“When have I ever been late to practice?”That would be never. I drop my bag on the floor in front of my locker. “I was tied up.”
“Tied up?” Coop gives me a once-over as I strip down, his gaze lingering on the massive bruise discoloring my thigh. “I didn’t think you went for the kinky shit, Vaughn. I figured you were straight vanilla.”
I give him the finger and open my locker. “Don’t you have some biceps curls to do?”
The last thing I want to discuss with Coop—or anyone else, for that matter—is my non-existent sex life. I’ve hooked up with girls before, but it’s been a while, and I’ve never gone the whole way. Maybe it’s stupid, but I guess I just want it to be special.
“Forget biceps curls,” Reid says, tucking his helmet under his arm. “He should be reviewing the playbook.”
Parker winces, and I can’t say I blame him.
Coach just added two new plays and though we’ve been practicing them for days, he won’t call them during a game until we prove we’ve got them on lock.
“Relax, ye of little faith. I’m more than just a pretty face.” Coop smirks and closes his locker. “I’ve got a mind like a steel trap.”
“Too bad it’s not connected to your mouth,” Parker quips, throwing a balled-up towel at him.
Coop feigns indignation and they file out as I suit up.
Twenty minutes later, I’m on the field running plays with the offensive line as the coaching staff shouts directions from the sideline.
Although it’s early October, it’s unseasonably hot and sweat drips from my brow, stinging my eyes.
“Get your ass back in position, DeLaurentis!” Coach Collins brandishes his clipboard like a weapon, givingfuck around and find outvibes. The guy is old school and though rumor has it the university required him to take sensitivity training, it hasn’t exactly taken. “You pull that shit tomorrow and you’ll be running wind sprints ‘til you puke!”
“Is it me or is Coach extra bitchy today?” Coop asks, taking his sweet time getting back to the line.
Parker shrugs, pads bobbing. “Maybe the old man is feeling the pressure.”
Aren’t we all?
“No way,” Reid deadpans, taking his place behind the center. “Coach has nerves of steel.”
Coop smirks. “His clipboard would suggest otherwise.”
“And if you don’t get moving,” I say, giving him a shove, “you’re going to be seeing it up close and personal.”
Our head coach has never actually hit anyone with the clipboard, but it’s just a matter of time until it goes flying. The man is solid, but he’s loud, unpredictable, and he scares the shit out of me.
Not that I’d ever admit it.
After all, I’m twice his size.
We run the play again and this time, Reid completes the pass to Coop, who runs it down the field, leaving our defenders panting in his wake.
By the fourth rep, I’m in the zone.
Set. Snap. Lunge.
I plow into the defensive end, planting my palms on his chest. He grunts at the loss of momentum and I latch onto his pads, curling my fingers into the chest protector for optimal leverage.
The poor bastard doesn’t stand a chance.
I’m in complete control as I rotate our bodies, buying Reid the time he needs to find a receiver.
The ball rockets downfield and we line up to do it all over.
Set. Snap. Lunge.
