Page 34 of Good Girl’s Guide to Love (Guide to Love #4)
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“All right boys! Bring it in!”
There are some hoots and hollers, and a round of in-unison claps, as we run back to the center of the field where our coach, Hunter McAvoy, has just called us in.
Like clockwork, because we’ve all done this thousands of times in our football lives, we remove our helmets and take a knee, ready to listen to whatever our coach says.
And we all listen—intently—because it doesn’t get better than the man in front of us. And he has the championship rings to prove it.
“Good practice today, and frankly, all week,” he begins. “It’s never easy starting the season with a mid-week game—personally it throws my timing all off—but y’all are handling this like the pros you are. I have no doubt that Charlotte isn’t going to know what hit them on Thursday night!”
That gets a little bit of a reaction from the guys, but I don’t say anything. The season opens in two days. In forty-eight hours, I’m going to be running on the field as the starter in a season opener. It’s something I’ve never done before. And something I’m not taking for granted.
“Make sure everyone gets the treatment they need before they take off,” Coach McAvoy says. “Tomorrow is just going to be meetings and a quick walkthrough before we report to the hotel tomorrow night. All right, let’s bring it in!”
We all rise from our knees and lift our helmets in the air for the final huddle of the day. Our captain, quarterback Bryce Donald, waits for us to quiet down before he parts us with his words of wisdom.
“I’m proud as hell to be out here with you guys, and more so, that we’ve all had our eyes on the prize since the end of last season. Let’s start this week with a fucking bang and show the league we aren’t fucking around this year. Bring it in, three in four, on three! One…two…three…”
“Three in four!”
We all start making our way back to the locker room at our practice facility, cheerfully jostling each other and joking.
“Three in four” is the motto we adopted on the first day of training camp.
It’s a reminder that we have the chance to do what few professional teams ever have a chance to do—win three championships in four years.
It also serves as a daily reminder that we lost last year, or we’d be going for an unheard of four-peat.
It’s perfect to remind us that we need to work hard, and if we do, we’ll cement our dynasty.
Dynasty. How in the hell am I a part of a team that is one of the greatest of all time?
I figured if I were ever in this position, it would be on the practice squad, or second-string special teams. I want to pinch myself that I’m here, but the sweat dripping down my face and burning my eyes is enough of a reminder.
For the first time in my life, things are looking good. I have a starting spot. A guaranteed contract. Hell, I even have a girlfriend. Sure, she’s of the fake variety, but I can’t deny that it’s been nice having someone to talk to besides Wyatt and Maddox.
It feels weird to be on the upside of anything. And while part of me is waiting for the inevitable bad thing to happen, the other part of me is breathing easy for the first time in a long time.
“Why’s Kincaid spacing out?”
I look up to see Maddox pointing at me, while Wyatt just shakes his head as we enter the locker room.
“Probably thinking about his girlfriend .” Wyatt says, teasing me like we’re seven years old. “I mean, he’s texting her all the time. He took her to his breakfast spot on Saturday. We’re going to lose him, Maddox. Pretty soon, it’s just going to be us in the bachelor section.”
“Damn, really?” Maddox says as he starts taking off his pads. “Wait! That girl from karaoke the other night? You two are dating now?”
“Yeah, we are,” I say, trying to seem as natural as possible. And praying that he doesn’t start questioning timelines. “She’s a great girl. Name’s Ainsley.”
“Yeah, she seemed nice,” he says. “I mean, I hate to tell you this, but I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to you guys. Not when I had a bachelorette party that was keeping me quite entertained.”
I roll my eyes at my manwhore of a teammate and friend. If it was anyone else but Maddox who just said that, we’d be slapping him upside the head. But it’s him, and the asshole is charming enough to get away with it.
How do I describe Maddox Gallagher? There’s no one word to totally explain him. Because he’s a weird, manwhore enigma with a heart of gold.
Men want to be him. Women want to fuck him—and frankly, he usually doesn’t turn them down.
I’ve heard from fans that he’s both the husbands’ and the wives’ hall passes.
Sometimes together. He’s second on the team in jersey sales, and that’s only because the league’s best quarterback is our captain.
But Maddox is a fourth-year safety from Iowa.
That’s not supposed to be how that works.
Now, one would think if a guy is that popular he’d have the ego to boot. Wrong. Somehow he’s the nicest and most genuine player in the locker room. He does more for the team’s charities than anyone, along with the one he started himself that promotes STEM activities in afterschool programs.
If he wasn’t my friend, I’d hate him.
“Well I’m happy for you,” Maddox says. “And if she brings you luck and makes it so you’re catching a hundred yards and a touchdown a game, I’ll like her even more.”
I laugh. “You know I’m not superstitious like you are.”
In my defense, no one is. This is a twenty-six-year-old man who has to drink milk before every game because he did it once when he was six, apparently had the best game of his life, and has done so every game since.
Maddox shakes his head as he grabs his shower caddie. “I’m just saying, if you start earning out those brand-new contract bonuses, and it has anything to do with her, you will be. And quick.”
Maddox heads off, leaving Wyatt and I alone in front of our lockers.
“Well, safe to say he’s on board, and didn’t question the odd timing,” I say quietly, not wanting anyone passing by to overhear this conversation.
“Nah, you should be good,” Wyatt says as he starts undressing. “The guys who were there that night aren’t going to ask you specifics. And the rest? The rest you can tell them as much or as little as you want.”
I look around the locker room, taking in my team. It’s a good balance of young guys and veterans. And not just any veterans—ones who know how to win. Since the team brought Coach McAvoy on seven years ago, they’ve improved every year to become one of, if not the best, team in the league.
And now I’m here. I’m a part of this. Sometimes it doesn’t seem real. I mean, being in locker rooms is one thing. But knowing I’m contributing? Starting? Sometimes I feel like I’m going to wake up and this was all a dream.
“What are you doing Friday night?” Wyatt asks. “Rare free night. I think I’m going to head to the cabin for the weekend. Don’t tell anyone I invited you, but you’re more than welcome to come.”
“While I’m flattered for my first-ever invitation, I can’t,” I say as I pull off my sweaty practice jersey. “Taking Ainsley to dinner.”
He wags his eyebrows. “Look at our boy, going on dates and shit.”
A few of the teammates laugh at Wyatt’s comment, which earns him a towel thrown to the head. I lean down, like I’m picking it up, but it’s just so I can talk lower.
“Katie told us we need to be seen out. So we’re going to dinner. Some fancy restaurant where I won’t know what fork to use. Don’t be thinking this is real.”
Wyatt knows more than anyone that I don’t date. At least, not romantically. Yes, I’ve been out with women. Scratched the itch when I needed to. But every one of them knew it was only going to be one night. I certainly didn’t plan romantic dates at five-star restaurants.
When I told Ainsley earlier that I had a few ideas in mind, that was my stall tactic to Google nice date night restaurants that I think she’d like, while also putting us in public to make Katie happy that we’re being seen out.
“Where you taking her?” “Wyatt asks.
“Not sure,” I admit. “Any suggestions?”
“Oh no,” he says as he pats me on the shoulder as he stands up. “You went and got a girlfriend. You’re on your own, brother.”
“Fuck you.” We both laugh and just as I’m about to grab my shower caddie, I hear my name being called across the locker room.
“Kincaid! Coach McAvoy wants you in his office.”
Because this is a professional football locker room, and we’re all a group of grown men who mostly act like we’re eight, a chorus of “ooohs” and “you’re in trouble” come echoing as I tug on a clean T-shirt and shorts before making my way to the coach’s office.
“What’d you do this time, Kincaid?” I look over, eyes narrowed as Brad taunts me from in front of his locker. “Or should I ask, who’d you punch?”
I don’t mean to slow down my stride, but I can’t help it.
I need to calm down, breathe in and out, but every word this guy says gets under my skin.
He’s been goading me since the minute I walked into this locker room, and it only got worse when he realized that I wasn’t some random injury fill-in.
He thought I was going to be some lowly, former-practice-squad player who couldn’t hack it.
And frankly, he was right about most of that.
What he didn’t know was that I was a man determined not to blow my last shot.
After that catch last year, his glares went from dismissive to angry. I know he fucks with me because he’s scared. And he should be. I’m the guy taking his job. So he wants me to fuck up. He knows that I’m living on my last life here, and if he can push me over the edge, his spot is back open.