Page 108 of Irresistibly Risky

Fallon: What the hell is going on? The announcers are going nuts, speculating about all kinds of things. Is Asher running the show and not listening to Joe? They’re also saying he’s been traded to LA.

My skin prickles with uneasiness.

Me: What? No. That can’t be. Asher would have told me if he was being traded.

Wouldn’t he have?

Fallon: I don’t know. Layla, Aurelia, and I are watching. The guys are in another room talking about something. Did Asher say anything to you this morning? The announcers are now saying there’s a deal in the works for a rare mid-season trade to LA, but now that Leo is hurt and Asher is on the field, they’re stating that deal might end up on hold.

Me: He went for a run and then left in a rush. He’s been quiet and maybe a bit more inward and distant, but I assumed it was related to being benched. Then he just yelled at Joe that he knows about him. I don’t know what he’s talking about or what’s going on.

Could she be right? Is Asher being traded to LA? And why wouldn’t he have told me? He told me he wouldn’t do this. I told him how I work. Where my mind tends to go. That I have freaking abandonment issues. So no. He wouldn’t do this.

Right?

Fallon: The guys know something for sure, but they’re not sharing it yet. There’s something going on beneath the surface. All I know is that Lenox was doing some digging into Joe. Grey let something slip before they went into the other room to talk. Maybe he found something on Joe. If I learn what it is, I’ll text you.

Me: Thank you.

I don’t even know what else to say. What on earth could Lenox have found on Joe that would have Asher so furious? And what if Fallon is right? What if Asher is being traded to LA? And he didn’t tell me.

31

Fuck Joe. He can actually just go and fuck right off if he thinks I’ll ever listen to anything he has to say or follow his lead again. I received not one, but two calls this morning. It was the first one that really got my attention. Lenox had me running out the door, and after meeting up with him and learning everything he had to share, Joe is lucky that I made it through pregame warmups and the first half of the game without causing a mutiny.

My team deserves better from me, and they’re the only reason I didn’t lose my mind until he tried to start calling plays that would not only cause our team to lose but make me look weak and scared.

“Hand off for every down.” That’s what he said into my helmet. “You’re not to throw the ball.”

“That’s exactly what the defense will expect me to do,” I spat back.

“I don’t give a shit, Reyes. You’re on my team, and you’ll do what I tell you to do.”

Fat fucking chance I was going to do that.

Especially when my throwing arm is in top condition. He forgot that it wasn’t my throwing arm that underwent surgery.

“You running this show?” Myers, my tight end questions when I get back into the huddle after completing that beauty of a pass.

“I am,” I state resolutely, meeting the eyes of my guys one by one. “If anyone has a problem with that, now’s the time to speak up.”

Silence.

“All right. Denver draw left to Myers. Ready… break!”

We all clap our hands, and then my guys run into position. Ryder smacks my back, gives me a firm nod, and then I’m lined up behind him, calling out a dozen things to throw off the pace of the defense. Adrenaline pumps through my veins like a delicious drug, honing my muscles, sharpening my reflexes, and tightening my focus.

I go through my motions and then yell, “Hike.”

The ball snaps straight into my hands, and then I’m stepping back in the pocket, reading the defense and searching for my receivers, looking in the opposite direction of where I plan to throw the ball. I shift right, knowing my offensive line will do their jobs and keep me safe. Myers runs his fade route left. I fake right and then let the ball sail in his direction, watching as he turns his head over his shoulder at the right moment, and catches my bullet with two hands.

Right in the end zone.

“Yeah!” I jump in the air and then get slammed by my guys who lift me and carry me all the way to the sideline. The fans in the stands are going nuts, the sound a deafening roar. And because I’m a child at heart and in practice, I throw Joe—who is glaring so hard his face is redder than a fire engine—a smug grin and then turn to face the field, dismissing him.

It’s funny; I almost wasn’t sure what I was going to do when Lenox spilled all the tea to me. There were a lot of mixed emotions. A lot of wayward, fire-enraged, vengeful thoughts. But nothing is sweeter than stealing the team out from under him without him being able to do a damn thing about it.

This may very well be my last game as a Boston Rebel. I could be suspended or traded or even cut tomorrow. But this is my moment.

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