Page 93 of Delay of Game
Trent took a sip of his beer. “Damn, we should have special teams brew us a couple of beers every season.”
“Trivia?” I echoed.
“She’s pretty cute. I don’t blame you, Fieste.” Trent smacked him on his back, oblivious to my mounting anger or the fear clouding Fieste’s face.
His eyes locked on mine. “We just?—”
“What did I fucking tell you?” I stepped up to him, crowding him.
“What’s going on?” Lena asked, though I barely registered her presence. My full focus landed squarely on Fieste.
He grimaced. “I wasn’t?—”
“You weren’t supposed to touch her. Not a damn hand hold, not a hug, certainly not a fucking hickey. Have you lost your mind?” I stepped into his space, vision tunneling as a vision of his arms wrapped around Astrid, kissing her, touching her.
“Are you even going to listen to me?” the rookie asked.
Noa’s hand brushed my shoulder. “Hey, cool it a bit, man.”
I shook him off, standing nearly nose to nose with him. “I asked you to do one simple thing. That’s it.”
As if coming out of a dream, Fieste shook his head. The fear on his face disappeared, replaced with defiance and maybe a bit of his own rage.
“No,” he bit out. “You wanted to drain my bank account and then you wanted me to pretend to date someone who liked you. That’s not ‘one simple thing.’”
“It’s one simple thing if you’re not a complete fuck up. No wonder you didn’t get drafted.”
“You don’t know a single thing about me, do you? I thought you were just being polite, but you actually don’t know, do you?”
The question took me off guard. “Why would I know anything about you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, because I walked onto your team from a national championship winning school during a year that the league is hard up for linemen? You didn’t think that was weird?”
“Other than being pissed at hell after you took a cheap shot at me, I didn’t think about you at all. Why would I?”
“Because I got drafted, you dick! And I burned the team for a chance to play with the Breakers.”
Noa confirmed the story with a nod.
I shook my head, confused. “Why would you do something dumb like that?”
“Thomas Baker.” He spat out my ex-teammate’s name like a swear. “He coached my high school team and when I asked him who the best middle linebacker was, he said Rob Grant.”
“I haven’t thought about Baker in decades,” I grunted.
“Yeah, that seems to be a pattern with you. Not thinking about other people.” Fieste gripped his beer so tight his knuckles turned white, stepping up to me. “Well, he remembers you. He told me not only were you a skilled player, but a great teammate. The best. That if I wanted a mentor, I couldn’t do any better.”
My stomach dropped.
“So, I studied your game film. All of it. High school, college, pro. I went to your games. And I turned down my draft team for a shot at the Breakers because I wanted to learn from the best.” Ethan raised his voice, ensuring not only could our teammates hear us, but the entire restaurant staff. “And turns out Rob Grant is a miserable asshole.”
THIRTY-THREE
GRACIE
Lily’shigh heels clacked across the cobblestone streets of downtown. I didn’t frequent the historic district often. Most of the businesses catered to the upscale clientele of Norwalk with expensive drinks, exotic food, and luxury clothing stores. There wasn’t much to offer someone making less than six figures a year. The hangout spots in my price range trended toward the docks and the outlying rural bars and clubs.
“We’re late,” I complained, tugging down the hem of the lacy black dress Lily had lent me. On the hanger, the dress looked somewhat modest – high neckline, long sleeves. After shimmying it on, the fabric clung to every curve and barely covered my butt. I fit in with the bougie club-goers downtown but felt self-conscious and overdressed.
