Page 131 of The Hot Shot
Weirdly, that image doesn’t die when North speaks again. “We win these last two games, and we’re in the playoffs.”
“I know this well.” I dream about it. Have nightmares about it. Who the fuck on our team doesn’t know this?
“You seem distracted, is all.”
I stare at North. He stares back.
“I heard you talking to your girl earlier.”
I rub a hand over my face. “Fucking hell.”
He merely shrugs. “Don’t talk in public places if you don’t want to be overheard.”
I think about who else might have heard. The prospects aren’t pleasant. “You’re a nosy fucker, you know that?”
“I like you, kid.”
“Kid? You’re only five years older than me.”
His smile is thin. “It’s not the years. It’s the mileage.”
“Jesus, don’t quote Indiana Jones. I beg you.”
North laughs. And for one shining moment, I think I’m clear. But he quickly sobers. “Look, these are the years that define your career.”
“Oh, hell...”
“If you don’t make your mark now, give it your all, then you’re done. The next college hotshot is just around the corner, waiting to take your place.” North points a long, bony finger at me. “Don’t fuck this chance up by dividing your attention between football and a woman. Love is great, and you think it means forever, but it’s not worth risking everything you’ve worked for.”
“I’m not trying to fuck it up. I’m trying to have it all.”
“Impossible. Something has to give. You want a woman? Find one who wants to be a player’s wife. The kind of girl who will give you babies, put you first, and never complain when you’re gone. The kind who will be there when you come home.
“Otherwise, it’s going to fuck with your head. Put that shitaside and focus on your career for now. Once you’re established and have a few rings on your fingers then worry about women.”
I glance at the gaudy-as-fuck Super Bowl ring on North’s hand. He doesn’t usually wear it, but I’m guessing it’s a go-to accessory for galas, a nice piece of bragging rights. It’s a weird bit of irony that football players dream of wearing a ring better suited to sit on some Vegas pimp’s finger, but we do. We all want those ugly-ass rings.
North stands and looks down at me. “Tell me this, what occupies your thoughts more? Football or the girl?”
My jaw tics.
“Here’s a hint.” North leans in. “The answer should always be football.”
A true football player lives, breathes, and dreams of the game. I’ve had that pounded into me since I put on my first peewee helmet. Anything less than total devotion to the sport and you’re an amateur.
North’s voice cuts through the thick haze that’s settled over me. “Besides, if you play well, I play better. And I want to kick ass this year.”
I cut him a look. “I’m glad we had this talk. We should do it again sometime.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, he gives my shoulder a slap and walks off toward the house. I should get up, too. Go inside, find Chess, and mingle. But I don’t move.
Everything feels sluggish and heavy. I’m also thirsty as hell, my throat dry and tight. “Fucking North.”
“I think he was trying to be your friend.”
Chess’s voice startles me, and I lurch to my feet just as she walks out of the shadows.
“Hey.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “You heard all that?”
