made her feel like she wasn’t worth taking a chance on. She deserves that.
“Alright, guys,” I say into the huddle. “Pepper right eighty zoom on three. Got it?” They all nod in affirmation, and we clap in unison before heading to the line of scrimmage. My heart pounds steadily in my chest, but I do my best to remain calm as I do a sweep of the defense in an attempt to read the coverage. “Fifty-one’s the mike!” I shout, alerting my line to the blocking scheme. With little time to move the ball a long distance, they can’t let anyone through. If I get sacked,the clock will continue to run, so the only option is to stay on my feet long enough to find an open man.
I ready myself, crouching down behind my center, Boomer Davenport, and scanning the field one last time before beginning my cadence. “White eighty! Set, Hut, hut, hut!” As soon as the ball touches my hands, I roll back, doing my best to let the play progress as my receivers run their routes. This one is designed for Emmett, and if he can shake his defender, we should be able to tack on at least fifteen yards before he gets forced out of bounds. Luckily, my offensive line hits all their blocks, and as soon as my guy is open, I fire a bullet pass straight at him. He catches it, and before I can even register the completion, he’s off to the races. He takes off on a slant toward the sideline, gaining yardage as the Copperheads’ corner eats up the distance between them. But just as my receiver reaches the first down marker, he jukes, faking out the defender and blowing past him. Jett manages to get right up beside him, throwing a beautiful block and taking the safety out of the play as Emmett runs faster than lightning into the end zone.
I throw my arms up in triumph, but loud cheers coming from the stands cause me to freeze, because they shouldn’t be celebrating when we just scored. Unless…
“Fuck,” I mumble as I turn slowly, my eyes immediately catching on the bright yellow flag that lies on the grass not too far from the line of scrimmage. Rage bubbles inside my chest, but I tamp it down, waiting for the referee to announce the penalty. By the sounds of it,it’s on us, but the very delusional side of me is hoping that the fans saw it wrong, and the touchdown still stands.
The ref turns on his microphone, his voice filling the entire stadium as he speaks. “Holding. Offense. Number seventy-three. Ten-yard penalty. Repeat first down.” Everything in me deflates as I look over at my lineman, who’s hanging his head in shame. As frustrated as I am that the play got called back, penalties happen, and we have to shake them off. I just hope we can make the same magic happen again.
As I head back to the huddle, a replay flashes across the Jumbotron, and I can tell from here that it’s a blown call. The contact was definitely legal, which makes me even more pissed off, but I don’t say anything to my teammates. It’s not reviewable, so it won’t do any of us any good to dwell on it.
“Hell of a catch, Hayes,” I say to Emmett as we all lean in. He gives me a tight nod, the disappointment in his expression mirroring that of every other face in front of me. “Heads in the game, guys. Shit happens. Let’s get that six back right here. Badger toss, wiggle left on two. Badger toss, wiggle left on two. Let’s go!” We return to the line, the pep in everyone’s steps a little more lackluster, but I do my best to focus on what’s next as I scan the defense, immediately noticing that they’ve changed their coverage.
“Kill, kill, kill!” I shout through my mouthguard, calling the audible. My blood pumps in my veins as I visualize the new play, and I can feel the adrenaline working its way through my limbs as I try my best tostay collected. “Red seven! Red seven! Hut, hut!” Boomer snaps me the ball, and I roll back, letting my receivers run their routes. But before they’re able to get open, I catch the edge rusher out of my peripheral vision, and he’s heading right toward me. On instinct, I scramble away as he locks on like a heat-seeking missile. I barely get two yards before his arms are around my waist, pulling me to the ground. But before I get there, another defensive lineman joins in, punching the football out from where it’s tucked into my elbow and sending it flying through the air. It lands, taking a very unlucky bounce as I watch helplessly while body after body piles on top of it. I don’t need a referee to see that the jerseys at the bottom aren’t purple, which means I definitely just lost us the fucking game. All they have to do is kneel for three downs to eat up the rest of the clock, and it’s all over.
One by one, players are pulled up by the refs, and sure enough, a defender stands, holding the ball above his head as he runs toward the sideline where the Copperheads’ players and staff celebrate wildly. I sit up, resting my elbows on my knees and dropping my head into my hands, beyond pissed at myself for making such a stupid mistake. We learn about ball security in Pop-Warner, and my complacency just cost us the closest thing we’ve ever had to a win.
“C’mon, man,” Jett says, extending a hand. I take it, allowing him to pull me off my ass before following him to the sideline. “We both know that hold was bullshit.” I blow out a frustrated breath, nodding in agreement—not that it negates the fact that my fumblefucked us over. I’ll be beating myself up for that all week.
Livvy’s face flashes through my mind as I sit on the bench, and suddenly, a heavy pit forms in my stomach. She put herself out there to help me, and I let her down. The fact that she’s probably watching from home, thinking my fuck-up has something to do with her coaching, makes me feel terrible as the Nashville offense gets in victory formation and runs out the remaining time on the clock.
The walk to the locker room is quiet, and you can hear a pin drop as we all wait for Coach to recap everything. As he gives us his words of wisdom, commending us on a hard-played game, a light from the inside of my duffel bag catches my eye. I’m tucked into the corner, so I carefully reach in, lifting my phone just enough so I can see the text messages as they display across the screen.
LIVVY:
Hey, Mad Dog. I know you’re probably really upset right now, but you played a great game. Don’t let one fixable mistake get you down.
ME:
Thanks. I’m just pissed at myself for letting you all down.
LIVVY:
You didn’t let me down. You made so many improvements from last week. Plus, that touchdown should’ve stayed on the board. There was no hold.
I’m proud of you, Maddox. We’ll get them next week.
My heart squeezes in my chest at her words. I didn’t realize until now how much I cared, but I do. We’ve only been working together for a couple of weeks, but she’s already noticed things other coaches haven’t, and the stuff we worked on made a huge difference in the way I played today. Yeah, I blew it in the final minute, but as long as she’s willing to continue helping me, I’m confident that I can get my shit together.
ME:
Midnight tomorrow?
NINE
MADDOX
“Your phone went off again,”I say, tossing the device to where Livvy sits on my couch watching tape from yesterday’s game. It’s pouring rain outside, so we had to move our practice to my place, since she lives in a high-rise where anyone could see me coming and going. My house is settled behind a barrier of trees, and my neighbors aren’t close enough to see anything, so it was a no-brainer to meet here. Does having the owner’s daughter here when I know I definitely shouldn’t make my asshole clench a little? Yes, but here we are.
She looks at the screen, clicking on the notification as I plop down next to her. I do my best not to peek since it’s none of my business, but when the unmistakable sound of a feminine moan plays through the small speaker, I can’t help myself. I dart my gaze over, seeing about one second of a couple making out before she swipes up and closes the app, tossing the phone onto the cushion next to her.
“What was that?” I ask, noticing the way her normal, no-nonsense expression has deflated. She’s usually all business when we’re together, but right now, she looks like she’s seen a ghost.
