I peer at the screen. There’s no info on Drew’s number today. No report on his preseason stats with the Anaheim Devil Sharks. Nor yesterday. That’s odd. I check the clock. Stuart will be back in five minutes.
Turning away from the computer, I return my focus to the release about the injury. All looks good. I flip to the next page.
The first paragraph makes me blink. Once, twice, three times.
The words rise up from the page, beating, like they’re alive.
The Los Angeles Knights are pleased to announce the team has traded for Drew Erickson, a quarterback from the Anaheim Devil Sharks. He will likely start in the first game of the season for the Knights.
Chapter Four
Drew
Los Angeles is sharp.
Better than I expected given the team’s troubles in the last year or so. But they’ve weeded out some of the guys who were bringing them down. I firmly believe those kind of problems have a way of carrying over to the field. You just can’t fuck shit up, land punches, snort lines, and, well, knock up a teenage cheerleader, and then play like a pro when it’s time for kickoff.
Today marks the end of my first week with my new teammates. In the morning we run routes once more, so the receivers and I are in synch on the timing of the plays. The pace is light in the early hours, but picks up after noon with a long series of passing drills under the hot sun. By the time practice ends, my muscles are drained and I’m sweat-soaked, but I can’t complain. This is a good kind of exhaustion. The kind that seeps into my bones and portends a good night’s sleep.
That’s what I need to stay strong this season and injury-free. And that’s exactly what I intend to do this fall. Stay in top-notch shape and take the team all the way. As I walk off the field with Tony Elkins, our leading receiver, who sports a full beard and a long mess of hair, he claps me on the back. “Nice work, Erickson. Been a good week.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Keep that shit up and we can make it far this year,” he says, offering a fist for knocking. I reciprocate.
“That’s the goal.”
“Streak, baby. We need to get on a streak.”
“Yeah? That’s the key?”
“I’ve already got my lucky socks planned. Soon as you start working that magic in the pocket, firing off beautiful bombs to your favorite receiver,” he says with a wink as he taps his chest with both hands.
I nod, long and playful. “As long as you catch ’em, man.”
He holds his arms out wide. “Always, baby. These arms were made to cradle the ball,” he says, and I like his brand of cocky confidence.
We head indoors, the blast of cool air-conditioning a welcome relief from the heat. I glance around the concrete hallway, still getting used to the look and feel of Los Angeles’s facilities.
Getting traded wasn’t entirely unexpected. The writing was on the wall when Anaheim drafted a Heisman winner in the first round last spring, and paid big bucks for his arm to the tune of a fat four-year contract for the Georgia graduate. Like a goddamn neon sign flashing that my days were numbered. It’s been tick-tock since then, as I waited for the call any second. Didn’t matter how good my last season was; my contract ends in a year, and the future of Anaheim rested on the new guy’s shoulders.
I get it. I’m not annoyed. This is how pro ball goes. I’m just glad I got traded only thirty miles away. I’d happily pack up for a lot of franchises—hell, for pretty much whoever comes calling with a good offer—but I like Southern California, and I have a boatload of good buddies in this town both from my college days and from the first three years in the pros.
But there’s an even better reason I’m glad I was sent to Los Angeles. The chance is mine and mine alone to start every game. Los Angeles isn’t trying to groom a new superstar, like my old team was. My new team is simply aiming to keep its head above water, and its nose out of the news. I can absolutely deliver on both counts.
That will be my goal this season. Leading this team, on and off the field.
As I head inside the locker room, I remind myself that it’s a damn good thing Dani never called me back after I found a cool way to leave her my number the next day. That phone call I got the night I met her might have prevented me from giving her my full number, but I made sure to get my digits to her the day after. The trouble is I didn’t hear a word. Not a peep. I wanted her to call or text. Hell, did I ever want to see her again. That woman occupied an astonishing portion of my brain that evening a couple weeks ago after I left her porch. And look, even though my agent was calling to give me the big news, I still managed to spend time with her in the shower when I returned home. She looked lovely in my imagination with her hands against the tiled wall, back bowed, ass up, all nice and slick and wet and ready.
In my solo flight that night, she came as loud and as hard as I did in my fist. I bet she’s an electric one between the sheets, because lord only knows, she felt like fire in my arms.
And there goes my dick. Imitating a flagpole as I enter a room full of dudes. I’d like to find the off switch to my dirty thoughts. Honestly, I’d like to shut them the fuck down right now, and fortunately, there’s nothing like a roomful of big, hairy men to do that for me.
Done.
Since Dani never got back to me, whatever latent lust I feel for her is moot. I tried to track the woman down. I wanted to see her again, and I made a hell of an effort—one I thought was pretty damn sweet. Didn’t faze the woman. Her radio silence was all I needed to know. I’m not the kind of guy to get hung up on a girl, especially not someone I only spent a few hours with anyway.