End Game (Bad Boy Football Romance) (Cocky Bastards & Motorcycles Book 6)

by Faye, Amy

  Because a passing game takes time. A passing game takes an offensive line that will give Craig more than a handful of seconds before a guy twice his size sends him flying head-over-heels.

  He takes a deep breath. There's plenty of smart motherfuckers out there. Coach is sharp, and he sees the problem. It's just a matter of time, training, and getting the boys to listen.

  Time that they don't have, not seven days out. Not when they're facing their rivals in the first game of the season.

  First game sets the tone for the rest. Half of the teams in the division are going to lose it. There's always winners and losers. And plenty of teams have crawled back from a big loss in their first game to have very respectable seasons.

  But that's the sort of shit that someone says after they already fucked it up for themselves. That's what you tell yourself after you ruined a perfectly good chance to win.

  Winners don't tell themselves 'you'll get 'em next time, champ.' Because they got the win this time, and they'll keep getting it until someone bigger, stronger, and better comes along.

  That's approximately the half-life of a football player. Once you're not the big man any more, once you're not the star, your career might as well be over.

  It's not as bad as it is in other sports. Boxers, you lose one big fight, and you might as well retire. You're never going to be that guy on the title chase again. You can lose a few times in football.

  Hell, there are plenty of guys who are absolute legends, lost all the time. But you don't talk about the losses. You just pretend they didn't happen, like everyone always does.

  Because the legend isn't about losers. It's about winners, and whatever he has to do to win, Craig Weston's not a loser. He's a winner.

  He massages a bit of soreness out of his thighs. If he cared about it a lot, there's a P.T. around here somewhere who would do it for him. But it gives him something to do while he watches.

  Number 26. That's where we're strongest, on the left side. The right side caves in, but 26 is holding on for dear life. That's going to mean precious seconds in the game. That's going to be the difference between throwing for a five yard gain into coverage, and throwing for a first down to a guy who cleared his man.

  That's all it takes to win football games, if it happens like that every time.

  Now if only the god damn right side would learn. The second-string quarterback doesn't take the sack. There's no point. By the time they've got the big guys out of the way, it's a foregone conclusion.

  Coach blows the whistle and they start again. The big sons of bitches, big enough to lift a damn truck and heavy enough to eat Craig whole, get down on the ground again, lined up.

  For a minute, the entire field is silent. The second-stringer calls out to the line. Another moment of silence. He calls and takes the snap, and three or four tons of muscle slam into each other all at the same minute.

  And the right side crumples. A big son of a bitch gets through, and the only thing saving the boy holding the football is that he's friendly.

  They've got a whole week until the next game. A whole week in which to fix their mistakes, figure out where they can find room to improve, in spite of all the fuck-ups.

  It's going to be a long week, because this is about the most important thing that could possibly be going wrong. They're going to need every minute of that time to make sure that they can get that big ol' chink in the armor patched up.

  Because when Friday rolls around, and it's not some second-stringer that they're defending, and the right side crumples under the pressure from the defensive line, it's not going to be a guy he knows and trusts breaking through the other side.

  He's not going to stop short because everyone knows what happens next. He's going to crash hard into Craig's side and hope to hell that it breaks a rib, because without Craig Owens, that game's going to be real damn short.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Emma Owens has only ever been a good student. She's not a good friend, because she's never available, and for that matter, who is she supposed to be friends with in the first place?

  That's about right—nobody. Because nobody's ever really wanted to be, and she's not looking to push it herself, either.

  That had made the entire situation with the sorority so strange. It was all built around friendships, built around a bond. She'd tried to join because she wanted the connections. Not necessarily friendships, so much as just people who might be useful in her future.

  But the truth was that whether she'd planned it or not, things had developed in the direction of making friends with her sisters. She'd changed, little by little, until it didn't seem so strange any more.

  She was still who she was on the inside, and nothing had changed about her outside, either, but the fact was, she had some friends now. Close ones, or at least as close as Emma had ever had before.

  That was why, as they'd given her a pretty wide berth the last couple days, she'd gotten more than a little upset by the whole thing. There was a little edge of… something. Something she couldn't put her fingers on.

  Like they were suddenly uncertain about her. That didn't make any sense at all, though, not really. Because Emma was who she'd always been, deep down. She was still herself. Nothing had changed in the past week. Nothing had changed her entire life, as far as she could tell.

  She was still just a quiet girl who read a lot, who worked her butt off to get good grades, to set her future in stone.

  The whole thing with Craig might have looked absurd to someone on the outside, but it was important to make sure that he knew that he wasn't a fox in the chicken coop. He couldn't have anything he wanted.

  But even that had been going on for weeks. Yet, after a long weekend of distant greetings and vagueness, it wasn't exactly hard to notice that none of her sisters seemed all that interested in talking to her.

  Which was a problem all by itself. Emma Owens was never the type of girl who took anything lying down, and they should have learned that by now. But more than that, she was never the type of person who left things alone if she couldn't understand them.

  Rather, she was the kind to try to root down deep into whatever was happening and figure out exactly what was going on. That was why she had no friends, after all; she was too aggressive. Too nosy. If she were nicer, then they would have liked her.

  That, or they were jealous, but that doesn't seem likely. Why would they be jealous of her? She just works hard. They all look prettier than her, taller than her, they've got bigger boobs…

  If Emma wasn't smart, then what would she even have going for her? A twelve-minute mile? A really consistent history of avoiding social events? Spending prom night reading?

  But if nobody would talk to her, then how was she supposed to figure out what the hell was going on? Emma looked down at the pile of staple-bound packets, filling several medium-sized boxes on her floor.

  There was one way. One person who would talk to her, like it or not.

  A minute later, manila folder in hand, she knocked on the door right across the hall.

  "Yeah?"

  "Jane, open up, it's me."

  A moment of silence. The door didn't open up. "What's up?"

  "I have your notes for next week."

  "Oh." It was quieter, as if she'd said it only to herself. A second later, whether she liked it or not, she had opened the door.

  Jane reached over for the envelope. It wasn't in an aggressive way, though; Emma would normally have met her halfway. Just faster. When Emma didn't, though, her face scrunched up in confusion.

  "Is something wrong?"

  Emma allowed a little of her concern to show on her face. "I'm just worried about the girls. They seem to be acting kinda weird."

  Jane let out a long breath and stepped away from the door. "Come in, close the door."

  "Your notes are right here," Emma says, setting the packet down on the white Ikea desk by the door.

  "Thanks." The door shut. "Do you really not know? I'd hate t
o feel like it's some kind of secret."

  "Not know what? I know some stuff."

  "Em, it's just weird."

  "What's weird?"

  "You and Craig. Nobody's sure what to do about it, and you didn't think, like, you needed to tell anybody?"

  "Tell anybody what?"

  Jane seems a little annoyed all of a sudden, almost out of the blue. "Emma, I'm trying to clear the air here. At least be honest with me."

  What on earth was she even talking about? What about Craig? Was she supposed to tell the entire sorority every time that she took on a new tutoring job? There'd have to be an entire section of the bulletin board just for that.

  "I really don't know what you're talking about, Jane. I'm sorry I've been a bitch about him. Tell Erin I'm sorry, too, I guess, but that was… Jeepers. Weeks ago."

  Jane rolls her eyes. "Fine, Em. You don't want to tell anyone, you don't have to. I just thought, because we were friends, you'd tell me stuff. And I think everyone thinks that."

  "I don't have anything to tell. There's nothing to tell. I know Craig. I've met him. I tutor him sometimes."

  "And he took you out of town on some kind of date thing."

  "No," Emma says. It's just starting to occur to her how that might have looked. And how hard it's going to be justifying that it's totally not what it looks like. Because it looks pretty bad.

  "Em?" She's got a look in her eye that asks if I'm seriously going to keep going with the lie.

  "It wasn't a date, alright? It's a long story, but I mean. It was a peace offering thing. And you know, he insisted on paying for my food. Peace offering thing. And I can't turn it down, so… I mean. It wasn't anything."

  "So he took you to some big-ass fancy steakhouse because you wanted dinner?"

  "I didn't even want to go there," Emma says. She's not sure if it's to herself or to Jane, and she's definitely not sure if she's using that as a serious defense, or an excuse.

  "Well, fine. I get it. It's fine. I'll talk to the girls. They're just being weird about it because nobody really knows what to say."

  "Don't say anything about it."

  "If you were dating, though…"

  "We're not, though. Don't be mad—"

  Jane cuts Emma off with a look. "Then it's fine, but like. Just tell us, okay? That's all. Just like. You know how the girls are. Gossip hounds, all of us. What kind of friend would you be if you kept us away from hot news like Craig Weston coming off the market?"

  "Well, I told you. He's off the market, as far as you girls are concerned."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "And, if I have anything to do with it, the rest of the campus, as well. But not because we're dating. That boy only wants one thing, Jane, and I'm not going to give it to him."

  Jane's smile turns down at the edges. She's trying to hide it, and it's not working.

  "Whatever you say, Em. I've heard a lot of girls say stuff like that in the past. That was before they were in any position to be with Craig."

  "I'm not going to do anything. The guy's a gorilla."

  Jane's smile widens. "Whatever you say, Em. Let me know how it goes. I'll talk to the girls."

  Which is to say, she'll tell them her own version of the conversation. Emma might as well have set off a nuclear bomb in the campus gossip circles, and it was going to be interesting to ride that through the rest of her year there.

  Oh, well. Too late now.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  It's hard to imagine that Craig Weston was ever going to feel like he excelled at something, in school. Too many other things pulled at his mind, pulled time away from his day. Too many other things he had to do.

  The time at home, and then at his dorm, was always there for resting. The little time that he had to relax, to get his head clear. There's just no way that he's got the time to really study as much as he'd like.

  Which makes the test on his little table, right by the hot plate, feel that strange. No way was that his. There was a mistake. Peterson was going to send him an email any time, explaining the mistake.

  A hundred percent. Not a single wrong answer. It was almost as if he knew this stuff. Worse, it hadn't even felt hard. A hundred percent felt so much easier to get than a ninety had before. When it rained, it seems, it poured.

  That feels wrong. What on earth would make it so that the first time he got better than an eighty-five, he'd jump right to a hundred?

  It wasn't hard to figure out whose fault it was. He wasn't that smart, after all. In fact, he was a real idiot sometimes. He had good instincts, and his head stayed clear under pressure, and that was what made him a good quarterback.

  That didn't translate into the classroom, though, and it went double for history, where he had to spend hours trying to remember a bunch of dusty old dudes.

  They weren't dusty old dudes at the time, though. It was strange to remind himself of that, out of the blue. It felt weird. But the more that he got into it, the more that Emma Owens helped him understand what the fuck was up with history, the easier it was to see them as people.

  They were mostly not much different than he was. Just working their asses off to make something happen. In his case, it was football, in their case, it was war.

  They were talented, though. Same as he was. Some of them were real smart. Others were just good at what they did.

  Someday, Craig Weston would just be a dusty old dude, too. He could be the next Joe Nameth and it wouldn't matter. Because someone better is always on the horizon. That's just a reality of sports.

  As it turns out, it's a reality of everything else, too. You just do your best until some kid decides you're a dusty old dude who the world left behind.

  He put the thought away. No use for it. And anyways, in spite of himself, he should be paying attention in class. If he was going to goof off and not pay attention, he should at least be daydreaming about football.

  Not thinking about history in an accounting class. That was for damn sure.

  The numbers on the board told a little story. They always do. Accounting is an entire field built on stories. You don't have to get too in-depth on it, of course, but people tell you who they are with what they spend money on.

  Craig Weston spends money on his car, on football, and on food. Now on food for Emma Owens, as well. What kind of story did that tell? It wasn't hard to figure it out. But it was misleading as all hell to think of things in terms of just the numbers.

  That was the problem with trying to tell stories about people's lives with only the numbers in front of you. They don't know that Emma hates his guts. They just show that he was ready to shell out plenty of money for her dinner.

  They don't see circumstances. After all, they're just numbers, written down on a page in red ink, next to a dollar sign.

  Craig takes a breath. The lecture wraps up. It goes slow. It always does, though. Practice in an hour or so. Then, the long walk back to the dorm. He wonders for a minute if she'll be there on the way.

  She's busy these days, with all that tutoring. It's amazing she finds the time to pick fights with other girls in her spare time, in addition to knowing seemingly everything about, well… everything.

  But that's how it is. That's how it's going to be. He swallows hard. No way at all.

  Craig shifts his bag onto his shoulder as the professor dismisses them. Five minutes late, but it doesn't matter. He's got time to get to the gym. He always gave the gym a good, wide berth.

  No way was someone going to keep him out of practice, so if the practice was at two, he's out of class by one-thirty at the latest.

  He picks up the duffel by the door. Seemingly an instant later, he's dropping them into the back of the old convertible and slipping it into gear. His hands move automatically to shift the car from reverse into first gear.

  It frees up his mind for a minute as he drives. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he get his head on straight? There was only one answer that came to mind.

  It was absurd. Maybe even
stupid. But it didn't go away when he got to the gym. Didn't go away when practice moved to the field. It didn't go away when the left side crumbled, over and over again.

  The only way they were going to survive the first games of the season was if they figured out something to close up the gaps in that offensive line. The only way.

  Coach knows what he's doing. He already sees the problem. But that doesn't change the fact that they're going real damn wrong.

  And it doesn't take the idea out of Craig's head. The one that he can't figure out why he's thinking, because it's not going to help anyone. She won't even want to do it, so it feels weird to bring it up. But the idea just won't come out of his damn head.

  She shouldn't have any classes Saturday afternoon, right? That's normal. If she does, then Craig figures that he understands that. After all, her classes are real important to her. So that would make sense, that she might have classes. But if she doesn't, then maybe…

  He forces the thought out of his head and picks himself up off the bench. Warms his arm up as he moves onto the field. No time to worry about it now.

  By the time the left side goes down, he's already edged his way to the right. 26 keeps himself up like the little damn train that could.

  Craig can feel the pressure coming down on him, can almost feel what it's going to be like when the big son of a bitch plows right through his middle. The ball goes free, and then the train hits. Bang. Right in the side.

  He slams into the ground. It's been harder before. But he had the time he needed. He's not hearing a whistle, which means…

  The linebacker reaches down and helps him up. The big son of a bitch pulls and he's on his feet, as if they could have just stood him up even if he lay there dead on the ground.

  "Damn, Craig. You ain't kiddin' around, are you?"

  The receiver made the catch. Then made a few more yards. Twenty yard gain on the play. It had looked questionable. If he'd had someone a little more open, they might have made more than that. You can't always rely on that happening, though.

  Craig smiles. No, he's not. Not kidding around one bit.