Page 6 of Home Town Advantage (Fourth Quarter Fever #1)

THREE

VANCE

P resley grunts as Beau easily helps him place the heavily weighted bar back in its slot on the bench in our team gym.

Presley Ladrón, who we often all call Elvis for obvious reasons, is our placekicker.

He’s the smallest guy on the team, though he can probably out-squat nearly everyone.

He’s Latino, with brown hair, brown eyes, and olive skin.

Beau Fudd, on the other hand, is massive.

He’s a defensive end who must be at least six feet, eight inches and over three hundred pounds.

He could probably bench the weighted bar Presley was using with Presley still attached to it.

He grew up in a military family and has always worn his dirty-blond hair buzzed short.

He’s a bit of a dichotomy. He’s built like a beefcake but happens to be highly intelligent.

He’s been working toward his PhD while playing ball.

He believes there’s a science to building muscles and is always sharing things with us to help us along.

Presley looks at both Beau and me. “Are you guys good to come out tonight? Layla was pissed at me this morning when I told her I hadn’t asked you yet. ”

Beau and I exchange knowing glances as I quip, “She’s always pissed at you, Elvis.”

The two of them have a love-hate relationship.

The Bickersons, as I often call them, are constantly going at each other, though it’s usually in Spanish so we can’t understand them.

Just as quickly as it starts, it turns sexually charged.

Five seconds after yelling at each other, they’re practically having sex in public. They give me whiplash sometimes.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Now that we permanently live in the same place, it’s so much better.

I think the dual residency was wearing on us.

She’s only gotten truly pissed at me once this week.

We were having lunch at a café. I could tell she wanted a meaty burger, but she’s so uptight about dropping those last few pounds of baby weight.

I told her not to worry about a salad and to get the damn burger.

Unfortunately, the waiter was standing there, so Layla snapped at me for being a Neanderthal and telling her what to order in front of him.

I swear, women want their hair pulled, to be choked, and your handprint on their ass, but they go feral if you try to tell them what to do in public. ”

I chuckle. “That’s true.” As I do my seated, one-arm bicep curls, I add, “I feel like you were being nice by saying that.”

He nods. “I know. Honestly, I was kind of annoyed at her over-the-top reaction. She realized her mistake at some point.”

“Did she apologize?” I ask.

He lets out a laugh. “Women don’t apologize.

When they know they were in the wrong, they crawl into bed naked to gauge your level of anger.

” He wiggles his eyebrows up and down. “I’ll never be angry enough with her to miss out on naked time with my beautiful angel.

Even after all these years together, that woman still does it for me in a big way. ”

I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that Layla is sexy as hell. I certainly wouldn’t know what it’s like to be with the same person for so long. I haven’t had a serious relationship in years, and obviously none as serious as Presley and Layla’s .

Our recently drafted rookie, wide receiver Reece Sanders, looks like he’s struggling on the bench press. I’m about to go help when Champ offers his. Champ Williamson is new to our team this year. He’s a running back who was recently traded to the Camels from the Wranglers out of Dallas.

He’s a black man with a blond-dyed mohawk.

He’s built like a prototypical running back, being a little shorter with endless muscles capped off by huge quads.

Despite being new in town, he’s meshed right in with our group.

I like him. He garners a lot of attention from women, but I’m pretty sure he’s gay.

I hate that he feels the need to hide it from us, but I equally don’t want to push him to reveal anything he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing.

As Champ moves toward the bar to help Reece, Reece quickly places it in its place and practically jumps away from Champ. “Nah, man. Don’t touch me. I’m good.”

Champ’s jaw tightens. “No problem. Just trying to help.”

What the fuck is this kid’s problem?

Our coach, Jett Jeffries, is seated in the leg press machine as he pushes out hundreds of pounds.

I swear the guy is stronger than most of the defensive linemen on our team.

He’s a retired quarterback but was one of the best in the game in his day.

I know I wouldn’t be half the quarterback I am today without him as my coach.

He’s in his late forties, with dark hair like mine, though it has some gray in it now.

Women on social media are obsessed with him.

He’s like a poster child for silver foxes and daddy videos.

I think songs have been written about his green eyes.

And when he got divorced a few years ago, he had to get security because of all the women hounding him.

Nonetheless, he remained humble. In fact, he hates it when we rib him about his sex symbol status.

He assesses the situation just as I did and approaches Reece with a murderous look on his face. “Hey, rook, respect your teammates or you’ll find yourself on jockstrap washing duty faster than your last time in bed with your undoubtedly paid entertainment. Do I make myself clear?”

Reece fearfully mumbles, “Y…yes, Coach.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out of here. You’re done for the day. No one wants to see your ugly face anymore. Don’t come back again until you learn to show a little respect to your teammates, all of whom are much better and more accomplished than you.”

Reece’s face falls in horror as he croaks out, “Yes, Coach,” before practically sprinting out of the gym.

Coach Jeffries turns to Presley and calmly asks, “How’s the baby sleeping, Elvis?” He’s obviously trying to change the subject to spare Champ any lingering embarrassment.

Presley shrugs. “Meh. A few good nights here and there, but mostly nights where she won’t go to sleep. We sometimes have to rock her for hours.”

Coach Jeffries smirks in amusement. “Your generation is soft. When my kids wouldn’t go to sleep, we’d mix NyQuil in with their formula.”

Presley’s mouth widens. “Seriously? You drugged your kids?”

Coach waves his hands dismissively. “Oh, please. NyQuil is nothing. I called my mother when Kennedy was a baby and we couldn’t get her to sleep. She said, give her NyQuil, and if that doesn’t work, I used to give you a little chloroform .”

Presley inhales a sharp breath. “She must have been joking.”

Coach shrugs. “Honestly, I’m not sure. With her generation, you never know.

I think each generation tolerates a little less than the one before it.

You fuckers have fancy filtered water. When I was a kid, my mother used to make me drink straight from the metal-rusted hose that had been lying in the dirt in my backyard for twenty years. ”

I pinch my eyebrows together. “Why didn’t you at least drink from the sink? ”

He scoffs. “’Cause I wasn’t allowed inside the damn house until dinnertime.

I was sent out after breakfast with a brown bag full of processed bologna for lunch and told not to come home until it was dark out.

I didn’t have a fucking water bottle full of designer five-dollar water.

I didn’t have a cell phone or a watch. Sundown was my time marker.

Generation X. Raised on hose water and neglect.

Yet here we are, still living our lives. ”

I bite back my smile. Coach loves to bring up Gen X as having it rough all the time. I’m not sure if he’s trying to be funny or trying to make a point. Either way, we all find it wildly amusing.

Daylen walks into the gym. I look up at him and scowl.

“You’re late, asshole. You were supposed to be here an hour ago.

” We’re not in season quite yet, but we’re religious about our workouts.

We have to be in our profession. After our time in the gym, Daylen and I always head to the field for me to throw him some passes. Now the whole day will be off. Fucker.

Coach shakes his head. “Only one time in my life was I ever late to practice. The coach made me run laps for the first half. I’ve never forgotten.”

Daylen pinches his eyebrows together. “Running laps? What’s so memorable about that?”

Coach deadpans, “My dad was the coach. He was my ride to practice. He was the reason I was late. That’s how hardcore things used to be.”

Daylen chuckles as he runs his fingers through his hair, which seemingly grew several inches this week. What does this guy eat that his hair grows so ridiculously fast? He wiggles his eyebrows up and down at me. “I have a good excuse. I was busy engaging in a sportsman’s double.”

I raise an amused eyebrow of my own. “Is that so?”

Coach Jeffries asks, “What’s a sportsman’s double? Two workouts in a day?”

Daylen lets out a loud laugh. “Umm, no. It’s when you do a mother and a daughter at the same time. I was at Reading Terminal Market this morning getting my favorite fruit shake when a cougar, probably around your age, Coach, maybe a little older, was eye-fucking me. She was hot as hell.”

The attention of fifty players and coaches now turns to him, and he continues, “So she asked if I had ever done two generations in the same family.” His eyes move to me.

“You know a sportsman’s double has always been on my bucket list.” I do know that.

“I told her I was game, assuming the younger version looked like her mom. If so, it was going to be epic. I followed her to her apartment around the corner.” He scrunches his face.

“But…umm…when we walked in, she yelled out, Mom, I brought us a snack . The twenty-five-year older version of my cougar walked out, not the younger version I assumed I’d be getting. ”