Page 11 of Playing Rucking Hard

There’s nothing like the first game of the season. Each team still hopes to make the finals. Which means each hit up is at three hundred percent intensity. My team tries to protect me, but they can only do so much. It’s my job to catch the ball. It’s my job to run it up and take some of the pressure off the big guys who aren’t as—the polite way would say they aren’t as athletic as me. The truth is, most defense are good for a few good runs and then they need a nana nap and a long suck on the water bottle.

Emma’s watching. Do it for Emma.

My body aches from the constant grind. I’m pushing myself harder than I should, given it’s a hella long season, but I don’t care. I have to prove something. To myself, to the team, to her. Maybe then, she’ll look at me like I matter.

“Fleski, you’re burning out.” Coach barks at halftime. “Pull your head out of your ass and use your team. If you want to be a one-man show pony, try out for dressage.”

“Fleski the pretty boy jockey,” Loki jokes, only to cop a barrage from Coach.

I’m grateful to lose the Coach’s attention, but his words still burn. My head’s not where it needs to be. It’s still stuck on Emma—showing off for Emma.

The second half is better. We present a solid defense and creative attack. I throw more passes than take tackles, putting my wingers into space. I have Bodhi’s back in defense, using my new weight to help bring down the opposition’s big mother fuckers.

We win, but it’s not pretty, and my body feels the burn before I’ve even cooled down. Tomorrow is gonna hurt like a bitch.

But the worst burn of all is that when we run off through the honor guard of pom poms, Emma’s smile is fake, her eyes are forward, and she treats me like another day in the office.

“Dylan,” Coach calls me over at the end of training. It’s been three days since our first game and we spent hours watching videos, pulling apart our game. Does it make me a bad person wanting to see if there is an edit of only cheerleaders? Of course, there would be. How else would their managers know which routines to focus on and which girls to ream out? Do they ream out girls, or are they gently encouraged to improve? Fucked if I know.

“Fleski!” Coach demands when I don’t respond quickly enough the first time. I grimace, waiting for the lecture. “Get your ass to the Tower. Management wants to see you.”

I suck in a breath, already feeling the knot form in my stomach. Management? Fuck. They only want to see you when you’ve screwed up, and right now, I’ve screwed up plenty. Not that they can read my mind. There aren’t any rules against dreaming about screwing one of the cheerleaders in the dance studio surrounded by mirrors, right?

I rush my cool down and shower, changing into casual cargo shorts and team tee before making my way to the ivory tower. The Southern Mavericks have offices at the stadium and also in town, filling a floor of McMillan Tower.

Players are only called to the Tower for contract negotiation or termination. My agent hasn’t given me a heads up on my renewal, so what the hell? Crap, crap, double-crap. This is supposed to be my season to shine and get back my rep spot. What the fuck do the suits want with me? Then again, that’s the story of my life. Trouble follows me around like a shadow. I don’t know if I can outrun it, because I’ve never cared to try. But it’s not just about me anymore. I need to show up for Squid, and that’s gonna take cash.

If I’m traded, could I negotiate a signing bonus? Even a few thousand dollars would get dad off my back for a week or two. Or, I could send Squid off to a camp for the school holidays and keep him safe.

By the time I reach the Tower, hand over my ID and get a pass and directions to management offices, my heart’s pounding. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, but it’s useless. Whatever they think I’ve done, I’ll demand to see the evidence and talk to my agent. Warner can decide if I need to research good lawyers.Breath, Dyl, breath.

“Dylan Fleski to see …” I say to the receptionist, hoping she’ll tell me who I’m here to see.

“Certainly, down that corridor, third door on the left. Just knock and go in.”

At least she didn’t direct me to Benz’s office. I can live another day without being hauled in front of the Chief Operating Officer. Just because Benz used to be a player doesn’t mean he’s still one of us.

The door is easy to find. Standing in an empty corridor, I’m seriously tempted to pull the fire alarm just to have the excuse to get the hell out of here and postpone bad news for another hour or day. Since there are probably cameras set up to record idiots who summon fire trucks for no reason, I decide to saunter into the room as if it’s the first day of the rest of my life and management should be grateful I made time for them.

I open the door with so much force, it almost bounces off the wall. “Let the party start,” I say, shocked when there are only two people in the conference room which could comfortably hold twenty. My agent, Warner, sits at the far end of the long table with a woman I don’t recognize. Mid-forties, she looks like she’s straight off a magazine cover, all high-end suit and sharp, professional vibes. The kind of woman who makes you want tostand up straighter, even if you’ve never met her before and have no intention of boning her.

“Dylan Fleski, meet Janice Fuller,” Warner greets me with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. That’s not good. Is he about to give me a dressing down, or manage me into doing something I don’t want to do? He’s also made the introductions while I have another twenty feet to walk to reach them. Luckily, I’m not afraid to make an entrance or to use an uncomfortable silence to my advantage.

“Ms Fuller.” I wait to stand in front of her before extending my hand, and am pleasantly surprised at her strong grip.

“Please call me Janice, Mr. Fleski.”

“Only if you call me Dylan,” I say, pulling out my charming smile. No flirtyfuck-me eyes, but theI’m not as bad as you’ve heard, and I want to get to know yousmile. “How can I make the rest of your day better than your morning?”

“You’re right,” Janice says to Warner. “He is a charmer. Hope you keep him away from nuns.”

Nuns? I don’t get it.

“Have a seat.” Warner kicks out the seat opposite him and Janice. Something’s off. Warner’s been keeping me busy with photo ops and interviews to build my brand and get me front of mind for rep season, but who the fuck is Janice and why am I here?

“So,” Janice begins, “we’ve got some exciting news.”

Unless it’s a rep jersey with my name on it, I’m not in the mood forexcitement. I look between them, wondering which one of them will break first. Janice is calm but Warner looks like he’s swallowed a fish and wants to spit it out.

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