Page 2 of Mr. Irrelevant (Rock City Renegades #1)

ONE

MADDOX

“You ready?” my teammate, Jett Kingsley, says as I tie my cleats. It’s the second week of the regular season, and we’re gearing up to play the first game in our brand-new stadium—well, they are . I’m not.

When my agent told me I’d been picked up by the Rock City Renegades, it was bittersweet.

I loved my home in San Francisco, where I was drafted three years ago, but I never had a snowball’s chance in hell of starting there.

I was their third-string quarterback, and there wasn’t much hope of ever moving up on the depth chart.

I’d accepted that, reminding myself of how lucky I was to even have a spot in the NFL at all.

As the very last player picked in the draft—or what the league and fans so lovingly refer to as Mr. Irrelevant —I almost missed out on the chance altogether.

I knew going into it that I wasn’t going to be a top choice, but the longer it went on and the further I dropped, I was kind of shitting my pants.

Luckily, the San Francisco Storm saw something in me that the other teams didn’t.

Unfortunately, with a solid veteran under center, I was nothing more than a decorative bench ornament.

I had high hopes for the new opportunity here, but it seems the only real move I’ve made is getting one seat closer to the front of the line.

“Yeah, man,” I reply, standing from the chair in front of my locker and adjusting my thigh pads.

“How about you? You ready for your first game with a new team?” Jett was traded to the Renegades from Boston last week, after our starting tight end was taken out for the season with a torn ACL.

We’ll surely be hurting in the future with all the draft picks our owner, Mr. Grant, put up for him—but Jett is a solid addition, and I’m sure he’ll be worth every bit of it.

He nods. “It’s going to be weird, but yeah. It’s been a hot minute since I was the new kid. I just hope I hit all my blocks.” His normally confident expression turns to nervousness, and I can’t help but inwardly chuckle, because for a big dude, he looks like a toddler on the first day of school.

“It’s fine,” I say, slapping a hand against his shoulder pad.

“Technically, we’re all new. You’re just a little…

newer . But everything will come together once you’re out on the turf.

Plus, you can’t be out here looking like a fish out of water.

Didn’t you say that pretty girlfriend of yours is coming today? ”

The tension in his body melts away as a silly smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

We had lunch together earlier this week, and he told me all about how his girl, Bailey, is moving to Cleveland.

They were childhood best friends and reconnected at last year’s Super Bowl, but she’s been living in Florida while they’ve done the long-distance thing.

I guess it’s a fresh start for both of them, and he’s clearly ready for her arrival.

“She should be out there now,” he tells me, lifting his chin toward the locker room door.

“Her flight was delayed, but she texted about two hours ago saying that she had landed, and that she was going to drop her bags off at my place before heading here. I wish she knew someone besides me in this city, so she didn’t have to do it all alone, but I don’t know anybody enough to introduce her to the WAGs.

How about you?” He raises a hopeful brow. “Got a girl out there today?”

I shrug halfheartedly. “Nah. I’m just trying to focus on football. I’ve spent the last three years with one cleat out the door. I know my spot here isn’t guaranteed, and that it could all be taken away at any moment. There really isn’t much time for anything else.”

Don’t get me wrong—I date. I sleep with women when the mood strikes. But I’m rarely good for more than a few hours of fun before returning to real life, where my career could be completely derailed by a single distraction. I can’t risk that right now. I’ve worked too hard to get here.

From the moment I stepped onto the field when I was seven years old, I knew I’d never be content if life took me anywhere besides the NFL.

Even as a kid, I had to practice harder than everyone else because I wasn’t born with the natural talent that men like our starting quarterback, Austin Baker, were.

But I was willing to do whatever it took to learn, and it paid off in spades when I was named the starter at Fallbrook High in Connecticut.

We won back-to-back division championships my junior and senior years, calling scouts from all over the country, including the Big 12, to check us out.

When my offer from Iowa State came, I jumped on it as fast as I could.

I knew we’d likely never win a natty, but it was a giant step toward my goal of playing professionally.

As long as I kept my eyes forward and showed that I’d be an asset to whatever team drafted me, I had a shot.

I wasn’t expecting much out of my time in San Francisco, to be honest. As grateful as I was to be there, I knew any hopes of becoming a starter—or at least the first backup—rested on the possibility of being traded.

I also knew that if I was cut, there was a large chance that I’d stay a free agent forever, so I spent every waking moment working hard and being a good teammate.

With any luck, my leadership potential and willingness to put in the extra work would make me stand out in a sea of guys who had better technique than I did.

And that’s exactly what happened at the expansion draft earlier this year.

I certainly didn’t plan on uprooting my life in California and heading across the country to play for a brand-new team, but here we are, and I’m not about to complain.

“I get it,” Jett replies. “Before Bailey crashed back into my life and flipped it upside down, I was the same way. Mark my words, though, man—one day, the right girl is going to come along and have you rearranging all your priorities.”

I smirk, rolling my eyes. “I don’t know about all that.

I’m always down to flirt and have fun, but I’m not sure I can see myself doing the whole serious relationship thing.

It’s hard to find someone who understands our lifestyle, and I don’t have the luxury of taking my foot off the gas when it comes to football. ”

He pats my shoulder, a knowing grin curling the corners of his lips. “You’re asking for it with that attitude. I’d bet my new contract that you’re wifed up by this time next season.”

I jut my chin in his direction. “Not a smart way to blow your entire wad, Kingsley. I can promise that’s one bet you won’t win.

” This guy is nuts if he thinks I’d go from being happily single to ready for marriage in a year, especially when we all just got here.

Between practice and traveling to away games, I barely have time to sleep, let alone date.

So, no , I won’t be picking out rings for this hypothetical future wife of mine anytime soon.

We’re broken from our conversation as the coaching staff enters the locker room.

Coach Hendricks steps forward, confidence radiating from his six-foot-seven frame as he silently demands our attention.

He played in the league for twelve seasons and has two Super Bowl rings, which is no easy feat, so we’re all too willing to hang on his every word.

He was a late draft pick like me—albeit not quite as late—and I can’t help but be inspired by his underdog story.

“All right,” he says, his loud voice bouncing off the brick walls. “Last week was tough. We lost West early in the game, and we struggled to find our footing. But that’s okay. The important thing is that we didn’t give up on each other. We kept fighting, even when it seemed hopeless.

“No matter what happens out there today, I need that same energy. We have something nobody else in this league has right now—we’re the original members of the Rock City Renegades.

Many will come after us, but decades from now, when people talk about the history of this team,”—he points around the room—“it’s you they’ll be honoring.

Let’s go out there and give the city of Cleveland something to be proud of.

” Cheers echo throughout the room as we get fired up, jumping toward each other until we’re huddled together around our quarterback.

“Teamwork on three!” Baker shouts. “One! Two! Three!”

“ Teamwork! ” we yell in unison, and my heart begins to pound a heavy cadence inside my rib cage at the excitement that washes over me before every game.

Even though the chances of me seeing the field are slim to none—hopefully none , because if I do, that means there was an injury—I can’t help the butterflies in my stomach from tumbling around wildly.

I love this game and the energy that fills the stadium each and every week.

Just shooting out of that tunnel with my team to tens of thousands of screaming fans elicits the type of euphoria that can’t be found anywhere else but professional football.

And I’m grateful every day that I get paid to do what I love.

Just over two and a half hours later, we’re losing to the Minnesota Graywolves by three touchdowns.

It’s been a rough day against the reigning conference champs, but we’re doing our best to stay positive.

Losing our tight end last week, just to have Jett replace him, has been tough on the offense.

He’s doing a great job hitting his blocks, but we’re unable to run passing plays with him as a target because he hasn’t had enough time to learn the new playbook.

So, we’re leaning heavily on our run game and the one reliable receiver we have.

“Red forty-two! Red forty-two! Hut, hut !” Baker says loudly, and the center snaps the ball into his waiting hands.

He rolls back, scanning the field as the play develops, hoping Emmett can shake the defender and get open for the pass.

But unfortunately, they have not one, but two guys covering him, so Austin has no choice but to check for another target.

He goes through his progressions, looking for an available receiver, but when the defensive end finally breaks through, there’s no other option but to tuck the ball and make a run for it.

The home crowd goes wild as he pulls an epic spin move, blowing past the first defender and finding an open lane down the middle of the field.

Graywolves come at him from every angle, but he manages to gain another seven or eight yards before he knows he needs to give himself up.

He got the first down and then some, so he initiates the slide, letting his feet lead the way as he drops to the turf.

The ref blows his whistle, signaling the end of the play, and like it’s happening in slow motion, I watch as the cornerback heads toward Baker at full speed.

He doesn’t even attempt to redirect his body as he launches forward, stopping only when they collide against one another in the dirtiest, most illegal hit I’ve ever seen.

The entire stadium collectively gasps, and we all watch helplessly as our team captain lies motionless on the thirty-one-yard line.

Medics from both teams rush onto the field, immediately kneeling down beside Baker to assess his injuries.

Everything seems to register in fragments.

One minute, I’m watching as the ambulance begins making its way across the turf, and the next, there’s a football pressed against my chest. I’m like a deer in headlights as my eyes slide over to the Renegades’ offensive coordinator, a look of horror plastered across my face as soon as it all clicks in my head.

“Throw a few warm-up passes while they’re taking care of him,” he instructs, but I’m still frozen.

I haven’t taken a single regular-season snap in this league, and now I have to do it after witnessing such a brutal hit.

No matter how much I tried to prepare myself for the possibility of something like this, the reality of the moment is like nothing I could’ve ever anticipated.

“Dane,” he tries again, finally snapping me out of my stupor. I focus on his familiar face, doing my best to regain control of my emotions so I can do my job. “Let’s get that shoulder loose. It’s time.”