Page 32 of Run Game
TWENTY
DALTON
“Coach will haveour asses if he sees us doing this. You know that, right?” Maverick says as he lines up on the opposite side of the ball. We had a little disagreement about who’s faster, and I’m trying to prove to him that he could never catch me. Tanner isn’t with us at the facility today, which is good, because there’s no way he’d allow this. Mav isn’t technically even supposed to be here. He had a meeting with the Defensive Coordinator, so he dropped down to the practice field, where I started talking shit to him about how our offense carries the team.
I smirk. “If you’re scared, just say that. Wouldn’t want to embarrass you, Mr. Defensive Player of the Year.” I’m goading him. “Wait until I tell your girlfriend you were afraid to go toe-to-toe with me. I’m sure she and I will get a good laugh out of it.”
That does the trick. Last thing he wants is for Bella to think he’s not the toughest guy on the planet. “Fuck it,” he says, going down into a three-point stance. Our backup quarterback, Jamison Sage, holds the ball out in front of him since our offensive line has already taken off for theday and we don’t have a center to make the snap. It’s just the three of us left on the field, about to do something we definitely shouldn’t be doing. These voluntary offseason workouts are pretty relaxed, so we can get away with fucking around for a while after they’re over without anyone seeing us.
“Give me a couple seconds to take the handoff since I don’t have any blockers,” I tell him. “If I get a first down, you have to admit, out loud, that the offense runs this team.”
He scoffs. “I could give you ten seconds and it wouldn’t matter. You’re not making it to the marker.” Cocky fucker.
“We’ll see,” I say, just as Jamison sets up the play.
“Blue, thirty-seven! Blue, thirty-seven! Set, hut!” He pulls the ball back, turning to make the handoff. I take it, tucking it into my arm just as Maverick pushes off the ground and comes my way. I know I can’t outsmart him, so I have to outrun him. I take off toward the sideline, moving diagonally toward the first down marker. I can’t see how close he is, but I can hear his feet as they pound against the turf, so I know he’s hot on my heels. As I approach the marker, I take the ball in one hand, outstretching it to get the first down. But by the time I realize that I’m headed right toward the benches on the sideline, it’s too late to slow down. I jump, trying to clear them, but my foot catches and I land head-first on the ground. Pain explodes behind my eyes as I bring my hands up to my pounding forehead.
“Fuck, dude. Are you okay?” Maverick says, kneeling down beside me. “Sage, go grab a medic.”
I try to tell him no, that I’m fine, but I’m not completely sure I am. I lay back on the ground, waiting for help,trying to stop the ringing in my ears. It only takes a minute before one of the team trainers comes over and kneels down on the opposite side of Mav.
“What happened?” she asks, shining a light in my eyes. I squeeze them shut on instinct, but when I realize she’s checking me for a head injury, I do my best to comply. The last thing I need is Coach Mills finding out we were fucking off and I got hurt. He’ll find out eventually, but right now isn’t really the best time since I feel like I’m getting hit repeatedly in the skull with a baseball bat.
They help me to one of the motorized carts before we make our way down the tunnel toward the exam rooms. My head is already feeling a little better by the time I get myself situated on one of the tables while I wait for the team neuro consultant to come in. I feel like a fucking idiot because who gets hurt like this during a non-contact offseason workout?
Me, obviously.
“What’s going on, Davis?” the doctor asks as he walks through the door. I tell him that I tripped over the benches and hit my head, leaving Mav and Jamison out of it because I don’t want them to get an earful. He dims the lights in the room before he sits down at the computer. The darkness helps with the headache as he goes through the list of questions for the concussion screening. I’m able to tell him my name, the date, where we are, and say the months of the year in reverse order without a problem, so that’s promising.
We move on to the physical stuff, but when I stand to test my balance, my stomach roils, making me sit back down. I lay back and bring my arm up over my eyes, trying to breathe through the queasiness. I hate throwing up, so I’ll do whatever I can to avoid it.
When I think I can stand without puking, we go through the balance testing, which I fail, but not miserably. He tells me I likely have a mild concussion, and that they want to keep me here for a little while longer for observation, but I’ll be able to go home without a hospital visit. All I want to do is sleep, but I know I can’t right now. I’m also not allowed to look at my phone, so I just lay in the dimly lit room while I wait for someone to tell me I can go. The league doesn’t mess around with head injuries, so if you fail any of the initial tests, they make you jump through all sorts of hoops to make sure you’re okay.
I’ve been by myself in the room for about twenty-five minutes when I hear a very loud, familiar voice coming from the hallway. “Where’s my husband? Is he okay?” Dia yells, panic apparent in her tone as she tries to get information. I sit up, ignoring the dull throb in my head as I try to get to her.
“Mrs. Davis, just a moment. They’re assessing him now?—”
“Dalton!” she yells, ignoring the trainer that’s trying to calm her as her voice gets closer. I can hear her quick footsteps as she approaches the room and I call back to her.
“I’m here,” I say, loudly enough for her to find me. She stops outside the opened door, relief flooding her expression as soon as her eyes lock on mine. I immediately notice what she’s wearing. I could be completely brain dead, but I still wouldn’t miss the sight of my wife wearing a Blizzard hoodie with the number thirty-seven embroidered on the sleeve. Without even seeing it, I know it has our last name stretched across the back.
She runs to my side. “Are you okay?” she asks, bringing her hand up to cradle my cheek. “Someone calledand said you were hurt. I dropped everything and got here as fast as I could.”
I’m still caught off guard by seeing her in my shirt that I don’t even register her question. Or the fact that she just called me her husband in the hallway a minute ago to a complete stranger. She wore my clothes when she was staying with me because she hadn’t gotten her stuff from Chicago yet. But, she has it now.Andshe’s staying with Blaze and Mads, so why does she even have my hoodie? It’s all I can focus on.
“Turn around,” I tell her.
“What?” she replies, brows pulled together in confusion.
“Turn. Around,” I say, and it comes out as more of a growl than a request. But,fuck. I need to see it for myself. She spins, putting her back to me, and sure as fuck, it’s my hoodie.‘DAVIS’is printed in large ice blue letters on the back, and it makes me want to beat on my chest like a goddamn caveman that she’s out in public wearing it.
“You stole my shirt,” I say.
She turns back around, jaw almost hitting the floor in shock. “I was worried sick thinking you were seriously injured, and you’re worried about a stupidshirt?” She stares at me for a moment before realizing what I just accused her of. Her eyes go wide, looking down at the hoodie that she definitely swiped from my closet before she left and probably didn’t want me knowing she had. “It must’ve fallen into my suitcase when I was packing.”
Lie. Her suitcase never even made it into the house that day.
Not that I care. I love that she wanted to take something of mine with her. And the fact that it has my name on it? Even better.
