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I grunted.
He gave me a sideways look. “Not that I’m complaining about the extra coaching help, but out of curiosity, how come you’re not lining up with them?”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“Well, good thing you’re not, like, contractually obligated to play or anything.”
I glanced at him. “Did we start training camp a few months earlier than I was aware of?”
He sighed. “You’re touchier than usual.”
Yeah. Because I was in a pissy fucking mood. I felt like there was a churning black cloud hovering over my head at all times, trailing behind me no matter how fast I tried to outrun it.
I’d worked myself to the bone in the weight room the last three days, and nothing had ripped Zoe’s gutted facial expression out of my mind when I tore out of that parking lot.
I was afraid to line up against anyone on my team. The last thing I wanted was to injure someone because my temper got unleashed at the wrong time.
And the unleashing was why I played this sport.
Nothing heated my blood like a good tackle. The pounding of my cleats in the grass when I chased someone down. The sound made when I leveled the person trying to get past me with the ball. The rush of adrenaline that came after.
It was the cleanest, neatest way for me to give all that rage bubbling beneath the surface a safe outlet.
Just one of the reasons why football—the football back at home in Great Britain—didn’t hold much appeal for me. In that sport, knockingan opponent on his ass with as much force as humanly possible was generally frowned upon.
That, and the fact that every time I had played as a lad, I was constantly reminded of how much I looked like my dad. Ran like my dad. Kicked like my dad.
Every coach who asked me if I could defend like he did? Salt in an open fucking wound.
Didn’t take long to realize just how much I didn’t want to play any sport that would have me stepping over his shadow.
My friends thought I’d gone off my bloody rocker when I told them I wanted to play American football. My mum understood, but she was the only one.
Moving here, going to college here—it was the only thing that had made sense to me.
Until this week. The last month, really. I wondered all sorts of things in the middle of the night, when I sleeplessly stared up at my ceiling.
If I’d gone to another team, I never would’ve met Chris. If he hadn’t been such a persistent ass about befriending me, then I wouldn’t feel like I did right now.
Helpless.
Angry.
Like the biggest selfish prick in existence.
Yet none of those things made me feel like I was wrong. Mira—and Miss Zoe Valentine, with her big, expressive eyes—was much better off without me hanging around. The pretty, golden-haired friend with the pretty smile would raise Mira exactly the way Chris and Amie had wanted.
All I’d do was fuck it up. Or worse.
And reminding myself of this in the wake of that stupid, stupid meeting was what had me stomping around the facilities with a permanent frown on my face, and my teammates wondering what the hell had happened.
“What’s the new guy’s name again?” my coach asked.
“Richards.”
“Richards,” he yelled, “come over here a second.”
Richards hopped up from the field, spitting out his mouth guard as he did.
