Page 2 of Hard Count
“He’s still the number one quarterback.” Asshole one picks up his beer and takes a long swig.
“His name is at the top of the list. That doesn’t make him the best. Nash Pierce is in the top ten and you were just complaining about him. You said something along the lines of‘he’s lucky he has teammates with sticky fingers and the ability to jump for the ball.’ You’re not wrong. Without the help of his team literally bending over backwards, last season would have been a disaster.”
My hand grips tighter on my phone. I hate that she’s right. I’d guess 50 percent of the receptions were because a receiver had to reach for the ball or pull off some acrobatic stunt to make the play. It wasn’t my accuracy. It wasn’t me performing at the level I was known for in high school or even training camp.
“Seventy-six percent of his receptions were either short or overthrown, forcing the receiver to get creative.”
Is she the fucking Rain Man? How does she know all this information? Why does she care? It’s one thing to be a fan and retain random facts you hear announcers spit out on a broadcast. This is next level shit. She’s still going off about my stats. These aren’t things she heard on ESPN. She’s done her research. Any other situation I might be turned on by her infinite knowledge of my favorite sport.
However, currently, she is pissing me the fuck off. What does she mean I can’t drop back to the left? Am I betterstepping back to my right? Yes. It feels more natural. That doesn’t mean I’m not agile.
“He overthinks. He hesitates. He plays scared.” She takes another jab at me.
“That doesn’t make him a bad quarterback,” Asshole two says defending me.
“Ten minutes ago you were declaring your irritation with the way the Knights played last season and the lack of touchdowns made on offense. Which is it? Is he a good quarterback or a bad one?”
“I can be irritated with the way they won games. It doesn’t make him a terrible player,” he states.
“It also doesn’t make him a good one. The stats that rank him high on the list aren’t because he’s playing well. Being a good quarterback is more than numbers on paper.”
“For fuck’s sake. Just say you hate the guy already,” I mumble. Her head swivels in my direction. Green eyes flicker with recognition before dimming out to nothing.
“That would be harsh. I don’t think I’ve said anything that would be a revelation. From what I’ve heard he knows there’s room for improvement.”
I huff a laugh and shake my head in irritation. Probably because she’s right. I do know I have a lot I need to work on. However, I can't seem to pinpoint what I need to change. I keep making tiny adjustments but nothing is working. Football has always come naturally to me. Now I’m fighting for my life with this mental mindfuck and I’m not winning.
Digging my wallet out of my pocket, I signal for the bartender to bring me my tab. “You don’t think what you said was harsh?” I ask, leaning toward her on the bar top.
“I think what I said was true. It’s unfortunate the coaching staff is placating him instead of correcting the issues.” Wisps of blonde hair escape the band of her hat and brush against defined cheekbones.
“You’re something else.” I stand from my chair as I wait for the bartender to bring me my credit card receipt. “Who made you the authority on college football anyway?”
“I’m not.” She tilts her head toward me. Her eyes narrowing to slits. “I do, however, have two eyes. I pay attention.”
I drag my teeth over my lower lip and scratch my signature onto the credit card slip. Her gaze never waivers as she watches me with curiosity. She’s aware of who I am. My face is plastered on banners all over campus and there isn’t a day when my name isn’t mentioned on a sports broadcast.
“Thanks, man,” I say to the bartender. I glance over her head. The suits seem to be entertained in their own conversation.Good. Taking a step closer, I turn to her. “You’re paying attention to me. I’m flattered. Do you enjoy watching me?”
Her chest rises under her baggy sweatshirt as she inhales an agitated breath. She straightens her spine, adjusting her positioning. “Not really. To be honest, your performance on the field is lackluster. You aren’t as dynamic as you were.” She clears her throat. “As you could be, I mean,” she adds quickly to cover up her admission.
She’s been watching me for a while. I study her face. A light dusting of freckles covers her nose and cheeks—so faint they’re hardly noticeable. Did we go to high school together? I would have remembered her. Those green eyes would be hard to forget.
“Lackluster. I’ve never heard that about the way I perform before.” I smirk.
“Let me be the first then,” she snarks. “Being an athlete at your level is mental just as much as it is physical.” Her body drifts closer, smothering me in her citrus perfume. “You’ve got the physical part down.” She openly admires my body with a smirk. “However, the moment you were handed the job, you decided you didn’t earn it and it shows.”
“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”
“You and every other player in the conference.” Confidence leaks out of her. Is she some kind of football savant? “I know you overthink every pass, every handoff, and every step you take on that field.”
“You’re wrong,” I lie. Not that she believes me. A dimple forms in the middle of her left cheek as she grins.
“Watch last year’s game film. It’s all there. I personally found week six very enlightening.” She takes a sip of her soda. It’s red and filled with cherries. My sister Sydney used to order something similar when she was a kid.
Week six we played one of the toughest teams in our conference. It wasn’t pretty. They ran a blitz defense and put me on my back more times than I care to admit. We barely won the game on field goals and defensive touchdowns.
“And what exactly did you learn watching that game?” I ask through gritted teeth. What did she see that our coaching staff hasn’t already pointed out? I may be opening Pandora’s box but not knowing will keep me up at night.
