Page 110 of Play Fake
Friday practices are usually lighter ahead of game weekends, but I’m not going any lighter as we run game scenarios on the practice field before lunch.
My job is to rush the quarterback, and Asher’s job as the tight end is to stop me in the play we’re running.
Only, he doesn’t. I plow him down, and when I help him up, he glares at me.
“What the fuck was that?” he demands.
I hold up both hands. “I’m just doing my job.”
“We’re going light, man. Chill the fuck out.”
His words set a fire under me. I realize he’s my friend off the field, but in this moment, he’s the enemy. Friday practices might be lighter, but if we’re running game scenarios, he’s my opponent. My single job is to get to the quarterback and take him down.
The quarterbacks rotate during practice, and the team’s second backup quarterback, Brandon Fletcher, is in for this play. Asher stops me from getting to him again, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe what I’m doing.
I’m just practicing.
On the next play, Maverick Jennings rotates in. He’s brand new to the Aces, acquired in a trade from Dallas during the draft, and he’ll be our starter this year. Our other starter, Miles Hudson, has been having issues with the ACL he tore a couple years ago, so Maverick will be stepping up to the plate.
Mav has been around a few years and has killer instincts, and I’m frankly shocked that Dallas let him go in the deal. He’s an incredible quarterback and competitor, and I’d rather play with him than against him. But he does things his way. He doesn’t listen to anybody, and he’s polarizing. He makes as many headlines off the field as he does on it, but Coach Nash is confident he can turn this guy around. Nobody is quite surehowhe’s planning to do that, but if anyone can do it, it’s Lincoln Nash.
This time when we run the play, I barrel over Asher, and I try to stop myself, but my momentum is too great.
I plow right into Maverick, who lets out a grunt as I take him down.
I don’tmeanto take him down. He’s fully padded under his red jersey that signifies not to hit the player, but my instinct to take down the quarterback took over.
“Fuck,” Maverick hisses as he gasps for breath, and his hand goes immediately to his ribs, which I plowed into shoulder-first. Always shoulder-first. Never helmet-first. We’ve practiced that enough over the years that I know it was my shoulder.
But shoulders can bruise and break ribs just as much as helmets can, and the way Mav is clutching his ribs and wheezing…it’s definitely broken ribs.
“What the fuck was that?” Asher yells at me.
I turn toward him. I already feel bad enough about whatever I just did to Maverick, and now he’s laying into me, too?
“I had too much momentum after taking your ass down,” I say to him.
“I told you to take it down a notch!” He’s still yelling at me.
Lincoln comes between us a second later—literally. He walks right in between our fight to check on Maverick, who I’ve clearly just made an enemy of, and then he looks up at me.
“In my office. Now.”
His voice is eerily calm, and I know I’m in for a punishment far worse than stadium stairs.
I follow him to his office, and he slams the door shut behind me as I slide into one of the chairs across from his desk.
“What the fuck are you doing out there, Dex? I thought you were pulling yourself together, and now you’re plowing down Asher and taking out Maverick? You don’t hit the quarterback in practice. Ever.”
It’s ribs, which will be four to six weeks recovery at most. I feel bad about it, but it’s a risk that comes with playing the game. We’ve been trainednotto feel bad when we take down our target.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“You know Fridays are light. Why’d you mow down Asher?”
I take a breath—mostly because I’m about to say something really stupid about how he probably wouldn’t care if it was Austin Graham or some other tight end that’snothis brother, but talking back right now isn’t going to earn me any favors, so I shut my trap.
“Well?” he prompts. “Why?”
