Page 24 of Nothing Less Than Everything

TATUM

Iscanned my keycard at the gate entrance and waited until the reflective, mechanical arm lifted so I could pull into the lot. Gideon had a reserved spot—perks of being the face of the Reds. The rest of the lot was a free-for-all. I found a space in the back and cut the ignition.

The rookies had been in training camp for two weeks. The vets reported last week. Being a last-minute trade meant I’d be playing catch up for the better part of the week. My only saving grace was that I had played with a few of the guys over the years. Gid, Theo, and I went back to our college days. I could have been drafted the same year as Gideon, but I wanted another year of college ball and being a full-time student before I went pro and finished my degree online. The first of many career decisions that pissed off my old man.

There were a few guys on the defensive line that I’d played with in Seattle, a kicker that I’d had one year with in Denver, and a center that I had run some charity camps with during the off-season.

Professional football was like one big dysfunctional family. Some guys came in, wanting to ride roughshod and trash talk every other player, coach, and owner in the league. That was all fine and dandy until you got traded and had to play with the guys you were shit-talking. It was best to keep things professional. Sure, I played a game for a living, but it was just that—a living. The turf was my office.

True to her word, Sam had gotten me a sponsorship with a sports drink company. They had overnighted a box of merch for me to have my pick of. I had thrown on one of their t-shirts before leaving my place.

As much as I wanted to stall, I had work to do. I grabbed my bag out of the back seat, put on my shades, and went to the office.

Sports reporters with press passes lined the fence, snapping photos. It was too fucking early to answer questions about why the hell I was in Rhode Island instead of Seattle. I’d play nice with their cameras and answer repetitive questions when we were released from camp for the day.

I crossed the lot and yanked open the door. A blast of artificially chilled air escaped as I passed the threshold. Hands jumped out of nowhere and threw me against the wall.

“What the fu—”

Another hand ripped my sunglasses off. Gideon Fucking Carmichael was grinning from ear to damn ear. “You motherfucker,” he said with a laugh.

Theo Jackson was beside him, arms crossed and jaw on the floor, looking at me like I was a ghost. “Dammit,” he muttered as he pulled out his wallet and handed Gideon a fifty.

“Serves you right, betting against me,” Gid snickered as he pocketed the bill.

“The fuck?” I slapped Theo’s palm and pulled him into a one-armed bro hug. “You put money on me not showing up today?”

“Nah, man,” Theo said with a chuckle. “We were putting money on whether you got traded or not. Seattle’s kept it quiet, but you know how speculation works when you leave a TC. Coach has been trying to get you back here for years. When all the suits were here yesterday for a contract signing, we knew something was up.”

“Tyson didn’t tell you?”

Gideon shook his head, pushing his pretty boy hair out of his face. “Nope.”

Well, that explained why they hadn’t tried to contact me yesterday.

“Dude, this is fucking awesome!” Gideon shouted as he punched my chest, his voice echoing down the cinder-block hallway. “Just like old times. It sucks that Mitch retired, but your hands are ten times better. We actually have a shot at the championship this year.”

Mitch Pettigrew was the former wide receiver for the Reds. He called it quits after his third rotator cuff tear. Corroborating what Coach Tyson said, they had drafted a hotshot rookie who could catch a speeding bullet. The problem was, he was just that—a rookie. Skilled hands made good players, but that wouldn’t cut it in a league where everybody was at the top of their game. Greatness required a sharp mind—on and off the field.

“How’s the new kid?” I asked as the three of us headed toward the locker room.

“Seth Motherfucker McBride,” Theo muttered. “Shows up late, hungover, and acts like he’s a fucking rockstar.”

“Tyson said he’s a hot head.”

Gideon nodded. “He’s gotten into some bar fights. Always has women hanging off him. Thinks he’s hot shit. At this rate, he’ll be broke by the time bye week rolls around.”

“And Tyson wants him with us on Tuesdays,” Theo whined.

I raised an eyebrow as the bright lights of the locker room blinded me. “Tuesdays are still a thing?”

“Hell yeah, Tuesdays are still a thing,” Gideon scoffed. “Best day of the week. Besides Sundays, of course.”

A picture of the Reds’ mascot—an angry, snarling chicken—was plastered on the wall just inside the door. Gid and Theo each smacked it on their way in. They both stopped dead in their tracks when I didn’t follow suit, and I nearly ran into them.

We stood in silence for a moment staring at each other.

“What?” I asked, getting antsy. I’d only been traded a few times, but it always felt like showing up to high school as the new kid after all the cliques had been formed.

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