Page 12 of The Way We Fight

Coach Peyton stayed away from me during the pregame, and I avoided him as well. I chanced a few glances to see if he was ready to kill me for slapping him the week before, but I assumed he also knew he deserved it.

We were just moving into the second quarter on a hot and sunny day with the dome of the stadium open, when I finally gave him something to yell at me about. An unsportsmanlike conduct penalty against Tyson Black, his star tight end.

“Are you kidding me?” He stood next to me and yelled while the players moved on and off the field. “Ninety-nine shoved him down.”

“I only saw eighty-two,” I responded, referring to Tyson’s jersey number. Honestly, calling it like I saw it was my job. If number ninety-nine started it, I didn't see it. And that's okay because I was watching the play. I was doing my job.

Coach Peyton would just have to stand down.

But he didn't.

“Are you fucking blind?” He yelled again. “What were you looking at, the color of your nails?”

His words made me turn red from anger and embarrassment. I put my whistle in my mouth to hide my lip movements from the cameras and turned to him while the play was still halted.

“Are you insinuating I care more about my nails than my job? That is a pretty sexist thing to say.”

Coach Peyton wasn't even looking at me, but I watched as he put his play sheet in front of his mouth and unplugged his headset from the pack around his waist.

“I warned you, Apple,” he snarled my fake name. “You're gonna regret being a lousy official in the NFL.”

Tilting my head, a little, I beaded my eyes at him, praying the cameras didn't catch me snarling. “Your dick isn't big enough to get away with acting like an asshole.”

His head snapped in my direction at my words, and I gave him one last glare before turning and walking away. If I had a mic, I would have dropped it, because the look on his face was better than I could have imagined.

Thankfully, he left me alone after that and let me get back to work. But the pettiness I felt in my bones stayed intact. That man made me angry, and I had no idea why. Sure, it was well known that coaches and officials didn't see eye to eye, but with him, it felt personal.

It was personal.

Maybe I shouldn't have snuck out. Maybe we should have said goodbye. Would that have made things easier?

Nope, fuck that.

It was a one-night stand, and we weren’t supposed to see each other again. There were no reasons for niceties and goodbyes. Plus, had I not left while he was sleeping, I probably would have missed my interview. Because despite being pissed at the man that was currently stalking toward me to call a timeout, I wanted more of him.

“Time out!” He yelled in my direction.

I promptly blew my whistle for the break and let him convene with his team. Without meaning to, I kept my eyes on him as he settled in the middle of the guys.

He was just as tall and just as built as they were. He wore slim fit, ankle joggers with a Jets logo on the thigh and it caught my eye. Then he turned and I was looking at his ass, an ass I admired naked as it walked from the bedroom to dispose of the condoms we used in New York.

I was back there again, lying in bed, watching the way he moved and thinking to myself that he had to be an athlete of some sort. I wasn't completely wrong, and I was willing to bet he played football not so long ago.

Not that I was going to look it up. I didn't want to care that much.

My eyes traveled up to the jacket he was wearing, tight on his biceps and slightly unzipped. He was the exact opposite of every other coach in the league who wore khakis and polos, which may have been due to his youth. Most head coaches were in their sixties, but Coach Peyton made NFL history when the Jets took a chance on him a few years ago.

Seemed to have paid off well.

The thirty second timeout went by too fast, and before I knew it, Coach Peyton was turning from his team and facing me. My eyes shot up from his ass to his face and I felt the heat forming on my skin from being busted.

His lips quirked up a little, no doubt feeling empowered by catching me ogling, but I quickly recovered and honed back in on the game. The rest of the game went smoothly, and even when Coach Peyton came up to stand beside me, I wasn't fazed.

We seemed to find a normal work mode that I hoped would carry into the rest of the season, and I thanked myself for putting him in his place early. That was the only thing that had changed, and I knew it must have told him that I wasn't one to fuck with.

When the game ended, I happily shook hands with my fellow referees and made my way down the tunnel to my locker room. Things were looking up, and with the team leaving next weekend for an away game, I knew I had two more weeks to soak it in before the next risk to my sanity emerged.

I slammed the door to my room, forgetting the lock that time, and instantly took my shirt off and threw it in my bag to take home to wash. I started the shower and took my braid out, piling my hair on top of my head to keep it dry while I rinsed my body of sweat. I had plans to work out that evening, so I saved washing my hair for afterward.

---