Page 55 of Hot Receiver

But today, my head is in such a twist that I can barely decipher a green one from a yellow one. I absently pop the candies, finishing the pack at the same time I finish lacing up my cleats.

“How are you doing today, Harrison?” Coach Greaves claps a beefy hand on my shoulder. “Leg feeling good?”

“The best.” I force a smile. “Ready to kick some ass.”

He chuckles and continues around the locker room with his iPad.

The loud chatter around me doesn’t do much to drown out the words Zak spoke to me. They’re on constant loop, just likethe scene where his new fuck toy is walking out of his office wearing that big ass smile.

Who the hell wouldn’t smile if they had Zak Kacey’s attention?

I can’t shake the memory of his expression while the press was pelting him with questions, or how pale he looked when Brett leaned in close to whisper something to him.

My jaw tightens. I chomp down on my mouth guard so hard, a pain shoots down the side of my neck.

Motherfucker.

I don’t know what Brett said to Zak before I intervened, but knowing that asshole, it wasn’t a good luck wish.

Fuck the ball. I’d like to launch a foot right at Brett’s goddamn head and watch it fly rightintothe goal post.

I run through the tunnel with the rest of the team. Once we’re out on the field, a blast of heat cooks my exposed skin. Afternoon sunlight blares down. Sweat almost immediately beads on my forehead. My eyes dart around the stadium, over the sea of red and white in the stands, until they hit the owner’s suite up on the top floor. From down here, I can’t see shit, but I know Zak is up there, watching.

Maybe while stroking the back of his date.

All the candy in my belly globs together as angst clenches it tight. I flex my fingers, tearing my gaze from the stands.

I need to focus on the game, dammit.

A few deep breaths don’t do a damn thing to calm my nerves.

Then, Brett strides onto the field like the cocky son of a bitch he is. God, I hate that guy. He’s got my nuts in a vise, always threatening to turn the fucking handle.

The Raptors win the kickoff, and they choose to take the ball.

I grit my teeth, sucking in a breath while the holder putshis finger on the ball. My foot rockets the ball through the air, and the Raptors receiving back catches it and runs it all the way back for the first touchdown of the game. The boos practically vibrate the field when they go for the extra point, and it sails through the goal post.

I pace on the sidelines, holding the sides of my head, because the game has barely started. The Raptors kick off to us and on the first offensive play, Gabe throws an interception. Then those Raptor fuckers run it back for the second time to score.

Coach Greaves screams into his headset, his face beet red as he waves his hands in the air. Black and gold jerseys bounce up and down in the stands, standing out among the seated Crusader fans like dicks on a cake.

Frustration is contagious. Tension is thick in the already stifling air. I stare at the field, willing the guys to rally and turn shit around before the Raptors can score again. The Crusaders get the ball back and make it all the way to the four-yard line.

“Get in there, kid,” Coach Greaves calls over to me. “Turn it around, Harrison.”

My heart explodes into a wild, thumping beat. I run onto the field. Launching my foot back, I see Brett’s face on the ball. I kick through it like it’s the most poisonous thing in the world, and I need to keep it the fuck away from me. The ball sails easily through the goal posts, giving us the three-point field goal.

Hell, yeah.

We’re in the fucking game now.

The next couple of quarters have my heart palpitating, right until the middle of the fourth quarter when Coach sends me in again to kick another field goal. But the goddamn Raptors manage to get down the field again and kick another field goal right after I do. My skin is close topeeling from my bones; there’s so much heat flooding me right now.

I jump off the bench and cheer when our defensive line scores a touchdown. We’re narrowing the gap; score is seventeen to thirteen. I stare at the field. Travers is pissed. I can’t read lips, but his ass is definitely in a twist now.

He figured we’d be an easy first win for them.

He figured we’d roll over for them.

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