Page 42 of Just Playin'
I’m snapped from my trance by a loud grumble. Elvis is either walking into a lion cage with a thousand hungry investors waiting to eat him alive, or a subway train just roared past him. Whatever it is, it is near deafening, and I have a hard time hearing him when he asks, “Will? You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here, but will you be by the end of tonight? Sounds like you’re walking into a gladiators’ ring.”
He laughs. “It’s not quite the colosseum, but it’s pretty damn close.” He assures someone he’ll only be another minute before redirecting his voice to me. “I’m sorry, I’ve really got to go.”
“It’s fine. Go.” I shoo him as if he is standing in front of me instead of hundreds of miles away. “Bye.”
His farewell is more breathless than mine. . .before it’s swallowed by the massive roar of a crowd.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Presley
Itoss my phone to Danny before wordlessly apologizing to Coach James. He’s not impressed I had my cell attached to my ear as we trekked down the walkway separating our locker room and the field, but he’s keeping his grumble on the downlow since I’ve chalked up an impressive number of statistics during games and training drills this past few weeks.
I’m not being modest when I say I’m on fucking fire this month.
You’d think my late night talks with Willow would have me slow off the mark, but they’ve had the opposite effect. While encouraging her to bite the bullet by re-strapping on her ballet shoes, I lit a fire up my own ass. I love football so much, I’ve done nothing but relentlessly train the past twelve months to get myself ready to return to the field. My determination to return had me missing the most vital part of my revival. I had to be mentally ready more than physically.
I don’t remember the hours following the crash that nearly ended my career, but I do remember the pain of taking my first step. I was doped up on pain killers, but I was on the verge of vomiting from the pain shooting down my spine. I couldn’t walk without cringing; I couldn’t sit down without wondering if I’d ever get back up. Fuck, for those first few weeks, I couldn’t even wipe my own ass.
I don’t want to go through that again—not ever again—but that fear is what has stopped me from regaining my former glory. I’m so scared of getting injured, I strategized how to stop it from happening, thus not only taking away the love I have for the game, but making me an easy target. I was the best in my field because I was unpredictable. My opponents couldn’t read my next move. In a game where plays are rehearsed backwards and forwards, it was unheard of. Some coaches hated it, but Coach James always encouraged me to think outside the box. It’s what led to him winning three championships before my career was struck down by a cocky attitude and shield I thought was impenetrable.
I won’t let that happen again.
“Are you sure you’re good to go?” Coach James’ breath is visible in the cool night air. It’s colder in this part of the country this late in the season. “If you want to sit out, we can put Foster in for Dalton this week, slowly ease you back to a full schedule.”
“I’m good, Coach. I’ve got this.” For the first time in the past six weeks, there’s absolutely no hesitation in my tone. I can survive another injury, but I’ll never survive giving up my dream.
“Alright then, let’s hustle. We want this win, boys, and we want it bad.”
AND THAT’S PRECISELYwhat he got ninety minutes later.
“You’re fucking back, baby! Do you hear the electricity crackling in the air, smell the scent of your money being printed? Damn, boy! I’m not even the one who heard my name being screamed all night long, but I’m fucking buzzed like a bumble bee.”
Foster does an impromptu breakdance in front of me. His Michael Jackson-inspired dance moves have my mind drifting to Willow for the fourth time this evening. The spell that woman has put on me is frightening. Even during the middle of Foster’s impressive buttonhook route, my thoughts shifted to her. It wasn’t Foster’s blistering smile when he convinced the defensive back he was running a deep route that had my mind straying; it was his near fall when he planted hard on the slippery surface. He looked like a giraffe taking its first steps. Thankfully, he dug in his cleats, righted himself, then charged back my way before his defensive mark figured out what play we were running.
After grabbing his crotch enough times for Danny to take notice, Foster moonwalks into the showers. His excitement is understandable. We killed it tonight. Our opponents were left grappling when we hit them with touchdown after touchdown. I’m so buzzing with adrenaline, I reach for my phone to call Willow before I can stop myself.
I may not have any self-control, but my conscience does when my eyes drop to the screen of my phone. Willow sent me a text. She’s wearing a pair of fluffy unicorn earmuffs and is snuggling into a pillow that looks like the poop emoji.
The caption of her photo reads:Anything to drown out Skylar’s screams. I swear if I hear her shout, “Go, Carlton! Run, Carlton! You’re the fucking man, Carlton!” one more time, I’m going to puke.An eyerolling emoji ends her message.
For how much I love football, you’d think her disdain for the game would have me backing away from our friendship with my hands held high and my knees bowed. But, nope, if anything, it increases my eagerness. Everyone has their own passion and quirks. Willow’s happens to be dancing and having the ability to pull off kiddie earmuffs like they’re a piece of lingerie. Mine are football and being man enough to understand it’s not everyone’s flavor of the month.
While I’m being upfront, I’ll admit, my love of football hasn’t always been as strong as it is now. When you’re the only son of a football fanatic, you expect to get more than a request to be quiet during game time. I didn’t need my father to run me through drills and watch every game I’ve ever played. I just wanted him to be around.
I’m drawn from my negative thoughts when my phone buzzes in my hand. It’s another text from Willow.
Willow:Thank god, the squawking has finally stopped. Now I can get some shuteye. I hope your meeting went well. Talk soon. Willow xx
I’m in the process of returning her message when my phone rings, and since I was frantically tapping on the keyboard, I accidentally hit the connect button. So I have no choice but to answer the call I’ve been avoiding like the plague the past few months.
“Lillian, how are you?” I don’t give a shit how she is, and thankfully, my grinding teeth when I asked my question should advise her of that.
“Great now. I was beginning to fret that you had forgotten to give me your new number. I’ve left god knows how many messages the past two months. Did you get any of them?”
Her voice is so dramatic, I can picture her lounging on the day bed in her office with her hand splayed across her sweaty forehead. She’ll be wearing something satiny and designer. Most likely one of the hundred negligees she was gifted after our disastrous lingerie shoot, and she’ll most likely have a flute of champagne in her hand.
