Chapter Twenty-Six

Justin

AND THEN IT was time.

Ethan was good, Bethany had arrived, and they had big plans together. Justin would be back for the weekend and then go again. Justin kept telling himself it was going to all work out. If he had a winning team, that was his best offense against nosey reporters.

He'd already said goodbye to Bethany, then dragged Ethan into the garage and kissed him silly until Ethan's hair was a mess, his lips red, and he looked so damn hot like that; Justin kissed him again.

"When I get home," Justin warned.

Ethan's cheeks matched his lips, but he shot Justin a surprisingly sexy smirk, bit his lip, and seemed on board.

JUSTIN DRESSED IN his practice gear and checked out his jersey. He'd gotten to keep his lucky number, had asked for it before the draft, and was now in the NFL, sporting number fourteen. It'd been his lucky number since peewee league; there was respect for superstition in sports. He headed out with the rest of the team. They were starting the season with him, a brand-new quarterback after their last one had finally retired, and they'd restructured. So, he wasn't the only new face or replaced player.

"We got this. You and me and communication." McReedy waggled a finger between them.

"Hell yeah, we've got this, man, you and me, from start to finish."

"That's right, brotha'."

It was an adjustment getting used to the helmet and technology he wasn't familiar with and hearing the calls in his ear. Justin called out the first play, and they ran it, with him and McReedy getting accustomed to each other and learning what worked between them. A little confusion on the line, but they reran it, and it was one down as they began working their way through the plays in their bible.

Justin dripped sweat, breathing hard as did everyone else, and McReedy, a farm-grown player, gloated as he handed Justin a bottle.

"'I want the beach,'" McReedy mocked. "Gonna get me a beach house, and then I'm gonna sweat my balls off in the Florida sunshine."

Justin grinned.

"Didn't think about all that heat and the sun," McReedy teased.

"I hate the snow and cold. Do you hear me complaining?" Justin said.

"Nah, man. Just, your pores are all cryin'."

And then they drilled and drilled, and Justin was the one who thought his arm would fall off. He had work to do; breathing in the sauna-like humid heat was nothing like breathing in the north. The week was hell. Justin told Ethan they were buying an ice machine and turning the hot tub into an ice bath.

And it was 24/7 football; if they weren't on the field, they were viewing tape, meeting with the coaching staff, drilling, running, working out, physicals and medical, and then repeat. Justin loved it and hated it all at the same time. He felt like he was dying and living simultaneously in the Sunshine State.

"It's just pain. It's subjective, you know." McReedy panted and nodded as they did it again and again until they got it right.

"Dude," McReedy groaned.

"I can't even talk to you right now." Justin had his head back on the rim of the tub in freezing-ass water. "Bubbles." It was all he got out, and he quirked his lip at McReedy's weak-ass laugh next to him.

They dragged themselves out to go eat and barely nodded their heads at the veteran players, who gave them amused looks as they passed by.

"Hang in there; it gets easier," said Holcombe, a beast on their defensive line.

Justin managed one nod. Coming from Holcombe, it wasn't all that reassuring. He was the kind of guy who snuck into dark alley dreams and opposing teams' nightmares. Justin stepped up to the counter and got his food. They sat with Chastain, who looked like he could fall asleep sitting up.

"Fuck, I feel like I'm eighty," Justin said as he eased himself into his chair.

"You may have to help me up," Chastain admitted.

"Eat," McReedy said, and they did, but it was mechanical with zero conversation.

Justin drove to his apartment in a daze. He managed to set his alarm clocks, sent Ethan a text, and crashed out hard on his bed. Football for the majority of his life still had not prepared him for this. The alarms went off entirely too soon, and he was at it again for another torture day. His offensive coordinator, Coach Richardson, officially owned his ass and put him through the wringer daily. By Thursday, it was all becoming a blur.

"Halstead, see me after practice," Coach Richardson said at the end of their first Friday on the turf, so Justin made his way to his office after a quick meeting with his quarterback assistant coordinator and the other QBs.

"Close the door," Richardson said. "Brutal, right?"

"I was not prepared," Justin admitted, sitting down.

"You're doing well. I'm pleased. You have a good handle on the playbook, getting adjusted to the helmet and technology. In another week, you'll be better acclimated. You and McReedy are working well together. So, thoughts?"

"Breathing and getting used to the humidity. If that improves, then I'll be fine; that's my only concern."

"It is difficult, coming from a cold, dry climate to a tropical one. Give it time. Hydrate, you know the routine." Richardson handed him a clipboard. "Anyone on that list you want to keep?"

Justin worked his way down the names, realizing it was a cut list. He studied each one carefully and thought about the first full week of practice—who had shown qualities and who was not an asset to the team. Justin looked up.

"Can I write on this?" he asked.

Richardson handed him a pencil and leaned back. "Think out loud."

Justin let out a tired sigh but went down the list, pointing out what he thought about each player and making short notes.

"Scratch, bad attitude, confrontational with other players and staff," Justin said and moved to the next. "Good character, determined, good work ethic but lacks some skills. Keep."

And so it went as Justin crossed off names and circled others, making notes, and then he was done. He returned the board and sat back. Richardson tore the page off, laid it next to the one underneath, and compared them.

"Miller. Convince me," he said.

"I'd give Miller another week if he can get the plays down; he's got real skill. Maybe get someone to work with him on the playbook. Otherwise, I think he could be a keeper."

"Jones," he said next.

"Horrible attitude, phenomenal skill, that's a hard call."

"How would you handle it if you were sitting here?"

"Oh, do I get to be blunt?" Justin asked, unsure.

"Yeah, this stays in here," Coach said, leaning back again.

"If it were me, I'd call him in here and tell him he has a QB who wants to go to the Superbowl with him, and his talent is amazing, but his attitude and mouth are going to damage this team, and that can't happen. I'd lay down the law, tell him to change or leave because I can take Chastain to the Superbowl just fine too."

Richardson nodded. "Hernandez."

"Keep if you can; I'd take Hernandez over Jones because Hernandez will work for it twice as hard and not be an asshole. He has room to grow."

"Those are the only ones we differed on." Richardson stacked the papers. "You all settled into your apartment?"

"Yes. But I'm getting blackout curtains today," Justin said seriously.

"And your other place?"

"Great, couldn't be happier."

"I wanted to know—since you can't put down your emergency contact—do you want to give me that information in case a call ever needs to be made?"

"Yes, thank you." Justin wrote down Ethan's name, their address, and his phone number. Justin looked up at his coach. "Can I trust you?"

"Yes," Coach Richardson said.

"This is everything to me."

"And it will not leave my possession or be shared with anyone."

Justin passed the paper across the desk. Coach glanced down at the information and nodded. Then he locked it in his drawer.

"I'm going to think a little longer on Hernandez and Miller. I'm cutting the rest we agreed on today. Go tell Jones I want to see him," Richardson said.

"Yes, sir." Justin headed out to find Jones.

"Fuck," Jones said, and Justin stopped him.

"Be respectful; listen to him. Leave your attitude at the door, man." Justin said and went on a search for Miller.

"Hey, Justin," Miller said sadly. "Coach wants to see me? I figured."

"No, man, I wanted to talk to you about the playbook." Justin sat beside him.

"Oh, uh, ok."

"Let's take a look at yours, see where we're getting our lines crossed." Justin went over the plays, remembering Miller bumbling with Justin's play call, asking where he'd gotten confused.

Miller was adjusting to playing the other side, and Justin asked if he thought switching back to the right side would make it easier until he got the plays down and could master either side. Miller nodded.

"This is the one I completely blew," Miller said.

"I'm shit tired, but you want to run through it?" Justin asked. "We can walk it."

"Yeah," Miller said, and they headed out to the nearly empty field with the playbook. Justin and Miller went through the moves until Miller worked through it on the right and nodded that he was getting it. Then they moved to the left and started again.

"Halstead, Miller, go home," Coach Richardson called out.

Miller shook Justin's hand and thanked him. He hustled off the field as Justin grabbed his bag and helmet to follow.

"And?" Richardson asked.

"He's a stronger right-side player; he needs to learn the plays there first and then move him over to the left," Justin said, and Richardson nodded.

"Jones?" Justin braved to ask as they walked out together.

"He's got one week to prove himself, or I'm cutting him. Be careful driving home. Three hours…" Richardson whistled.

"I know." Justin shrugged.

"See you Monday," Richardson said and headed to his car.

Justin had just reached his truck and was stretching for the long drive. He looked back as the Mustang pulled up and the window rolled down.

"Thanks," Jones said.

"For?" Justin turned, leaning on the window frame.

"Telling Coach to give me a shot and not cut me yet."

"Lose the attitude on the field, and I'll keep fighting for you."

"Thanks, see you Monday."

Justin yawned and climbed into his truck.