For me, football is more than a sport; it’s my lifeline.
When I aged out of foster care, the state only left me with a small college fund and health insurance until I’m twenty-six. Beyond that, I don’t have many pennies to my name. I worked a few odd jobs during college, but between full-time classes and football, I couldn’t put in that many hours.
The guys on the Rubies’ practice team have nothing on me. They have most likely been here for years, knowing they will never be good enough to advance further. They lack the drive—the passion—to do the best and be the best—unlike me. And when they pull the wannabe quarterback to put Aleks in, I somehow find a hidden reserve, a new burst of energy, to be the best, to be the only receiver Aleks can pass the ball to.
I leave every defenseman in the dust and catch every ball, no matter how it is thrown, with perfection.
No one can stop me.
And then, I hear it.
“Gin!” Traylor calls.
Looking up from my place in the end zone—where I just caught what would have been a twenty-yard touchdown pass from Aleks if this were a real game—I spot Traylor on the sideline, arm in the air and fingers beckoning for another Rubies player to take the field.
The player in question stands, and I feel the scowl I’ve been trying to hold back finally erupt in full blast, spreading across my face like a heavy cloud passing over the bright midday sun.
Tahegin Ellingsworth.
If there was one factor that could have made me choose the LA Treasures over the Rubies, it would have been Ellingsworth. Unfortunately, my cheap apartment is an hour away from the Treasures’ training facility, and my car is even cheaper. I can’t afford to move, and I’m pretty sure my car would sputter and die trying to get me to practice every day at that distance. The Rubies’ facility is only a fifteen-minute drive, hence why I chose them.
Ellingsworth is an unfortunate, bitter side effect of playing for the Rubies. He’s a cornerback, and since he’s a defensive player, my hope is that we won’t cross paths too often.
However, as he hops from the stadium seat down onto the track, switching his team jersey for a sheer burgundy pullover the other practice defensemen are wearing, I get the feeling I will be meeting him sooner rather than later.
I don’t need to know the guy to know I hate everything about him and everything he stands for. His life story has been spread far and wide across the football industry. He even has a documentary about himself, not that I’ve watched it. Still, I’ve heard enough things to know I dislike him the most of any player on the team.
Tahegin Ellingsworth is Mr. Perfect. His life has been handed to him on a diamond-studded golden platter, and he has nothing better to do than flaunt it in everyone else’s face. It began with one of the wealthiest families in America adopting him at a young age, and then he became a football prodigy before he graduated middle school. Recruiters followed him from high school to college, and he was a first-round draft pick three years ago, which is how he ended up playing for the Rubies.
He has the perfect life, perfect family, perfect career, and as he lines up across from me in that sheer shirt, I reluctantly admit he has the perfect body, too. His whiskey-toned skin is smooth and flawless. The muscles of his torso and arms—what I can see under the tribal tattoo covering his entire left arm—are perfectly sculpted, just like his face. Square jaw shaved smooth, full lips, and pristine teeth. His dark brown hair is perfectly styled with tight curls on top and shaved sides with a fancy design etched about his left ear. The real kicker, though—the thing everyone swoons over—are his sapphire-blue eyes, which put my dark grey ones to shame.
The media loves him. The fans love him.
I hate him.
Just because he is fortunate in life doesn’t mean he has to flaunt it in everyone else’s face.
Some of us haven’t been nearly as lucky.
Slipping on his helmet, Ellingsworth flashes one of his perfect smiles, and we line up head to head, wide receiver to cornerback. He may be the people’s choice for the best cornerback in the league for the last three years, but he is not my choice. This entitled jerk isn’t going to get in my head, no matter what he has to say to accompany that ridiculous modelesque grin—which he probably intends to come across as wholesome but is actually secretly sarcastic. Those full, dark lips part, and he says, “You’re impressive. None of us have been able to keep our eyes off you.”
What a condescending, mind-game-playing asshole.
Does he think one fake compliment will throw me off my game? Does he really have so little faith in his abilities that he has to resort to reverse psychology in order to best me?
Better luck next time, Ellingsworth.
The ball is snapped, and I fake left, dart to the right, run to my mark, turn to receive the pass, and . . .
A gloved hand bats the ball away inches from my fingertips.
I blink in surprise as the football hits the ground and flops away, leaving Ellingsworth the only thing in my general vicinity—an odd discovery, considering every other player I’ve been matched with was never even within spitting distance once I ran my route. This is . . . an unanticipated inconvenience.
A fluke. That one was a fluke—had to be!—and the next will be better.
The next play is not better.
Neither is the next, or the one after, or the one after that.
Frustration builds to a boil beneath my skin, and my routes become sloppy, my shoulder making contact with the man acting as my shadow more than is acceptable for a practice like this. We’re expected to pull our hits and limit our contact, but anger—at Ellingsworth and his uncanny ability to cover me step for step—spills out of me in the form of pushing hands and bumping bodies, until ultimately, it goes too far.
Every comment from Ellingsworth after each play, every snide comment he makes in the shape of constructive criticism—“hey, you almost had me on that last fake” or “your vertical is higher than I’d expect with your height” or “try cutting the route with a new perspective I won’t expect”—is fuel for my next hit, which sends him sprawling across the ground. He lies there stunned for a second, green blades of grass covering his arms and dirt smearing his ridiculous sheer jersey. The sweat on his forehead glistens in the glaring sun as he stares up at me in confusion with those bright sapphire eyes beneath rapidly blinking lashes.
“Oh,” he breathes in his velvety-smooth voice, like he should be singing to low jazz in a speakeasy rather than wearing himself out practicing a competitive sport. “I must not have been paying attention and ran right into you. Sorry.” He sits up and raises a hand, which hovers awkwardly in the air between us as I make no move to help him up.
He won’t even acknowledge my anger, won’t say anything to retaliate against my aggression. Scared? Maybe. More like he just wants to make me angrier, get a bigger rise out of me, make me out to be the bad guy.
I see you, Tahegin Ellingsworth. See you for the fake asshole you are underneath that golden-boy exterior.
“Whatever,” I grumble at him, rolling my eyes and turning away. Too bad he didn’t hit his head and have to go on concussion protocol.
Returning to the line, I’m determined to catch the next pass one way or another, even if it means knocking Ellingsworth on his ass yet again. Like a shadow—or a plague—he reappears as my counterpart, and we crouch to await the snap. Silence fills the space between us, anticipation tightening every muscle until they’re as taught as a bowstring, one catalyst away from snapping.
The corner of my mouth twitches, I release a sharp breath, and my eyes quickly flicker to the right as if planning my next movement.
Ellingsworth—God, that is such a long name, but I am not going to even consider calling him by his first name. Tahegin. Whatever happened to common spelling? My brain takes it upon itself to separate each syllable like a first grader sounding it out, running it closer and closer together as it annoyingly does eventually end up sounding like the basic name it is derived from. Still stupid. Pretentious. Like the person it belongs to.
Anyway, Ellingsworth stutter steps, his fiddle strings fracturing into a million strayed ends as a whistle blows. He’s offside since the ball hasn’t been snapped yet, and I catalog the surprise as it crashes like a tsunami through his sapphire eyes. “Well done,” he murmurs as we reset, condescension probably hidden somewhere within his rumbling drawl.
