Page 35 of Good Girl’s Guide to Love (Guide to Love #4)
If it were anyone else here, I’d feel bad that their season ended on an injury like his.
ACL rehabilitations are a bitch, and there’s never a clear timeline on when you can come back.
But when you’re a dick like Brad, you don’t get sympathy.
And if I wasn’t one fight away from the team kicking me off, his face would’ve met my fist a long time ago.
“What are you doing here, Rockwell?”
He stands up, a little wobbly since he’s off crutches. “Being a good teammate. I’m going to be back any day now; I don’t want the rapport to have gone away. Or for anyone to forget who their real tight end is.”
Fucking liar. I know he’s at least six-weeks away, and even that’s being generous.
“Glad to have you here,” I say, a touch of sarcasm in my voice. “That way you’ll have a front-row seat when I break the league’s tight end receiving yards record this year. Wouldn’t want you to miss that.”
My words hit the mark as Brad puffs out his chest, bumping it to mine as I hold my ground. I’m not going to hit him—that’s what he wants. No, my fists are going to stay firmly in place at my sides.
Clenched. But in place.
“You were a flash in the pan last year,” he says. “Just wait until I’m back and you have some real competition.”
I laugh, stepping up a little closer. “Funny how you think that when you come back there’ll be a spot for you. Face it, Rockwell, you were then. I’m now. And you can’t fucking stand it.”
My words hit the mark, and Brad gives me a shove. All I do is send him a cocky smile as I feel a host of hands pull me back. Which I get. I wasn’t about to throw, but with me, it’s better to be safe than sorry.
“You just have to instigate, don’t you?” Wyatt says as he pushes me aside. I take another step back, but Brad can’t get anywhere near me. Not with one of our captains, Cole Campbell, blocking him.
“Don’t be starting shit, Rockwell. Get your stuff, go do your rehab, and get the fuck out of here.”
I can’t see Brad—only because Cole is the biggest motherfucker I’ve ever met in real life—before I hear my name called again.
“Kincaid! My office! Now!”
Wyatt pats me on the shoulder and I take a second to cool down before heading into Coach McAvoy’s office.
“Take a seat,” he says as I close the door behind me. I know he didn’t ask me to, but I’ve been part of these meeting enough times to know that closed doors are protocol.
“Coach, about that,” I say, wanting to get ahead of the talk I know I’m about to get. “I apologize for snapping at Brad. I?—.”
Coach McAvoy shakes his head before I can finish speaking. “All I saw was the end, but enough to know that Rockwell likely started it.”
Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.
“He’s not handling his injury well,” Coach continues.
“He was always a cocky guy. But it never crossed the line that became toxic for the team. But the guy who’s rehabbing now?
He’s a different player than the one we signed two years ago.
And I’m telling you this because, if you haven’t figured it out yet, he’s not fond of you. ”
I laugh. “Yeah, he’s not exactly playing that close to his chest.”
“Just keep your head down,” he says. “I’m going to be having a talk with him, believe me on that. He might not be active right now, but that doesn’t mean he’s still not under contract. If he continues to cause disruptions like this, there will be consequences.”
And this is just one of the reasons I love Coach McAvoy. It doesn’t matter if you’re a seasoned veteran, or a new guy he recruited off the streets, everyone is treated the same.
“Thanks, Coach.”
He holds up a finger, signaling that he’s not quite done. “And while I’m glad you didn’t hit back today, I think we need to talk about your actions this past weekend.”
He tosses a few pieces of paper on his desk, and I don’t need to lean in too far to see that it’s the first headlines that came out—the ones that leaned into how I almost clocked Dr. Dipshit.
“Do we need to talk about this?”
I shake my head, lowering my eyes for a second before I realize that I need to face this head-on with the man who’s giving me my life right now. “No sir. Temper slipped for a moment.”
He sits back in his desk, clasping his fingers together. “Over a girl?”
“Yes, sir. She’s…my girlfriend.”
The slight stutter was more because I don’t think I’ve actually said that word out loud since that night. It was one thing that night, when it was a game. But it’s not a game anymore. Well, not the same one. The stakes feel bigger.
“Wow,” Coach says. “No offense, but I didn’t see you as a commitment kind of guy.”
“None taken,” I say. “I guess you could say that when the right woman comes along, everything changes.”
“Don’t I know it.” I watch as my coach goes from this stern authority figure to his eyes softening as he looks over to a picture of his wife and their two sons. “I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, Kincaid, but you know you have a lot riding on this year.”
I nod, not needing to say anything else. He and I have gone over the terms of my contract, and behavior clauses, extensively.
One-year contract. If things go well, they plan to re-sign me. And when it comes to fighting? There are no three strikes. No second chances. The first time I throw a punch, I’m out of here.
Which I know means that my football career would be over. Completely.
“I understand, sir,” I say as I stand up. “I apologize for it almost happening this weekend. But in my defense, it was my girl’s ex, and he’s a dipshit who doesn’t listen to a woman saying no.”
This earns me a smile from my normally serious coach. “That helps. Slightly.”
He stands as well, reaching out for my hand. “I’m happy for you, but make sure this isn’t a distraction. This is a big season for us. For you. Just be smart.”
I nod in understanding. He’s right. It’s not just big, it’s huge. It’s everything.
And I can’t—no, I won’t—fuck it up.