Yeah, I really pissed her off this morning. It kind of slipped out and I’m not such an idiot that I didn’t realize it hurt her. The entire situation sucks because the Pronghorns desperately need a good kicker. It’s Jordan’s ability to take a hit that bothers me. If quarterbacks are prima donnas, kickers are cream puffs, and when the preseason games begin, she’ll be toast. I’ve already heard the guys talking about her first hit from a defensive lineman. I’ve seen this play out before on the field. When the guys want someone out of play, they make it happen. Usually with bad blocking. They consider getting rid of deadweight a tune-up for the team.
The way they see it—this year’s tune-up is Jordan.
I want to think I’m riding the fence on this one but flat out, Jordan has no business here. Maybe I am stuck in my ways and unwilling to give a little. The strong women in my life make me appreciate the male atmosphere of football more. I’ve loved everything about the game.
Sharing my negative thoughts with my mom and sisters would have me banned from dinners for life. For many years I was the man of the family, even though I was only a young boy. In my mind it was my job to care for my mom and sister. When Ty came into our lives, I resented him for taking on my role. I was ten years old then. The only mental relief I got was playing football. Candice’s birth brought me back into the family fold because she was so darn cute I couldn’t carry my attitude on my shoulder forever.
Even so, football grounded me. As the women in my life grew older, I escaped to the locker room for guy time. No hormonal hysterics to contend with, no makeup left on every available surface, or girly talk to drive me crazy. My first locker room in junior high was the start. We were boys, but in there, we were men playing a man’s game.
So, what the hell do I do? And why do I feel like such an ass for thinking this way? That’s a stupid question, actually. I am an asshole. Women have as much right to be on the field, if they can make the grade, as men do. This doesn’t mean I want them here. And who sounds like a spoiled child right now?
We take a short breather while the coaches talk among themselves. I glance around. Usually there are cameras set up on the sideline. Not today and it doesn’t take long to figure out that they’re on the smaller practice field with Jordan. So much for my quarterback fame. The Pronghorns have a new star. I down some water and hustle back onto the field.
We go through the same two plays more times than I can count. When the whistle finally blows, we jog to the locker room. As in the past, our primary meeting room will have a lunch spread to kick off the season. I hit the shower fully aware Jordan could walk in at any moment. The guys noticed her name on the cubby, but no one comments. That’s also not a good sign. We bitch and moan and rarely keep anything in when it affects the team. We are all caught between a rock and a hard place on this one. If we dare say what we feel, we’re misogynist pigs. Which we are. It’s just not something we can blast to the head office or the media.
I understand that it’s important for Jordan to have a place in here while she’s playing for the team. I agree and resent it at the same time. Separating her as a player from the woman I had sex with last evening isn’t easy either. The women I’m usually with tend to be boney models. Jordan is entirely different. She isn’t starvation thin and she’s in great shape with defined muscle. The extra padding on her hips literally drove me crazy. Just thinking about her soft skin makes me groan silently. I’m forced to stop these thoughts so I don’t have an erection in the locker room.
I turn my attention to the players. They’re bitching about running the same plays we do every year. When that conversation fizzles out, they start in on what the roster will look like after first cuts. It’s a hard time of the year for most players and many, once cut, will never play pro ball again. I don’t see it working for Jordan either. From the locker room to the field, she doesn’t belong.
Female sports reporters are lumped in with the news teams and only allowed in here at designated times. Jordan will have free roam. No, I don’t like it or anything else about the situation.
After my shower, I pull on jeans and a T-shirt and head toward the meeting room. Jordan is waiting in the hall. She’s still in her practice clothes and only gives me a quick glance. Damn, she’s sexy with her sweaty hair and reddened cheeks. Get control of yourself, Patrickson! Football and sexy do not go together. Unfortunately, my dick doesn’t quite agree with this assessment. Being around Jordan is like taking a double dose of Viagra.
I fight the need to look over my shoulder after we pass each other. I feel her eyes on me, though. I reach the meeting room and grab an assortment of food—sandwich, vegetables, chips, and water—and then sit so I’m facing the door. The offensive line takes seats around me and we talk about this morning’s meeting and practice. This is only day one of training camp. As the days progress, exhaustion will set in and things won’t be as jovial. It’s a known fact that many players think of quitting each year at this time. Not that they would, but if there is a time when you hate your job, it’s during training camp.
I’m listening to Randy Byer complain about a young draft pick on his ass for his spot when Jordan walks in. Talk in the room noticeably slows, but Jordan ignores it and fills a plate with food before she beelines to a table off to my right. With his foot, Lane Grisham pushes out the empty chair across from him and Jordan takes it. He doesn’t say anything and neither does she. The noise level resumes.
“—the guy’s a pansy and when shit’s on the line, Coach would be stupid to go with him.” Randy is just getting started. I listen to these identical complaints every year. He’s a great player but has a chip on his shoulder when it comes to confidence in his own abilities.
I do my best to hide the fact that I’m keeping an eye on Lane and Jordan. Lane’s a strange one even for a kicker. He has few friends on the team and mostly keeps to himself. Right now, I appreciate that he’s made a place for Jordan at his table. A few special teams’ players move over and talk to Lane. They ignore Jordan, but she listens attentively without giving input. Lane speaks to Jordan suddenly and the two stand up, drop their plates on the counter by the door, and leave while I’m left with Randy and his complaints.
A few minutes later, I can’t take it anymore. “I’m getting some shuteye before this afternoon’s practice. See you then.” I clear my chair and walk away without waiting for Randy’s acknowledgment.
We have several options during noon break. Beginning tonight, many players will stay at the same hotel where Jordan is registered. The hotel is close to the stadium and convenient for the long days we’re putting in. When we leave for training camp, we’ll all be in the same hotel and sharing rooms. My apartment is located downtown five minutes from the stadium because I get my fill of hotels throughout the season. There are a few places here at the stadium where you can get a few minutes of sleep, but that’s not why I left. I need to figure out where Jordan and Lane went. I check out the players’ lounge first. Jordan’s voice stops me before I turn the final corner to the lounge.
“It’s the hang-time that changed my mind. Go back to basic physics,” she says. “A football is not a ball at all, it’s a projectile. I changed things up and kicked both types of balls at the end of soccer practice in order to judge the physical differences and the ability of each ball.”
Lane’s voice reaches me next. “How old did you say you were when you started this research?”
“Twelve. The year after they turned me down from playing youth football. There were kicks I made with a football that didn’t transpose to a soccer ball and I was curious.”
“You think I can improve punting by adding more hang-time?” Lane asks.
I’m surprised Lane is actually listening to Jordan. He said practically nothing to her at lunch.
“It’s absolutely hang-time. That’s not always a bad thing. Most of the time with a punt you want distance—”
I’m engrossed in the conversation but it doesn’t stop me from hearing footsteps
approach. I walk toward the sound so I’m not caught spying. It’s Randy. He obviously wants to talk, but I wave him away from the lounge and have him follow me to the locker room.
“What the heck?” he asks after the door closes behind us.
“Jordan was giving Lane a lesson in kicking physics and I didn’t want to disturb them,” I say and watch a stunned expression cross his face.
He huffs a laugh. “You think she knows more about kicking a ball than Lane?”
“I don’t have a clue but he’s listening. You know what your problem is, Randy?”
He puffs up and I know I’m heading into dangerous territory. I don’t know why I even bother. “You need to get your crap together. You should be another captain on this team but you spend more time cutting down players than seeing who needs your help.”
He steps into me so we’re toe to toe. “You got something going with the girl?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Women think they’re as good as men but that’s bullshit. There are some things they’ll never be as good at and one of those is football.” My fists tighten as Randy continues going off. “She’s only the beginning. If we give an inch, we’ll be invaded by pussy. I’m with Mason and ninety-nine percent of the team on this one. Football is no place for a woman unless she’s giving us a pussy peek from the sidelines.”
I inhale slowly through my nose and concentrate on keeping my cool. It’s not just the meaning of Randy’s words but the degrading way he says them. Hell, only a few minutes ago I was thinking close to the same thing. But Randy saying it adds to the uncertainty I’m feeling.
“You do, don’t you?” Randy breaks into my thoughts. “You got a thing for the new kicker.”
I need to cut off Randy’s observation immediately. “I got a thing for all my teammates because that’s what a captain’s job is. My job is also to win games. Try catching more than sixty percent of the balls I throw your way this season if you want to keep your place on the team.” I’m pissed and day one of camp is the last place to show it. We have a long road in front of us and I need to remember what’s on the line. Randy’s speculative look lets me know I haven’t gained any traction where he’s concerned.
Somehow I need to keep my mind off Jordan and stay focused.
Chapter Thirteen
Jordan
The second practice of the day is full pads.
“It may be hot here but just wait until White Sands,” Lane says after helping me adjust my pads. It’s nice that he’s finally decided I’m worthy of his attention. Small steps, I assure myself. Afternoon practice is training camp torture and no one is exempt, not even kickers. Coach Morely has me and Lane run four slow laps around the field. He doesn’t want us twisting an ankle by doing sprints with the other players.
When our mile is complete, we head onto the field and join special teams. I haven’t seen Aiden since lunch, and I do my best not to think about him. The coach lines us up for additional warmups and after that the true practice begins. Although we’re wearing pads, these are no-contact drills with me kicking extra points and field goals with a mock defense running at me. I miss my first two attempts to get the ball through the goalposts because of nerves. The sun beating down doesn’t help nor do grumbles from players. Lane walks over and bumps my shoulder pad with his. “Come on, Givens, I know you got better than this or you wouldn’t be here. If it helps, picture them naked.”
Did he really just say that? I double check his expression. His twinkling eyes let me know he did say it. Naked, oh boy. My brain rushes to Aiden. If my face wasn’t red from the heat before, it is now. The whistle blows and Lane sets up for the hike. Once the center snaps, Lane catches and places the ball for me. I run forward and just the feel of the ball meeting the side of my foot tells me it’s golden. The football sails through the goalposts dead-center.
I breathe a sigh of relief as players run past me and line up again. Sounds on the field resonate deep. The rattle of pads, cussing, grunts, and groans are part of what I love. It’s the sound of playing football for a professional team.
“Let’s see if we can do that again, ladies,” Coach Morely yells. He blows his whistle and we do it again. He runs us through the same drills so many times my head spins from the repetition. When we finally get a break, I jog to the sidelines for water.
As I approach the table filled with plastic water bottles, the players are jostling for drinks and someone bumps me on my right side, causing me to misstep. Another player bumps me on the left and I stumble and land on one knee. I pop up and no one looks at me. This wasn’t accidental, and it’s nothing I haven’t been through before. I guess I expected more from grown men than I did from college boys. The incident pisses me off, but I keep my mouth shut.
Coach Morely walks over at the five-minute mark. “Kickers take a lap and work on some individual kicking drills. The remainder of the team is running wind sprints until you puke.” Teammates groan. Coach continues, “When it’s a no-contact practice that means no contact. It doesn’t matter if you’re on the field or waiting for a drink.” More grumbles accompany his speech.
Lane and I start our lap. I do my own bitching once we’re far enough away not to be overheard. “They’re running wind sprints because of me.”
He doesn’t bother looking in my direction. “No, they’re running because they didn’t follow the rules. Something I learned years ago…during practice one of the coaches is always watching. Every guy running those sprints knows what just happened and why they’re running. That’s on them.”
“They’ll only hate me more.” I look over at Lane.
His lips quirk. “That might be impossible.”
I laugh. He’s right, it might be.
“Come on,” Lane says after we finish the lap. “Let’s put some of your kicking physics into punting and see if you’re onto something or full of shit.” We head to the fifty yard line and set up. The press, who have been absent since this morning’s practice, have returned. I do my best to ignore them as I line up six footballs. Facing Lane, I’m ready to toss him one of the balls. “Remember, I don’t practice punting, so this may not work.”
“You can’t be backing down now or I’ll call foul. Toss me the damned ball.”
Punting dynamics is much different than field goals and extra point kicks. First: A center with long snapping abilities hikes the ball to the kicker during a punt. I’m tossing instead because my long snapping skills suck. Second: The punter catches the ball and leads it to his foot to make the kick. A punter uses the top of his foot to kick; whereas, I use the side of my foot. It’s a different mindset and why there’s usually a separate kicker and punter.
We’re only interested in Lane’s hang-time right now. Every kicker should know something about physics if they want to improve their game. Lane has the rudiments, he just needs to use it more in his favor.
He kicks the first ball. “Right there,” I call when the ball hangs before descending. “Kick it farther this time and let’s see what we get.”
We work on Lane’s punting. We don’t increase it by much, but it’s fun to analyze the mathematical trajectory of the football. I glance over at special teams and they’re still running wind sprints. I see a player run to the sideline and puke. Guilt. It eats at me. I need to focus on me and my abilities. Proving one’s self never happens overnight.
“Community college football isn’t like this,” I tell Lane in order to bring my thoughts around to what we’re doing. “Our team never had the proper number of players, so we learned a little of everything. I’ll lose my skills if we continue being separated like this.”
“Skills, huh?” I receive a partial grin from Lane. “You’re not talking tackling and hitting are you?”
I scan the special teams’ players again. These guys are twice the size as my former teammates. “I can hit,” I say in a weaker voice than I meant to.
“Did you know I started college ball as a wide receiver?”
I hadn’t read that when I loo
ked up his history. “Then why are you a punter?” I ask.
Lane removes his helmet and wipes sweat from his eyes. “The short reason is I didn’t have what it took to play on the line. I did well in high school, but college was a little more than I could take. My coach suggested I try kicking and it gave me what I needed to make it as a professional player.” He looks over at our teammates. “What it really comes down to is I didn’t like being hit.” He glances back at me when he says the last part.
I took hits on the college team. This isn’t college, though. Just a short while ago, two teammates bumped me and I went to a knee. I can make all the excuses I want and the biggest being I wasn’t ready. They’re excuses. “Is this your way of saying I’m gonna keep getting hit by my own teammates?”
He nods. “Yeah, until you stick up for yourself or run away in defeat.”
I don’t want or need this crap. I just want to play. “What do you suggest?”
Lane turns and looks directly at me. “Learn to hit back.”
Chapter Fourteen
Aiden
The sun’s down by the time we leave evening meetings. It’s been a long first day and things will grow tougher from here. I head to my apartment for dinner and my bed. Carma will have something waiting for me. She’s my housekeeper, primary cook, and shopper. She does all the things my mom made me do myself when I was at home. That’s why I love Carma so much. She doesn’t mind taking care of a man who is more than capable of taking care of himself. She’s in her sixties or I might consider marriage just to lock her into the position.
The elevator takes me to the tenth floor. There are two large apartments on this floor. A banker owns the other and we occasionally pass in the corridor with a brief hello. I’m new money and he’s old. He’s rarely here and only uses the apartment to stash his latest girlfriend. I figure his wife is fully aware he’s a cheating douche. Not my problem if she isn’t.
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