False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) (5 page)

T
he next time
we have a full scrimmage in practice, I do my best not to get in Mills’ way.

I spent a few nights memorizing all the plays; drawing out the routes on my tablet and retracing them with my finger, keeping in mind where I’m supposed to be on each play, depending on my position.

At first, it all works out great. I’m stopping ball carriers left and right. No sacks yet, but the line’s starting to adapt to me, and I’ve gotten a chance to play with some first-string guys from last year who are better at pushback.

I see Mills on the other side of the field, and it seems like he’s having just as much success. My nerves are smoothed over, and for a couple hours, I’m just able to enjoy the game. Sure, practice is brutal. We’re doing two-a-days now with just a few hours between the first and last practice, and the Florida heat is a real problem. But having the chance to do something I love makes it worth it.

By the time the second practice rolls around, though, Mills and I are put on the same side of the field. I can’t really read his expression when he gives me a slow nod of acknowledgment, but I smile at him just the same. I’m determined not to be a pain in his ass. I’d rather learn from him than have him hate me, and I don’t want to undo the strides we’ve been making so far.

Anything to erase that awkward locker room incident.

So when we’re put on the same play, both of us covering the same side, I don’t play as aggressively as I could. I see the hole, and I know the guy holding me doesn’t have a great grip. I could wrench myself away from him and get to the ball carrier; make sure he’s taken down behind the line of scrimmage.

But I don’t. I figure someone else will plug up that hole, but it never happens. The RB barrels right through it and gains a down. Coach’s whistle calls the play dead.

“What the fuck was that, Erickson? He barely had a hold on you.”

“Won’t happen again, Coach,” I say around my mouthguard.

But Coach Bradford isn’t the only one pissed. Somehow in trying not to get in Mills’ way, I’ve managed to end up on his radar all the same. He jogs up to me, and the sun glints off his polished helmet. I squint, trying to look him in the eyes, but it’s impossible to see what he’s thinking or feeling.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, and I can hear what sounds like a slight note of… softness in his voice.

I know for a fact there’s nothing soft about Dante Mills.

“Stop hesitating. If you’ve got a shot, take it. As long as you aren’t fucking up the play, we’re cool. All right?”

I feel hope surge. We could be cool. We could actually play in the same formation, with the same goal, and not be rivals. As much as I want that starting position, I want that even more. Mills on the same side of the field as me, not stuck on the bench.

“Yeah, all right.”

He slaps my helmet, and it jostles against me for a second. It’s not a rough slap; it’s just something I’ve seen the other guys do with each other. My ears ring a little, but there’s still a smile on my face as I get back into position.

During the next drive, I don’t hold back. Neither does Mills. On our own, we each manage to stop a couple runs. The offense would’ve been forced to punt if this were a real game, but special teams is practicing elsewhere, so they keep up the drive, trying to score.

I can feel it deep in my bones when Mills gets a hit. It’s the crash of pads against pads, muscle against muscle. It’s such a satisfying sound, and it pumps through my blood, carried along by a burst of adrenaline. I’ve spent so much of my life learning how to fake things. Fake a smile, fake a compliment, fake attention. The contact on the field is
real
, and it’s addictive.

As the plays get more and more desperate on the offense’s part, something amazing starts to happen.

Mills and I start to work in sync.

I start to learn when he’s going to dart to one side, or when he’s going to throw all of his weight into the guy trying to keep him back. I start to see who’s going to try and block him, and who’s going to be successful at it. There aren’t a lot of guys who have any chance of stopping him, but when I see one of them not tangled up with a lineman, I keep him busy myself.

Mills gets a sack on that play, and it’s fucking beautiful.

With the blocker out of the way, he was able to fake to the side, pivot, and break past the line to chase down the QB. And after the play, I saw his eyes light with that same feeling I’ve been getting this whole time. That pumped up sense of invigoration.

He jumps, practically bouncing like his cleats are made of an even sturdier rubber.

“That’s the play, man,” he says, and his gloved hand slaps across mine.

I’m grinning like an idiot as we get into formation. The line’s learned to adapt to our shit, but before practice is over, we get off another good tag-team play. We’re lined up in formation, Mills on one side, me on the other.

Linebackers aren’t even supposed to have much of a purpose in this play beyond short and medium coverage; it’s the corners who have to be on their toes. But the man-to-man coverage makes it tough for the quarterback to find someone he can easily throw to.

He scrambles, holding onto the ball way too long. Mills rushes him, and I see the short screen right before the QB throws it. It’s not the most on-target throw ever, thanks to Mills’ pressure, and I manage to bat it out of the air for an incompletion.

“Hell yeah!” Mills says, and a couple of the other defensive players clap me on the pads.

I’m sweating through my mesh practice jersey. I’m breathing hard. My muscles already ache. But I feel absolutely amazing. This is what we needed. Just a way to get in the groove and work together instead of being at each other’s throats.

I’m not under any illusion that we’ll suddenly be best friends, but seeing Mills grin at me, feeling him clap me on the back, it’s definitely a lot better than the alternative.

* * *

O
ver the next few weeks
, Mills and I both have our ups and downs.

Some days, I’m just too tired after two hours’ worth of brutal conditioning drills. There’s only so many up-downs a guy can do before he just wants to stay down, and considering I’ve never been in a program as intensive as this one, it’s a lot to keep up with.

I see Mills lag a little, too. He isn’t as fast as he was before; isn’t as quick to react. We let drives get through that are caught by the smaller LBs. It sucks, but I can only try and start fresh each new play, and hope the law of averages is just working itself out.

Practices are open by that point, and fans have started coming to watch. Mostly the diehards, or the alums. A few of the players’ girlfriends, too. I still don’t see Mills interacting with anyone in the stands, though. He and I are two of the only players who never really have anyone.

As we draw closer to the start of the season, everybody starts getting a little more tightly wound. Even I end up shoving a lineman a little too hard after he grabs my mask to keep me from stopping a play. Tempers are running high, and the testosterone in the locker room runs even higher.

But usually just when things are about to reach the boiling point, somebody suggests heading to the bar, and after a few rounds everyone goes back to being best buddies again.

The guys have teased me about footing the bill, though. Every time we go to The Top now, there’s always somebody who jokes about me picking up their tab. I guess I wasn’t as discreet as I thought, but if there’s any real animosity over it, I can’t really feel it.

Of course, all of that was before the season started.

On our last pre-season practice, everybody’s playing at the top of their game. Competition is fierce, and I can feel the weight of everyone’s ambitions in my aching muscles. I pull something halfway through, but I grit my teeth and play through the pain, deciding to just ice it afterward.

It feels like a shorter practice than normal, and when we’re told at the end of it that starting assignments for the first game have been posted in the locker room, it’s a stampede to get there.

I allow the crowd to pass me by and jog into the tunnel, trying not to let anxiety consume me. I don’t expect to make it. Even though I played hard and I feel like I’ve improved since being here, there are a lot of guys who are way more talented and driven than me.

Mills hangs back with me, and I can’t help but feel a little surprised. We’ve talked a little bit over the past few weeks. I feel like we’re actually reaching the teammate stage, instead of the rival stage. But his manner now is friendly. His fingers are curled around his face mask and he holds his helmet at his side, giving me a lop-sided grin.

My heart stutters at that, and I start to feel anxious for an entirely different reason.

“You nervous?”

Yep
, I think. But not for the reason he suspects. Not now, anyway.

“A little, yeah. I don’t really expect to get the spot, though.”

Mills shrugs. “Coach said it’s up for anybody this year. You held your own.”

I smile, but try to keep my attention focused forward, on the other players who are making their way in front of us.

“Thanks. You and I make a pretty good team.”

I feel a flutter in my stomach as I admit that, like I’m trying to tell this guy that we should team up in other ways. Jesus Christ. My libido doesn’t need to start second-guessing me. Not now that things are on the verge of being good.

Thankfully Mills is oblivious to the inner-workings of my mind. He just lets out an amused noise.

“Keep it up and they’ll come up with some cheesy-ass name for us.”

“Oh, God,” I say on a laugh. “Like from one of those terrible ‘90s sports movies.”

“Hell yeah. We’ll be the two assholes on the villains’ team. The Enforcers or The Bruisers or some shit.”

“The Steamrollers,” I add in.

“The Undertakers.”

“The Doom-makers.”

We keep up with that all the way to the locker room, with the suggestions getting increasingly more ridiculous. That warm buzz is back again, and I have a grin plastered to my face as I wade through the crowd to look at the list that’s been posted on a bulletin board.

I have to squint to read it. Coach Garvey printed it in the smallest font possible, apparently, but at least it’s organized by offense, defense, and special teams.

I scan the list, trying not to get my hopes up. Halfway down, I see it.

E
RICKSON
, MITCHELL (LB)

M
y breath catches
in my throat. My heart stops, then pounds at an erratic rate. I feel the rush of a potent cocktail of adrenaline and endorphins, fighting to overwhelm my sense of disbelief.

I’m starting.

I’m starting in the first game of the season. A game that’s going to be televised. I’m going to don the uniform and play for the Tigers. I’m going to have the chance to make crucial, game-altering plays. My parents are going to be able to see me on TV.

Holy shit.

Mills moves up beside me, and I hold my breath, waiting to see a smile spread across his face. But he doesn’t smile. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Disbelief. Disappointment. And then it’s washed away, replaced by something shockingly neutral.

I look back at the list.

Mills’ name isn’t on it.

“How the fuck is that possible,” I say aloud.

“Guess the other guys just outplayed me,” he says, and his voice is totally devoid of emotion.

He shrugs, then steps back from the list. Before I can say anything to him—before I can even turn—he’s swallowed up in a sea of eager players.

It’s just one game, I tell myself.

Next week, he’ll be on this list. Next week, we’ll both be on this list.

But even still, my soaring feeling is suddenly halted, crashing down lower than I’ve been so far.

I shouldn’t feel bad about this. A part of me is even resentful; it’s not my fault he didn’t get the position. But seeing that look on his face, I have the sudden urge to do anything to bring back the smile I saw in the tunnel.