Page 39 of Delay of Game
“Get the fuck off the field,” I told him, catching Coach’s nod to call the practice to a close. “All of you, go home. You suck.”
Fieste hovered on the sidelines, trying to catch my eye. I ignored him, veering toward the opposite side of the field for a water instead.
“Quality leadership.” Noa met me on my walk, eyeing Fieste and then raising an eyebrow. “I think your teammate wants to talk.”
“Fine,” I grunted, rounding on the rookie. “What?”
“I just wanted some feedback about practice, if you had the time. Maybe answer a couple of questions.”
“I’m not your coach.”
“You’re the captain, though. And I thought maybe you could–”
“Go talk to Coach Mills if you have questions.” I waved him away as I turned back to Noa.
Noa shook his head. “Seriously, man?”
“What? I’m not here to handhold every rookie who doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing. I didn’t want him on the team. The guy almost took out my knee when he was a free agent. “
“And he apologized,” Noa pointed out.
Noa and I hadn’t always gotten along, but when I looked around the sea of unfamiliar faces the season I joined the Breakers, his was the only one that didn’t look like it’d annoy the hell out of me by the end of the season.
I’d been wrong, but over the years, we’d gone from unlikely allies to legitimate friends. He was level-headed, good with Mila, and put up with my cranky ass. I couldn’t ask for much more.
“I don’t give a shit if he apologized. I want him off the team.”
Noa didn’t reply. His face said what his lips didn’t:Give the kid a break. He’s new and trying to prove himself, just like we were once, long ago.
Too long. Eight years. Three NFL teams. I’d had a longer career than anyone expected, and I had one more accomplishment to achieve. And asshole newbies like Ethan Fieste could easily derail my dream of a Super Bowl ring with one errant, cheap tackle. I’d bounced back from four injuries, and at thirty-three, I wasn’t sure I could handle a fifth.
Noa frowned before his eyes edged the locker room. “I don’t think it’s just a D-line problem, anyway. Something’s not right. I feel it on the offense, too. Special teams, even. We’re not clicking.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied. I’d felt it. No mystical bullshit, but a faint sense of unease that permeated the locker room and the field.
Noa frowned. “I don’t know, man. I know Coach Simmons is writing off our pre-season loss as jitters, but it feels like something else. Something more insidious. Diego! Come over here. I have a question for you.”
Diego Salazar, the Breakers’ starting quarterback, waved to his backups as he waltzed over. A faint sheen of sweat coated his face, and he wiped it off with the sleeve of his shirt. “What’s up?”
“Noa thinks the team is fucked.”
Noa’s eyes widened. “That’s not what I said.”
“He thinks we’re cursed,” I continued.
“I didn’t say that either.” Noa tipped his head back and ran a hand through his long black hair. “I said something’s off this season. The mood, the camaraderie, the energy.”
“You think the vibes are bad?” Diego asked with curiosity rather than disbelief.
“Not bad. Just not right. Everything feels pretty…” his face twisted, “disjointed. Nothing clicks.”
“We should get rid of some rookies,” I said, only half-joking. “They probably brought the bad vibes. Let’s start with Fieste and go from there.”
Noa glared at me. “Or maybe we talk to the coaches? Ask for some extra practices? Some quality time together?”
Extra practice meant more time on the field. More time away from home.
“We’re not a fraternity. We need to work like professionals,” Diego said. “It’s early in the season. We had some missteps.”
