A hard shove came from his left. The ground rushed up to meet him. He slammed into the grass, grunting as air left his lungs on impact. His vision blurred momentarily.
He rolled over, getting his bearings. The lights glared in his eyes. He sat up, then noticed a defensive lineman from the opposing team, sharing high fives with his teammates.
I’ve been sacked. Me? Nobody does that to me!
Exploding with rage, he scrambled to his feet and went after the lineman who had missed the block—Brett Massey.
He grabbed Brett’s facemask. “You blew my touchdown!”
Brett Massey shoved Beau to the side. “Get off me, Devereaux.”
Refs’ immediately descended on them, pulling them apart. The punter for St. Benedict came on the field, sending Beau to the sidelines.
“Devereaux!” Coach Brewer shouted when he reached the bench. “What is wrong with you?”
Beau removed his helmet, his cheeks burning. “He blew his tackle and got me sacked.”
Coach Brewer went into one of his speeches about playing as a team, but Beau didn’t pay attention. He searched the stands, eager to see the girls.
Where are you two? What are you planning?
Coach Brewer grabbed his chin and snapped his head around to face him. “Stop worrying about the scouts and play ball. If you don’t, you’ll blow it. Do you understand?”
Beau wanted to laugh. He wouldn’t blow it, but the others on the team sure would. He had listened to all he could of his coach’s bullshit. He pushed the man’s hand away from his chin.
“Careful. You don’t want to make me angry.”
Coach Brewer scrunched his weathered brow as he stared at Beau, seeming unsure of how to react.
Shaking his head, he pointed to the bench. “Sit down and get your head screwed on right before you go back out.”
A nervous Beau sat on the bench, his interest focused on finding Kelly and Taylor. Dawn was on the sidelines, huddled with her squad, her trademark red ribbon securing her long ponytail. She avoided looking his way. Then, just to the right of Dawn, he caught sight of a beautiful pale face with deep blue eyes.
Leslie, along with that idiot Foster, had come to his game. The negativity choking him since arriving at the field disintegrated. If she was watching him play, he would do his damndest for her.
Right behind her, another face appeared, and his hope sank. Taylor had positioned herself right behind Leslie. Her glower reignited his rage.
The game is turning into my worst nightmare.
* * *
The murmur of various conversations from bored fans carried through the chilly night air to Leslie’s seat. She rubbed her bare arms, wishing she had brought a jacket. With the home team’s sluggish performance so far, the dull game hadn’t captured her attention. Beau also wasn’t living up to his hype, which didn’t surprise her.
Derek took her hand, sending a blast of heat to her fingers and toes. She was glad he was with her. It would have been agony without him.
“Beau sucks,” he whispered to her.
She patted his leg. “He does, doesn’t he?”
John leaned over to them. “He’s usually better than this.”
“He’ll get better.” Shelley clapped her hands. “Come on, Beau.”
Derek leaned closer to Leslie. “Your mother even cheers for Beau when he’s not on the field. No wonder she’s been looking at me all night like a tiger about to devour its next meal.”
Leslie nudged him with her shoulder. “She’s coming around. She called you by name in the car on the way over. That’s a big step.”
John angled his head closer. “I know how you feel, Derek. Sometimes I think she’s going to eat me alive, too.”
Leslie gripped his hand. “See there? You have a fan.”
Derek cleared his throat. “Ah, Mr. Moore, I wanted to thank you for helping my mom. She was so nervous about her job interview today with the law firm you recommended, she couldn’t stop shaking.”
“Glad I could help.” John patted his shoulder. “I think she would be a great fit there. I’m sure they’ll love her.”
Derek nodded. “I hope so. I’ve been wanting her to get out of the diner for years.”
His smile lifted Leslie’s heart. Knowing she had helped to make him happy meant the world to her.
“Interesting game, huh?”
The soft voice came from behind Leslie. She careened her head around to the next bench up from hers.
“Taylor?”
Bundled up in an oversized jacket, Taylor was barely recognizable. Her pale skin and blank stare disturbed Leslie.
What could make such a vivacious and pretty girl wither away like this?
“I didn’t know you were sitting up here.” Leslie worriedly checked around her. “You here with someone?”
Taylor hunched her shoulders. “I came with a friend. She goes to Covington High. She sat with her team.”
Her soft voice sounded as fragile as she appeared. Something was off with the girl, but Leslie couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Who is your friend?”
“Her name is Kelly. We have a lot in common.” Taylor grinned, showing the first speck of life in her features. “You two should definitely meet.”
* * *
Clouds gathered in the evening sky, and the breeze turned colder as the second quarter got underway. A restless rumble rose from the St. Benedict stands, drifting across the field to Beau. On the fifty-yard line, he had the ball again, getting ready to count off the snap. He yearned for some action to show his fans and the scout.
The ball snapped, and he pulled out of the pocket, his feet dragging on the grass, but he struggled to pull it together. He spotted an open man close to the end zone, and the sluggishness plaguing him magically lifted.
You got this!
He threw the perfect spiral pass. It hung in the air, coming right down on his player. Joy bloomed in his heart. But right when his receiver stepped forward to catch the ball, Beau was forced to the ground by a brutal slam.
His vision blurred, and he caught his breath. He sat up, remembering the pass. He strained to peer down the field, willing his eyes to focus. A player from Covington High had the ball and sprinted to the visiting team’s end zone.
What the fuck?
He couldn’t believe his eyes when the guy kept running without a single whistle blowing the play dead.
Beau staggered to his feet, ready to rip into the ref calling the play. He marched over to the referee closest to him.
His acidic tone emphasized his outrage. “Ref, that was a late hit.”
The referee shook his head. “Not from what I saw, Beau.”
Wound so tight he couldn’t take it anymore, he lashed out.
Beau pushed the referee. “What are you, blind?”
A whistle cut off the ref’s reply. Players gathered around him, blocking his access to the ref.
“Chill, dude,” Mitch cautioned.
“Settle down,” his tight-end said as he ushered him back.
The head referee ran into the melee of players, shoving them out of the way. He held up his index finger to Beau.
“You’ve got your first warning, Devereaux. One more stunt like that, and I’ll kick your ass out of the game.”
The storm inside him raged. Like a wildfire fed by the wind, hate consumed everything in his head. His reason, his desire, his hope for the future had gone up in smoke.
“Me? What did I do?” His growl triggered a few shocked looks. “This is such—”
“Devereaux,” Coach Brewer hollered from the bench. “Get over here.”
Beau walked off the field, his cleats kicking up the grass. What kind of idiots were refereeing this game?
“You’d better wise up, boy.” Coach Brewer yanked off his helmet. “You push a ref like that again, and I’ll bench you for the season.”
He bit his tongue. He had an image to keep up. “Yes, sir.”
Coach Brewer poked
him in the chest hard. “Park your ass on the bench. I don’t know what happened to you out there but get it together.”
Every muscle in his being shook. Every nerve fiber was on fire. He wanted to hit someone, hurt someone, even kill someone. He could not see clearly around him, everything melted into one blur of blind rage. Wound tight, craving for a release, he held it all in. He suppressed his scream, letting it burn the back of his throat.
Hyperventilating, he took his seat on the bench, then raised his head to the stands, hoping the sight of Leslie would help him.
There she was, chatting with someone behind her. Her shoulder turned, giving him a clearer view of the person. His chest heaved, and the peace he sought in her face became a raging inferno.
Taylor shifted her gaze to him as she spoke to Leslie. The grin on her lips had I’ve got you, written all over it.
Josh took a seat next to him. “What is going on with you?”
He didn’t look at him but kept his eyes on Leslie. “I don’t know.”
“You need to chill, dude. You’re costing us the game. Get your head out of your ass.”
Something clicked inside him. Without giving it a second thought, Beau tackled Josh, knocking him to the ground.
His teammates grabbed at him and pulled him away.
Coach Brewer waddled up to him, pulling up his blue long shorts. “Devereaux, have you gone mad! What in the hell are you doing, going after one of my players like that?”
He tucked his chin to his chest, hiding his grin. “Sorry, Coach. We had a disagreement about a girl.”
A dark shade of red tinted the coach’s cheeks. “You better simmer down, son.” Coach Brewer waved to the gangly second-string quarterback at the end of the bench. “Marty Evans, you’re filling in for Devereaux.”
Marty climbed to his feet, nervously looked at him, and grabbed his helmet.
Beau gaped at Marty’s back as he jogged onto the field.
The hush from the St. Benedict stands echoed his disbelief.
What just happened? A fit of laughter came over him, surprising him. He didn’t know if it was shock or disgust at his coach’s choice to replace him, but he kept laughing as he walked up to his coach.
“Are you serious? I’m the best you’ve got and if you put Marty in there we’ll lose this game.”
A hush descended over the St. Benedict players lined up on the side of the field.
Coach Brewer eased closer, his big belly almost touching Beau.
“Devereaux, do yourself a favor—stay out of my face until this game is over.”
When Beau finally had a seat on the bench, he scanned the stands. His father was chatting with a middle-aged man with gray hair and glasses.
Is that the scout?
Gage faced the field, his eyes ripping into Beau. He could hear the lecture he would get, but he didn’t care. He’d catered to his father’s rules for too long.
But when Gage Devereaux took Elizabeth’s elbow and escorted his chicly dressed wife down the steps, his determination faltered. His parents had given up on him.
He would expect nothing less from his father. Fail to live up to his ideal, and Gage Devereaux wrote you off like a bad check. He did it to his mother, and after his behavior on the field, Beau suspected he would do the same to him.
The astonished looks and reactions from others in the stands sickened him.
Bastards are always hungry for a show.
His parents, the school, even the town had held him back. Maybe if he had gone to school in New Orleans and played at one of their big schools, he wouldn’t have to beg for a scout to come to him. They would have heard of him already.
The emotional blow of his parents slinking away was nothing compared to the hurricane of hatred ravaging him. He wanted to hit, to punch, to kick, to bite, to destroy someone. Better than that, he yearned to kill. And if his coach didn’t let him back on the field soon, Beau Devereaux would give the people of St. Benedict something to talk about for years to come.
* * *
The whistle blew starting the second half of the game. Beau paced the sidelines, kicking up the dirt and holding in his resentment. Thunder accompanied the clouds blanketing the sky, and the air was heavy with the promise of rain.
Convinced he would be called in to wipe out the fourteen-point lead of Covington High, he stayed off the bench, keeping his body warmed up and ready to go.
Minutes ticked by on the score board at the end of the field, and he agonized over every one of them. With three minutes to go until the last quarter, he’d decided it was time to turn on the charm and get back in the game.
“Coach.” He arched his back and stood next to Coach Brewer, putting on his best ass-kissing frown. “I want to apologize for my behavior. I don’t know what happened to me. I got hit hard twice and maybe I went a little crazy, but I’m good now.”
Coach Brewer turned away from the game and gave him a skeptical side-eye.
“I’ll be happy to clean up the locker room after the game, or anything you want me to do as punishment for my actions. I was wrong.”
His coach kicked at the chalk by his feet. “Don’t disappoint me, Devereaux.” He nodded to the field. “Get in the game and send Marty out.”
It was music to Beau’s ears.
Mitch came up, pounding on his shoulder pads. “See? He’s puttin’ you back in. Let’s turn it around.”
His seething bitterness did not ebb while he put on his helmet; it skyrocketed. He had to sit by while the other team scored and now had to pull a miracle out of his ass to win the game and impress the scout. But he didn’t complain; he smiled at everyone—just like his father would have wanted—acting like the Beau they all thought they knew.
On the field, he stayed focused, shutting out all other thoughts and keeping his anger in check. He threw short passes, connected with his open men, and his confidence returned as his team moved up the field.
His wrath retreated to the black hole inside him. Beau felt like his old self again. He settled into a rhythm. On third down, he backed out of the pocket and found an open receiver. It was one of his best passes ever.
Touchdown!
A tide of jubilation washed away all his discontent. St. Benedict was within seven points of catching Covington High.
Beau remained quarterback in the fourth quarter. The boost was just what he needed.
I’ll show that scout, my father, even Coach Brewer. I’ve got the talent to go all the way!
On the first down, he passed the ball to Mitch for a thirty-five-yard play.
The bad beginning to the night forgotten, a rush of exhilaration hit him.
“You’re back.” Mitch butted his helmet when he returned to the huddle. “Keep it goin’.”
Beau hoped to do just that but on the next play, the referee called offsides on a teammate before he got the ball off. He kept his cool and refocused.
He returned to the huddle and happened to glance at the visitor’s sideline.
Kelly was there, chatting with one of the off-duty police officers working security detail.
He almost doubled over. Was she telling the cop everything Beau had done to her?
“Hey.” Mitch slapped his helmet. “You with us?”
Beau joined the huddle but kept a wary eye on Kelly and the cop as he called the next play.
After the snap, he couldn’t find an open receiver, so he ditched the ball to avoid another sack.
The blare of a whistle made him turn to his right. The line referee called him for intentional grounding.
Behind the referee, in the stands packed with cheering St. Benedict fans, he spotted Leslie. She looked right at him, wearing a strange smile.
Someone stood up behind her. Taylor, all alone on the bench, caught his stare. She aimed her finger like a gun and fired.
Beau snapped.
“Damn it, Kramer!” He charged the referee who made the intentional grounding call. “That’s a bullshit call.”
The
lanky man blew his whistle at Beau.
“Keep it up, Devereaux, and you’re out of the game!” Kramer Wilson signaled for play to resume.
His fingers twitched, letting him know his ire was on the rise. He tried to lock it down, and before he went into the huddle, he glanced one more time to the stands. Taylor was gone, but Leslie remained with Foster by her side. His nerves calmed, then movement to the left caught this eye.
The older man he’d seen shaking hands with his father stood up, folded a notebook, and made his way down the steps.
The scout. He’d blown his shot.
Fuck!
“Beau!” Mitch called him to the huddle.
His flimsy lock on his anger broke. A myriad of black emotions pumped through him, urging him to move, to run. He barely got out the call for the play, he was so wound up.
On the line, he counted off the snap, ready to pound into the first person who touched him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kramer Wilson stood to the side, waiting for the play.
Suddenly he knew who to blame for his lost dreams. Kramer’s call had cost Beau his future and destroyed his ticket to the pros.
He took the snap, a plan hatching. But he had to be smart.
Don’t let them know who you really are.
He backed out of the pocket and kept an eye on his open men. To the right, he saw Kramer heading downfield. He cocked his arm back, pretending to aim long for the end zone, even though no one was there.
His temper driving him, he zeroed in on Kramer Wilson, and let the ball fly.
It sailed through the air, a perfect spiral, gaining momentum. And as it came down, with not a single player on that side of the field to catch it, the football connected with the back of Kramer Wilson’s head.
Beau hid his grin as the man went face first into the grass and didn’t move.
Silence. The entire field was in shock.
There’s your intentional grounding, asshole.
He relished the moment. He’d hurt him, in front of everyone, and no one would be able to say for sure if it was on purpose.
Death by the River (A St. Benedict Novel Book 1) Page 22
