Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Jett

The artificial voice echoes through my bathroom as I step on the scale. "Jett Fawkes. Six foot, seven inches. Today's weight is two hundred and ninety-three pounds. Body fat is ten percent."

It drones on, listing all the other health aspects it records. I zone out as it does, the main numbers I needed already going through my mind on a loop.

My height isn't anything I can change. My weight and body fat are though. If I want to continue my career as a defensive tackle for the Bulldogs, I have to keep my body in the best shape possible. Even a few pounds can make all the difference between me actually knocking the opponent down during a play or letting them pass so they get one of our guys.

Lucky for me, I'm a fan of numbers and strategy. I've compiled every possible outcome of a game before the play even starts. I simply shuffle through them while out on the field to ensure I give the perfect response once the whistle blows.

Thankfully, my skills have been beneficial for the last six seasons, or things would be different. I'm not claiming to be the one person on the team to matter. It's far from true and there's no sense in lying.

Rather, it's my ability to adapt quickly mixing with my teammate's dedication as well. Bellamy Bellport's throwing ability is unmatched. Aries Merry is faster than most people can keep up with when he catches Bell's throws. Monty Tempest is an asshole who knows how to get people riled up enough to fumble.

I could keep going, but it seems pointless. I'd rather be working on my latest model. There's no time for it though.

It's game day.

My routine is set in stone, with not an ounce of deviation allowed.

I've woken up, used the restroom, weighed myself, and now I'll go eat the breakfast my nutritionist sent me for the week.

The order helped. If I didn't have everything scheduled down to the minute, then something terrible would happen. This isn't an exaggeration either. It was simply fact. I'd experienced it a number of times.

Like the day I was six minutes late to the dentist. They broke the news that I needed a root canal. Never had a cavity before that day.

Or the day the store ran out of the yogurt I always eat. My nutritionist ordered something similar, which should have been fine. Except it was some brand that had just been issued a recall. I had severe stomach cramps for hours. I thought I was dying.

There has never been a time where things shifted in some way, and it didn't turn out bad. I've learned to keep to the routine and to never let myself get behind. I have too many things I don't want people to find out. With my luck, the truth would unravel in front of the world the minute I didn't follow order.

Hours pass with me doing all my game day rituals. Nothing goes amiss, thankfully. By the time I get to the stadium, I'm confident this game is ours to win.

The press captures images of me walking to the locker room in my suit. I faintly hear them calling out to me for some shots. Stopping isn't an option though. Not when I need to keep things the way they always are.

No distractions.

Inside the locker room, most of the team is getting their heads into the game. My head is already in the mindset I need to pull out the win, so I don't bother any of them.

I listen absently as the men discuss their spouses and boyfriends. Aries and Bellport whisper softly to one another, their tones milder than usual. It's odd given how everyone knows who their partners are. It's not like they could say something to shock us all.

If there's one thing I learned in all my years of sports, it's that men don't care about keeping things secret — especially when it comes to sex. They'll talk about positions, time spent in bed, and the subsequent forceful evacuation as if it's the grandest tale of all time.

I've never understood it.

Then again, sex isn't really my thing. It never has been.

My brain gets too lost in the details to focus on pleasure. Feelings become mathematical equations for me to solve, and emotions aren't something I experience in a vast array. There is only one thing in this world that excites me, and ironically, it isn't even football.

I play the sport because I'm good. I play because it got my mom out of a bad neighborhood and into a nice cottage. I play because I knew she wouldn't last all that much longer working two jobs just to pay her rent and have something to eat.

The rest of the time leading up to the game goes by in a flash. Next thing I know, I'm running down the tunnel to the sound of screams and booming cannons. A few of the guys nudge me, their smiles wide. It's obvious how excited they are, how badly they want to win.

I give them placating smiles back. It's the kind Mom and I practiced when I was growing up. "Your smile can be a bit scary sometimes, Hun," she'd told me. After that, we worked endlessly until it was muscle memory.

Some would think it was horrible of her to force me to change, but really, it was something I asked of her. I was so tired of people calling me a freak or punching me in the face because they found me to be a threat. It's hard to make yourself seem small when you're built like I am. I'd been nearly six feet in middle school. There was no hope for me after that.

Thanks to all my practice, the guys around me whoop and cheer as if nothing is amiss. I sigh a breath of relief at another successful interaction.

Once we're on the sidelines, I tune out everything else to focus on the game. While I'm not captain or anything, the defensive coaches have come to understand what an asset my analytical mind can be. I stand close to Bernard, one of the coaches, and give him hints at what I already suspect will work best for this game.

"We need to get Monty open a few times in the first half of the game. If he can run some touchdowns for us, they'll turn their focus to him instead of Raymond. The confusion of switching them off will be enough to distract them into giving us a lead," I told him.

He pats my shoulder. "Great idea, Jett."

I nod along, my gaze sweeping over the players across the field from us. Though all of us are supposed to list if we have an injury, I've found it's not always the case. Sometimes a simple soreness won't be reported for fear of being pulled from the game.

The key, and what most fail to realize, is such weaknesses can be used to elevate our game play. My ability to spot patterns can also detect when an anomaly appears.

"Number 43 is favoring his right side," I tell Bernard, before adding, "I suspect number 5 also has a groin injury from the tightness of his stride."

Bernard chuckles. "Damn, you're good. Never ceases to amaze me how much you pick up. Let me know if you spot anything else."

I give a clipped nod, my attention on more important things than this man's humor. This game is my job, and I always give my best to my work. I might not love it like some of the others, but it doesn't mean I won't try to do everything I can to get us a proper win.

With my advice, we wind up winning 32-9. In the locker room, the men are uproarious in their celebrations. I ignore them as I shower and redress for the press conference. We're all required to participate, and this week, it's me and Bellamy Bellport on the docket.

What a pair we make. He's the golden boy of the sport. I'm the quiet loner of the pack.

Well, quiet until you ask about my favorite subject. Then I sometimes don't know how to keep quiet. I make no apologies for it. Everyone is aware of it by now. Hell, they even warn new people not to bring anything up that might lead into one of my diatribes.

"Ready?" Bellamy asks once I straighten my suit jacket.

"Yes. Let's complete the task."

He snorts at my words, then motions for me to follow him. We make our way to the press room, each of us taking our spots behind a microphone. Coach is already there, his gaze on the reports as he watches for some unknown issue.

"We can begin the interview now. Today's players are Jett Fawkes, Defense, and our quarterback, Bellamy Bellport."

Hands lift, fingers waving rapidly to get Coach's attention. He calls on them one by one to ask their questions. It's pretty standard stuff, mostly about teamwork and how we pulled out the win. When they switch to personal topics, Bellamy shakes his head.

"There's nothing I haven't already shared with the press. If something comes up, you know I'll tell you guys. I can't keep secrets from y'all." He winks at the cameras, giving them the image they love to throw all over the media.

As the reporter turns to me, I shrug. "I have no romantic pursuits, nor do I feel any on the horizon."

The room goes quiet as the people process the brash words. It's not as if I'm being mean or dismissive. I really don't have anyone in mind. Sexual attraction isn't vital in my mind; therefore, I don't pursue it. And even if I did, I don't know that I'd ever find happiness the way Bellamy has. He's the poster child for happiness.

You know why you'll never be happy.

I shove the voice in my head away, desperate to not let my shields down in a room full of sharks. It doesn't matter what I want in this life.

They only ask a few more questions before Coach announces we need to wrap things up. Bellamy and I leave out of a side door to head back to the locker room. Some of the men have cleared out, though quite a few are still inside.

"You guys are coming to hang, right? I finally convinced my brother to come to a game, and I told him he could meet some players after," Monty says as soon as we step inside.

"I'm bringing Finn if I do." Bellamy's tone leaves no room for questions.

Monty nods. "Heck yeah. Love that little dude. Does that mean you're in, Aries?"

Bellamy's best friend rocks back on his heels with a grin. "Of course. If Finn is in, then Raymond will definitely want to go."

"Great! How about you, Fawkes?"

I bristle at the use of my last name. Despite it being a thing in sports, I never got used to it. In fact, a lot of the guys on this team prefer using their first name. Monty is merely being an ass for the sake of it. He knows I rarely agree to going out.

I open my mouth to reply with the obvious ‘no', but I stop when Bellamy nudges me with his arm. Looking over at him, I see his brow raised in a challenging stare. I don't know what it means. Social situations don't always make the most sense to me, though this seems obvious.

He wants me to say yes.

The question is why he wants that.

"I guess I'll go," I tell Monty a bit reluctantly. "Where are we going?"

Monty doesn't hear my question over the sound of his cheering. The outburst is a rare sign of excitement from his normally grumpy persona. More than one person notices.

"Why is it so important for us to meet your brother? Hell, I didn't even know you had a brother." Aries asks as he grabs his bag and loops it over his shoulder.

"Technically, he's my stepbrother. And I don't talk about him much because he's usually too busy and turns me down when I ask him to come to our games. Our parents are too busy, and it sucks seeing everyone else have a cheering squad." He frowns, his arms crossing over his chest. "I put him on the sidelines right by the bench. Like right beside your man. Didn't you see him?"

Aries shakes his head as he moves to stand on the other side of Bellamy. "Nah, man. I don't see much besides Raymond when I look at the crowd."

Bellamy nods along. "Same, except it's Finn."

Monty looks past them, his eyes landing on me. "I'd ask if you saw him, but we all know how laser focused you get during games. The whole stadium could have been buck ass naked, and you wouldn't have noticed."

"Correct," I tell him honestly. "Besides, that sounds very unhygienic. Who would allow them all to be naked…"

My teammates collective groans cut me off. I shake my head, all too familiar with the noise that lets me know I've gone further than they wanted. Instead of pressing for more, I sink into the space in my mind where nothing else can bother me as I follow the flow of the crowd to go wherever Monty has planned.

Hopefully, this side quest won't cause too much disruption in the order of my life. I'd hate to regret what was otherwise a good day.