Page 57 of Final Down

This is a panic attack, and I will win against it. I’m certain of it. I’m also certain of something else. This baby is a boy, because no female would stress out another woman like this.

Chapter Twenty-One

Ican’t miss today. Every pass is on the money. Even Phillips gave it up for me a few times. I caught the whistle he let out when I dropped a fifty-yarder on a dime, hitting Jax in the end zone.

I’m still not Phillips’s guy, but today, for the first time, I don’t feel as though he’s actively rooting against me.

“Maybe you should wear weird-ass vintage jerseys out here more often, Stone,” he jokes.

“Ha, maybe,” I say, keeping the origin of my jersey to myself.

The only person out here who knows the meaning behind it is Whiskey, and he hasn’t seen it yet, other than the photo I sent to him and Peyton earlier. The line will show up soon so we can run through a few plays before we break for dinner. We have a lot to clean up from the first pre-season game, and it’s a short week for us with our next game Friday afternoon. At least we’re home this time. No travel break.

Chance has been throwing short passes near the sideline while I’ve been practicing targets. He’s itching to get out here, but the head trainer doesn’t seem keen on letting him go fullthrottle just yet. I could tell him why his elbow hurts if he’d just listen to me, but I’m not sure he’s ready to ease up on the showboating just yet. I knew the moment I saw him throwing those rocket passes for warm-ups the day we met that he would end up this way. I didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

I make my way to the water station, careful to keep my distance from the nearby press area. Peyton’s statement after her hearing yesterday seems to have made the rounds, and everyone wants me to comment. I haven’t read it yet, so I’m not even sure what I’d say. Besides, I’m not the guy to be talking to the media out here. I get the sense Mickey wouldn’t care for me looking like I’m the spokesperson. He seems to like Phillips for that.

I toss back some water, then prop a foot on one of the benches to adjust the wrap around my right lower calf. Chance must be done with his reps as he heads my direction, setting the ball down by my foot as he passes. We don’t make eye contact, which is probably for the best, but regardless, I get a good feel for his hostility.

“We wearing rec team jerseys out here now?” He laughs at his own joke as he guzzles down water behind me. I grit my teeth and do my best to ignore him.

“Hey, don’t knock it until you try it, Hickory,” Phillips says. It’s a rather backhanded way to defend me.

“Oh, yeah? You saying I should spend a few years playing rec ball like Stone here?”

The back of my jersey tugs up as someone picks at one of the letters in the last name. I shrug the touch off and turn around to catch Chance walking backward with a laugh.

“Don’t do that,” I warn.

“Oooooh,” he needles, holding his hands out to the sides and wiggling them.

Nobody else is laughing, so I continue to bite my tongue.

“You make fun of it, but Stone was making throws on a rope today. That rust is coming off.” Phillips holds a fist out for me. I bump it and nod back as I utter, “Thanks.”

“Pshh, he’s just loose. When I get this elbow feeling right, I’ll show you how quarterbacks do it today. It’s probably a good thing you don’t get too comfortable in our uniform. You’ll be riding the bench soon, collecting your little one-year deal for pension. Hey, maybe you can take it to Goodwill and buy yourself some more piece of shit jerseys when the season is done.”

I straighten my spine and crack my neck at his words, and I’m about to get in his face when Whiskey cuts into the space between us, doing it for me.

“Let’s stop talking about shit you don’t know anything about, yeah?” Whiskey’s let his beard grow out, and he looks like a wild man who wandered in from the Oregon woods to play some football. He’s also about twice the size of Chance.

“This is a beef between me and him,” Chance explains. Whiskey pokes him in the chest in response.

“Understand this. A beef with him is a beef with me. You have a lot of growing up to do, toddler.” My friend barks when he’s done, literally saying the wordwoofas he snaps his teeth and lunges toward the young QB. It takes every ounce of willpower in my body not to break into laughter over the way Chance looks as though he’s about to shit his pants.

Before any of us can stir up more trouble, one of the training assistants taps my shoulder as she holds out a cell phone that isn’t mine. My face puzzles as I take it into my hand, but then she says, “Peyton,” and my heart flies wildly around the inside of my body.

“Hey! What’s wrong?”

I walk toward the tunnel, fighting the temptation to run.

“I’m fine. Everything is okay. Please do not overreact.”

It’s weird how her words do the opposite to my physical chemistry.

“Peyt, tell me,” I huff out, picking up my pace as I pass through the tunnel and turn right to head toward the locker room. I pause near the security office and duck into a small nook for privacy.

“I was having some muscle tightening, so I went to the hospital . . .”

---