Page 8 of Roughing the Player
Chapter 3
Brock
THE CHICAGO OUTLAWS’training camp’s not for pussies. San Diego’s was a walk in the park compared to this team’s bruising drills. After only one day, I feel like I want to curl up and die, but I gotta tough it out. Can’t let anyone think the Outlaws’ new quarterback is a wimp who can’t handle his shit.
After the insanely early wake-up call at 6 a.m., I barely have enough time to wolf down oatmeal, eggs, and a gallon of juice before reporting to the training room for mandatory treatment of all my aches and pains. Even though I don’t complain, the staff knows just what to treat. Obviously, not the first time they’ve been on this rodeo.
Strength training comes next—my least favorite part, but necessary as all get out. If you’re not strong, you can get hurt, and that’s the last thing I need. Next, we report to meetings—one with the entire team, followed by another with the quarterback coach. Then the real fun begins. We’re sent to our lockers to suit up in twenty pounds of training gear for the first practice of the day. Even though I’m the quarterback, I’m still expected to participate in all the grueling maneuvers with the rest of the team. You ever done football drills with pads in eighty-five-degree heat? No? Well, it’s a real treat. It feels like you’re cooking from the inside out.
After an hour of torture, a whistle blows. “Fifteen-minute break.”
Thank the fuck.
As I’m dipping my head in a bucket of ice-cold water, a voice rumbles over my shoulder. “You’re doing fine.”
I jerk up, shake off the water, spraying the starting quarterback of the Outlaws for the last two seasons, Ty Mathews. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t bother to introduce himself. I’d be an idiot not to know who the fuck he is. “Yeah. Coach Grohowski is impressed.”
I glance in the coach’s direction whose expression has not changed since I walked on the field. He’s still got that same scrunch to his mouth and beady-eyed gaze every time his glance lands on me. “How can you tell?”
“Trust me. I can tell.” He bops me on the shoulder. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Will do.” If I don’t die from heat exhaustion first.
When the final whistle signals the end of practice, we head back to the locker room. After a quick shower, I’m ordered to the rehabilitation room where I’m given a full body massage by Sven, a Swedish masseur with ham-sized hands and the disposition of the Marquis de Sade. Before long, the massage table becomes a rack of pain.
After he’s finished, I crawl back hunched over to my locker to get dressed.
“Hurting?” Trevor, my six foot seven center, asks. He’s sitting on a bench slipping his size fourteen feet into a pair of designer loafers.
“A little.” Pride drives me to straighten up and reach for my shirt, no matter how much it fucking hurts.
Trevor flashes a sympathetic grin. “Sven’s a sadist, man. He loves to torture players.”
“Now you tell me.” I’d laugh if it wouldn’t hurt so much.
He stands and slaps me on the back. “You’ll be all right.”
I scream silently. Bastard.
“You coming to the team dinner on Saturday, right?”
“Dinner?” We’re being cut loose on Saturday afternoon and not expected to report back to camp until Sunday night. I’d planned to spend the time lying on a bed somewhere without moving a muscle. Or breathing.
“Yeah. At the Chicago Hilton. Seven o’clock. Nobody told you?”
“Nope.” More than likely, they would have gotten around to it before the weekend. Probably after tomorrow’s press conference announcing my presence in Chicago.
“All the players are expected to attend.”
“Okay. I’ll be there. Thanks for letting me know.”
He pauses while giving me the once-over. Out of all the players, he’s the one I’ve gotten to know best in the short time I’ve been here.
“If you need a date, I can hook you up.”
“Nah. I got it.” Can’t very well show up at a team dinner without a chick on my arm. After all, I got a reputation to protect. Problem is, I only know one woman in Chicago, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to turn me down.
