9. Text’s & Busted Phones

TEXT'S Lauren offered, and she did that because her sister was just coming out of what I'm gathering was a pretty low place."

Her ex and the accident.

"Brett blamed Lauren for the missing dress." He pushes off the bed. "She and Riley haven't been speaking, aside from texts. And tonight, she told Riley if she didn't tell you, she would. She's on the same side as you."

"I'm on the side of pissed off and don't give a fuck."

"But you do, Hart. You stole a fucking dress to stop her from making a mistake. That's the kind of story couples tell their kids." He heads for the door. "Just gotta decide if you're gonna let them be his, or you're gonna allow yourself to see what could be between you and Riley."

Before I have a chance to respond, he's out the door, and I'm pissed off knowing I'm not getting shit for sleep because I have no fucking clue what to think other than she lied to me.

When I walk down the stairs, old-school headphones plugged into my old-school iPod shuffle, because my phone's fucked, Boone is at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for me with his bags slung over his shoulder, chuckling as he looks at his screen. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he nods to the door and says something I don't hear.

I push my headphones back and lift my chin in question.

His eyes dance with amusement, no doubt at my old-school electronics. "Gonna guess I'm driving?"

"I'm good."

"You threw up last night on the way back from the bar," he reminds me.

"Haven't done that shit since college, and that was only one time. Won't happen again."

And it won't.

Having a father who used alcohol and drugs to work through everything that was wrong in his life taught me to avoid that shit like the plague until one night when my brother, Rome, pointed out that alcohol was not at fault for our father's abuse; it was his excuse. The first time I drank, I overdid it and threw up. After that, I had three, maybe four max, at social gatherings. During the season, I have a two-drink limit, and it's typically not more than once a week that I have more than one, and I never drink alone.

Last night, I lay in bed, thinking about how fucked up it was I was using alcohol as a coping mechanism in dealing with the fact I have some feelings that really came to the surface when that piece of shit put a ring on Riley's finger and really kicked in when Lauren told me her wedding dress had been delivered.

"All right then, let's roll."

Before sliding into the passenger seat of his Expedition, I tell him, "Football and only football from the minute my ass hits leather until after the game Thursday."

He shuts the door and chuckles. "What else would the number one team on the NFC talk about besides defending that position?"

I lean back in the passenger seat and buckle up. "Used to hate Thursday night games, but I kinda love that means we have Sunday free."

Boone starts up his vehicle and chuckles again. "You got big plans for your off time?"

I eye him skeptically, hoping he does not already break his word. "Yeah, I do. I'm going to sleep, eat shit food, and maybe head to Jersey for a couple days. Not gonna ask you one personal question before we get back that's not football after this, but are you gonna head down and see Lily?"

"Nah, just going to stick around here and train unless you want some company," he says, pulling out. "I don't know if I ever told you this, but Max Steel was my roommate in college."

Max is one of the owners of the New Jersey Jaguars, my brother Roman's MLB team. And yeah, he's told me that a few times, but I never thought he was waiting for an invite.

"Damn right you can come with me, anytime. Surprised you never asked before."

"Bro, the shit you had going on in Jersey, I wanted to stay the fuck away. Needed to. Sure as hell don't need Lindsay's parents to have more ammo against me." He chuckles and waves his hand through the air. "We're not taking this to a personal level; it's fucking football time, Hart."

"It's fucking football time, Boone."

"You prepped and ready for tomorrow?"

"Yeah, mostly. Been watching film on Jones and Hobbs. I think I'll be all right."

Boone chuckles. "Always thinking about the deep routes, huh?"

I nod because that's true. I play to my strengths with our QB.

"Don't discount Facyson. He may have spent a lot of time out due to injury, but when he's on the field, he is all the fuck over it."

"I remember him from last year," I admit. "Vegas has some strong linebackers," I remind him.

"Perryman," he shutters.

"Remember Deablo's transitioning from safety to linebacker?"

"Never gonna forget him, or Brown, who's got experience and plays a solid role on their D line."

"I'm not worried about you; you got those quick feet. You just gotta trust your instincts."

"Always playing the hype guy, and I'm not gonna lie, Hart, I live for that shit. I need it. The team needs it."

"Not gonna lie to you, Boone,"—I laugh—"this football shit doesn't work out, I'm auditioning for the Dallas Cowgirl cheerleaders." After a good laugh, I take us back to the serious route. "We gotta be smart. We need to beat these sons of bitches."

"You know what's messed up?" he asks.

"Do tell."

"I never root for anybody to lose except the team playing against us on any given game day. And I'm no fan of the fucking Cowboys. What I really hope for is that they wipe their asses with Philadelphia on Sunday."

"Totally agree. Totally fucking agree."

He smiles and nods.

"You considering asking to be on the returning team at the beginning of the game again?"

"Fuck no, I was just showing off for my girls." He points his finger up in the air. "And he showed up."

"Beautiful play … beautiful fucking play." I can't help but smile. "I've seen your ass on highlights all week. You're getting credit for the team winning the game. Come on; I ain't even hating on it. You set the tone on Sunday, and you set it perfectly."

"This isn't a one-man operation. Teamwork makes the dream work, motherfucker."

We tap knuckles.

"That's what I like to hear. All right, let's get through this flight, stay loose, and handle business Thursday night. We got this."

Another knuckle tap, and then Boone taps his wheel, and Limp Bizkit's "Break Stuff" blasts through the vehicle.

"For me?" I hold my hand to my chest and bat my lashes.

"You know I got you, boo." He winks. Then his smile drops, along with his whole face. "Fuck, man, we forgot Grimes."

I don't point out to him that I had no idea we were supposed to pick up Grimes. That was all him. But I'm in team mode, so, yeah, we forgot to pick up fucking Grimes.

"I will never get sick of boarding this beast," Grimes groans. "She's fucking sexy."

"It's a beautiful plane, man, but you need to get laid if this is doing it for you." Boone chuckles as we find our seats.

Once we've all boarded and taken our seats on the private plane, the staff begins to shuffle in. As the coaches walk onto the plane, I expect the same routine we always get, which always starts with Coach Cox's pep talk. But he just passes us, heading to the back of the plane, followed by the rest of the coaching staff, and I'm a bit thrown off. And that's when I see Lucas Links, the CFO of the Knights organization, step onto the plane, his usual smile replaced by a much harsher look than we're used to seeing.

"In the position this team has busted their asses to get to, I'm going to raise a yellow flag. I know most of you have celebrated, but that ends now. This isn't a fucking party; this is your career. Every one of you Knights makes seven digits or more a year. Do not forget that. You're not heading to Vegas to tap some ass, hire prostitutes, go to strip clubs—hell, I don't even want you rolling the dice. You are Knights going into battle. A single battle is not a war, but each win is closer to taking the whole damn thing. So, listen up; I don't know how you perceive me, but you all need to pack that shit right away for the foreseeable future.

"Let me reintroduce myself. I'm Lucas Links, the CFO of this team. My turn-ons are watching you bust your asses and triumph on the field, watching you run drills until you perfect them, and winning games. My turn-offs are losing." He pauses and glares around the cabin of the plane. "From now until the end of the season, this game is your life. It's not about the ass you're chasing. It's not about which one of you is the top player on that video game you all play together online that keeps you up all night." Another pause as his eyes stall on those of us who partake. "If you think I sound like your mother or your partner, you're wrong and not paying attention. Let me clear this up for you … I'm your fucking daddy, and you're gonna win this shit."

We exit the plane and board a coach bus that takes us to the hotel. At the hotel, the coaching staff hands us keys to our rooms on the tenth floor. Many of us immediately realize that we're not in our own rooms on this trip.

"The fuck?" Grimes mumbles. "Who are you with?"

I hold up the card envelope. "Boone."

He turns his envelope over and nods when he sees the name on his. "I'm with Voss?"

"Who's Voss?" Boone asks.

"Oden Voss is flying in tonight. We just picked him up," Coach Moore states as he passes by.

Oden Voss is a beast and recently became a free agent after leaving Minnesota. He was born in one of the Scandinavian countries and played for UCLA, and he plays the same position I do—wide receiver.

My eyes connect with Boone's, and he looks down. I wonder if he's thinking what I'm thinking. Did they bring him here so they could sit my ass on the bench for the rest of my contract.

I'm so fucked.

"Catering has set up buffets on your floor," Coach Cohen announces. "There's a gym on your floor—use it if you need it. Tomorrow morning, at ten a.m., we head to UNLV to use their field for practice. Get some sleep, gentlemen."

"Let's head up," Coach Cox says, directing us to the elevator banks.

I look around the hotel lobby to see if Jillian or Rome got the message I sent from my laptop on the plane. I explained that my phone stopped working and that I was pretty sure we were basically on lockdown. I asked them to pick one up for me and meet me in the lobby.

Rookie mistake. Why?

There's no way fifty-three players, all over six feet tall and none weighing under two ten, don't go unnoticed. Add the employees, staff, and owners who travel, and we're over two hundred strong. It's not unusual for a hotel to block off an area when a team arrives or to lock a floor down. This is something I did not consider.

I glance over to the roped-off area where security guards stand their posts, but I don't see them. What I do see is a whole lot of Knoxville Knights merchandise on a whole lot of people who are booing us as we pass by.

"Fucking fan club's here," Logan Links says to Coach Cohen.

"Seeing more than fans. Seeing players who got traded, who shouldn't be allowed on the field," he snarls.

That's when I see Jillian jumping up and down to catch my attention.

"Coach, my sister's over there with my phone. You mind?—"

"The fuck are you thinking?" he snaps at me.

"I'm not sure I understand the question," is my response, but I wonder if he's talking about the phone or something altogether different.

Riley Mae Brooks … isn't allowed in my fucking head right now.

"Chill, Trucker, I have London on it. Go ahead up; I'll take the elevator with Hart." Logan holds up a finger, telling me to wait as he talks to his wife, I assume.

He shoves his phone in his pocket. "London is getting in contact with Jillian. Try not to call attention to your family when these fucking assholes are around, yeah?"

"Didn't even think of that." I shake my head at myself. "Fucking stupid."

"Shouldn't have to think about it for that very reason. It's bullshit." He glares at them.

A few minutes later, London, her father, Brody, Jillian, and her boyfriend, Nour, are walking in from a different hallway. The hallway that is not currently littered with shit-wearing Knoxville Knights gear.

Both Brody and Nour step in front of the girls, shielding them from the crowd, which I completely get—they're protecting what they cherish.

The fact I get that feeling in my chest, and now it has a real face …

This ain't good.