Charlie smirks. “Aroused, are we?”
I groan. “I saiddiesel,notdominateme.”
He winks. “Same difference.”
I shake my head, slumping deeper into the passenger seat as the Land Rover lurches onto the road. “I don’t know what’s worse,” I mutter. “The fact that this thing still runs, or that your ego gets a little boost every time it does.”
Charlie hums thoughtfully. “Both are true miracles. Mechanically and sexually.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he says, taking a sharp turn that nearly sends me flying out the door, “you’re still here. Riding shotgun. Suffering through my scent and outdated suspension.”
“I’m here because we’re contractually obligated to be at training camp.”
“Oh, is that what you tell yourself?” he quips. “Because from where I’m sitting, you keep looking at me like you want to climb into my lap.”
I scoff, but my ears are beet red. He’s not wrong. He rarely is when it comes to the effect he has on me. Charlie makes me feel complete and cherished. That I’m more than Brad Schmidt’s son. More than the nuclear fallout of a splintered family and a broken bromance.
If it weren’t for him, I don’t know that I’d have survived last season—let alone come out the other side still catching leather. Charlie may act like a charming, posh jerk half the time, but behind closed doors? He’s the loving man who cooks you a homemade broccoli quiche when's the world has put you through the wringer. Who holds you in the quiet moments when words entirely disappear fromyour vocabulary. The loving man who remembers your go-to latte order when your head is in a tizzy from caffeine withdrawals.
“I’m trying to emotionally prepare for seeing Jackson again,” I grumble, eyes fixed out the window, admiring the freshly paved interstate that cuts through South Minneapolis, giving way to Bloomington. “Not get seduced in an ancient death trap with wheels.”
Charlie clicks his tongue. “That’s funny. Because I’m doing both quite well.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter.
“Devastatingly talented,” he corrects, giving me thigh a squeeze while biting his lower lip, revealing his snatching teeth. “Don’t worry, love. When Jackson starts being arrogant and cocky, just picture me naked in nothing except for a speedo, my prick seesawing back and forth. I guarantee it'll work like a lucky charm.”
Wildly inappropriate advice. It’s also probably the only thing that’ll keep me sane today.
Charlie pulls the Land Rover into the private lot behind the stadium, past the security gate. He throws it into park, killing the engine with a rusty sigh. “Ready to show the Lumberjacks what you’re made of, rookie?”
I glance out the windshield at the training facility. Cameras and reporters eager to get a glimpse of how the pre-season is shaping. Teammates who already know my last name and probably think they know the whole story. I swallow against the dryness consuming my throat. “As ready as I’llever be.”
We climb out of the deathmobile, the summer air is seeping with humidity and tension. I barely have time to shut my door before Charlie comes around and smacks me hard on the ass.
“Oi,” he says with a grin, “tight end.”
“I’m a wide receiver smart ass,” I mumble, licking my lips.
“Not from where I’m standing," he gestures south with his eyes.
I give him a look of disbelief, but he’s already walking toward the entrance, that cocky strut on full display.
I shake my head with a smile forming at my lips.This cheeky motherfucker is really going to leave me in the dust huh…
He knows he’s the best kicker in the league, even though he’s thirty-nine years old. He only has a few years left, before he would be forced out to ride the glorious waves of retirement. He’s filthy loaded, but I don’t know what he’ll do when he loses his pro-identity.
How does anyone just switch up after having the same job for almost twenty years, to then doing nothing? That's a situation screaming adjustment disorder.
Fuck, I can't wait to retire. To sit there and watch shitty daytime television. Laughing and acting like it's the worse thing ever taped, but secretly indulging in every second of its terribleness.
Only a few decades to go… if I'm lucky. And don't get cut from the roster.
The worse part about being a rookie is that you have to prove yourself over and over. Everyone is rooting for you to fail. It pisses me off that everyone questions if you are ready. If I wasn't ready, what did I just waste the last four years doing?
I jog a few steps to catch up, the weight of my duffel straining into my shoulder. My stomach’s tight. Not from nerves exactly, but from everything this season represents. My dad’s engagement. Jackson’s smug face waiting in that locker room. The way everyone’s going to be watching us like it’s some sick reality show, waiting for a fight or a breakdown—or both at the same time.
