Fine. I won’t look at him either. He won’t be so cocky once I take his starting spot.
Jackson’s voice rises over the music.
“Schmidt,” he calls across the bench. “You ready to go today?”
I meet his eyes and keep my face blank. My old beer-pong partner now throws to me for a paycheck and takes my dad on date nights. What a sick joke. There should be a wiki page for surviving this kind of dark alternate universe.
“You know I’m always good to go,” I huff, shaking my head.
“Excellent,” he says. “Coach wants us on point for the red zone install.”
Charlie strolls over to my side with his helmet tucked against his hip. He gives Jackson a pleasant nod, then offers me a glance that sayschill the frick out. “See you on the field, love,” he says, giving me a good boy pat before heading off for his kicking drills.
Out on the field, the sky is a hard azure and the turf shimmers from the rising sun. Not a cloud to notice in the sky. The offense splits up for warm-up stretches: knee kicks, hip twists, ankle rotations. I catch myself over-stretching, feeling the burn of yesterday’s lactic acid.
“Loosen, don’t force,” one of the assistant coaches yells. “Save the juice for the one-on-ones.”
I nod and shake out the tension. It slides right back in when I glance across the field and spot Charlie nailing kicks through the uprights. He looks natural in that space—set, swing, pop, net. A kicking machine with monstrous quads.
“Receivers,” Coach Rourke shouts, clapping his hands. “Work the choice tree. Hicks, you’ve got them for the first sequence.”
We roll through releases and break points. Stems short and long. I keep my head in the footwork. Plant, cross, press. I let speed carry me into space, then snap my eyes to the ball. Jackson’s throws rip through the air. On the third set he spirals one high over the middle and I go up. My fingers snatch the leather as I smash against the turf, dark green streaks smearing against my practice jersey.
“Good hands, Schmidt,” Jackson praises with a grin.
Yeah whatever… I know he doesn't mean it. Just trying to butter me up a little. Nice try. As if that will make everything a whimsical fairytale. No way in hell am I going to dance along with Jackson Hicks as Cinderella. No way his feet would fit in those delicate glass slippers.
On the sideline, I grab the plastic bottle, squeezing ice-cold water right back to my uvula. Jenkins steps in beside me, sweat beadingthrough his beard. He's close enough for my nostrils to whiff in his putrid body odor reeking of moldy draft beer and garlic. “You keep on catching the easy balls,” he taunts, eyes pinned on Coach, “and they’ll start feeding you the hard ones.”
“That's the point,” I rumble, letting on an exasperated sigh.
He gives a slight, condescending nod. “The point is being where they need you, when they need you.”
I glance at him. “Copy.”
Thanks for the obvious tip. Jackass…
We jog back out. The world condenses to cleats and breath and the thud of pads. I run the choice against a nickel I abused yesterday. I sell the slant, then break out under his hand and find Jackson’s eyes. Ball’s on me as I turn. Feet in. Tap-tap. Coach Rourke’s whistle chirps.
“Sharp,” he calls. “Schmidt, do it again with the Z tag. Jenkins, you’re up next.”
We reset. The ache in my hips nags enough to register in my brain. I shake it off though. I’m fine. I'm better than fine. I'm on fire today.
Between the hikes I spot a few suits near the tunnel with a staffer. Media relations, maybe. A couple of familiar faces from local news. One of them laughs at something the staffer says and I swear I hear a British accent ripple back. My stomach gives a small, stupid drop. I don’t see Drew. Maybe he’s a thought. Maybe I’m seeing shadows. Maybe it's the ethanol still circulating through my veins.
I shouldn't drink. The hangxiety is never worth it…
My thoughts whirl in a confusing storm. A puzzling mix of lightning and thunder. Afraid and disgusted by the thought of Charlie'sbrother. Yet… a bit intrigued. Is he all bark, no bite? Or would he really inject me with his egotistical impurities.
My body shivers in a rush of goosebumps.It's wrong. So wrong of me to consider—
Then Charlie passes by and flicks the bottom of my jersey with his fingers. Light contact, barely enough to snap me back to reality. “You’re moving well,” he says with a hefty bit of cheek.
“My hips are sore. Probably from last night,” I murmur.
“My love needs a cold bath after,” he says. “I’ll supervise. Maybe pour a bag of ice to help soothe those beautiful glutes.” The look in his eyes is pure Charlie—sweet and filthy. It warms a spot in me that went cold at the sight of that entourage. He gives me a lick of his lips and a raise of his brows before jogging back to the special teams area.
Okay Austin, time to lock in.I say to myself as I try to refocus on the routes.
