Page 40 of Filthy Player

I lifted my head. “Yeah, coach?”

“Coach.” He sneered the word like I’d cursed at him. “If I’m the fucking coach, why the hell aren’t you listening to me out there?”

“Off night. I’ll do better next half.”

I meant every damn word. I’d take the blame on this loss, but after looking so good in pre-season we were looking like fools out there.

He glared at me for a minute, and I took it. Absorbed it. Let his anger and frustrations fuel my focus. This was the season opener. I didn’t have time to be screwed up over a chick.

I didn’t let women screw with my head.

“Defense,” Pomville barked. He grabbed their attention and I muted out his instructions to them.

Oliver Powell sat down next to me.

“Don’t start with me,” I groaned, scrubbing my hands through my hair.

“Pussy can fuck a guy up, you know?” He laughed as he said it and bumped my shoulder.

I did not need the visual of the words pussy and fuck coming from my sister’s fiancé. “Don’t make me vomit either.”

He punched my thigh. “Just sayin’, never seen you like this. It’s like your first training camp all over again. Remember those fun days?”

“When you got in my face and screamed at me every two minutes? How could I forget?”

He snorted. “Yeah, but you’ve come a long way since then, and since I did so damn well making you the best quarterback in the league, I’m going to give you some more advice.”

I arched a brow at him. “You made me the best quarterback?”

Powell ignored me. Self-righteous asshole. “Leave it here, Beaux, in this locker room. Deal with it later. You got thirty minutes and then you can go back to trying to fix whatever the hell is screwing up your head, and from what Shannon said, it’s a woman. There’s not shit you can do about it now. Focus on the ball, do what you were born to do, and win us this fucking game. Everyone is fucking looking to you, more so this year than last. You let us down and you’re going to be the fool.”

He didn’t say anything I hadn’t thought. He didn’t say anything I didn’t already know. But Powell was one of the most experienced guys on my team and he took it upon himself to be a father-figure…sometimes, a super large prick of a father figure, but one all the same.

It helped. Sometimes, even a grown man needed a damn pep talk, someone in his corner. My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth so hard and I popped it twice. “Right. I’m on it.”

“I know. I only play with the best, which is why I worked you so hard last year.”

“To make me the best?”

He ignored my sarcastic tone and grinned. “See? I think we’re finally beginning to understand each other.”

I shoved him as he stood, making him lose his balance. He collapsed right into Quinten who pushed Powell to his feet.

I shook my head, grinning at the smirk on Powell’s face before he snagged his helmet off the floor and sauntered away.

“He help?” Quinten asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good. You got this.”

I fist pumped him. “Yeah, we got this.”

Thirty minutes.

I had the game. A comeback from fourteen points was nothing.

I would do it.

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