Page 53 of Good Girl's Guide to Love
When I told Ainsley earlier that I had a few ideas in mind, that was my stall tactic to Google nice date night restaurants that I think she’d like, while also putting us in public to make Katie happy that we’re being seen out.
“Where you taking her?” “Wyatt asks.
“Not sure,” I admit. “Any suggestions?”
“Oh no,” he says as he pats me on the shoulder as he stands up. “You went and got a girlfriend. You’re on your own, brother.”
“Fuck you.” We both laugh and just as I’m about to grab my shower caddie, I hear my name being called across the locker room.
“Kincaid! Coach McAvoy wants you in his office.”
Because this is a professional football locker room, and we’re all a group of grown men who mostly act like we’re eight, a chorus of “ooohs” and “you’re in trouble” come echoing as I tug on a clean T-shirt and shorts before making my way to the coach’s office.
“What’d you do this time, Kincaid?” I look over, eyes narrowed as Brad taunts me from in front of his locker. “Or should I ask, who’d you punch?”
I don’t mean to slow down my stride, but I can’t help it. I need to calm down, breathe in and out, but every word this guy says gets under my skin. He’s been goading me since the minute I walked into this locker room, and it only got worse when he realized that I wasn’t some random injury fill-in. He thought I was going to be some lowly, former-practice-squad player who couldn’t hack it. And frankly, he was right about most of that.
What he didn’t know was that I was a man determined not to blow my last shot.
After that catch last year, his glares went from dismissive to angry. I know he fucks with me because he’s scared. And he should be. I’m the guy taking his job. So he wants me to fuck up. He knows that I’m living on my last life here, and if he can push me over the edge, his spot is back open.
If it were anyone else here, I’d feel bad that their season ended on an injury like his. ACL rehabilitations are a bitch, and there’s never a clear timeline on when you can come back. But when you’re a dick like Brad, you don’t get sympathy. And ifI wasn’t one fight away from the team kicking me off, his face would’ve met my fist a long time ago.
“What are you doing here, Rockwell?”
He stands up, a little wobbly since he’s off crutches. “Being a good teammate. I’m going to be back any day now; I don’t want the rapport to have gone away. Or for anyone to forget who their real tight end is.”
Fucking liar. I know he’s at least six-weeks away, and even that’s being generous.
“Glad to have you here,” I say, a touch of sarcasm in my voice. “That way you’ll have a front-row seat when I break the league’s tight end receiving yards record this year. Wouldn’t want you to miss that.”
My words hit the mark as Brad puffs out his chest, bumping it to mine as I hold my ground. I’m not going to hit him—that’s what he wants. No, my fists are going to stay firmly in place at my sides.
Clenched. But in place.
“You were a flash in the pan last year,” he says. “Just wait until I’m back and you have some real competition.”
I laugh, stepping up a little closer. “Funny how you think that when you come back there’ll be a spot for you. Face it, Rockwell, you were then. I’m now. And you can’t fucking stand it.”
My words hit the mark, and Brad gives me a shove. All I do is send him a cocky smile as I feel a host of hands pull me back. Which I get. I wasn’t about to throw, but with me, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
“You just have to instigate, don’t you?” Wyatt says as he pushes me aside. I take another step back, but Brad can’t get anywhere near me. Not with one of our captains, Cole Campbell, blocking him.
“Don’t be starting shit, Rockwell. Get your stuff, go do your rehab, and get the fuck out of here.”
I can’t see Brad—only because Cole is the biggest motherfucker I’ve ever met in real life—before I hear my name called again.
“Kincaid! My office! Now!”
Wyatt pats me on the shoulder and I take a second to cool down before heading into Coach McAvoy’s office.
“Take a seat,” he says as I close the door behind me. I know he didn’t ask me to, but I’ve been part of these meeting enough times to know that closed doors are protocol.
“Coach, about that,” I say, wanting to get ahead of the talk I know I’m about to get. “I apologize for snapping at Brad. I?—.”
Coach McAvoy shakes his head before I can finish speaking. “All I saw was the end, but enough to know that Rockwell likely started it.”
Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.
