Page 5 of Mr. Irrelevant (Rock City Renegades #1)

FOUR

LIVVY

“This is a joke, right? This is your ‘hidden entrance’?” Maddox says, air-quoting the last two words as he stares at the small hole in the fence surrounding the practice facility. “There’s no fucking way I’m fitting in there. Also, this seems kind of…illegal.”

I tilt my head, staring at it as I consider the sentiment.

“It’s definitely illegal. But only if we get caught.

Let’s go.” Drowning out his objections, I duck down, lifting the chain link fence and squeezing myself through before standing to my full height.

I reach down, wrapping my fingers around the cool metal and yanking up to make room for him to follow.

“Great. Good talk,” he replies sarcastically as he lowers to his knees, taking several seconds to fit his wide shoulders into the minuscule amount of space I’m giving him.

He crawls forward, grunting and muttering unintelligible grievances, but continues until he’s rising next to me.

“How the hell did I let you talk me into this? I didn’t ask for a single detail—just followed you into a dark, creepy field, and now I’m committing a felony because you have an idea .

At this point, I’m just crossing my fingers that I don’t end up chained to a radiator in your basement. ”

I narrow my eyes in his direction, placing a hand on my hip.

“You know, for someone who said he’d trust me, you have an awful lot of questions.

Do you really think I’d bring you here if I thought it would end poorly?

I need the Renegades to win games, and that starts with you.

If, after tonight, you don’t want my help, I won’t bring it up again.

But for now, I need you to give me a chance. ”

His shoulders loosen, and he exhales a resigned breath.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s been a weird twenty-four hours.

First, the game, then meeting you in the parking lot, and agreeing to come here five minutes later.

” He looks up at me, his deep gray eyes showing so much vulnerability.

“I need us to win, too. The fans deserve a team they can be proud of.”

He’s right, they do. The city of Cleveland has the most hardcore, loyal fans, and I’d love nothing more than to parade a Super Bowl trophy up and down the streets for them to celebrate.

Of course, we have a long road ahead of us before that’ll ever happen.

It’ll take years of building the perfect group of players and coaches, but we’ll get there.

Men like Maddox Dane, who were born to encourage and lead, make the biggest impact on their teammates—he just needs a little push.

He’s nervous and hesitant on the field, and it’s preventing him from showing the raw talent he has buried under all that inexperience.

If I can help him get more comfortable in his own skills and give him a few tips along the way, it’ll make such a difference in the entire Renegades’ dynamic.

“Then let’s give them one,” I reply, lifting my chin confidently.

His responding smile causes the tension in my body to release slightly as I turn away and lead him toward the practice field.

It’s dimly lit, but the moon is bright, so we shouldn’t have a problem seeing.

As we make our way toward the end of the tunnel, I stop, lift the top of one of the many storage hoppers lining the walls, and pull out a football.

“You seem to really know your way around the place,” he says, looking over at me with a grin. “I’m guessing this isn’t your first midnight B and E at this establishment.” I slide my gaze his way, narrowing my eyes.

“If you must know, no, it isn’t.” I almost tell him everything—that this is where I go when I need to just feel .

That the hustle and bustle of a busy stadium on Sunday is great, but sometimes I just need a walk along the yard lines, the smell of the grass flooding my senses as a reminder of what made me love the game in the first place.

But I decide to keep it to myself. I barely even know Maddox, and unloading my disappointment over the fact that my childhood dreams didn’t pan out is the last thing I need to do.

He definitely won’t let me help him if he thinks I’m just some spoiled little rich girl who wishes she weren’t next in line to take over the team he plays for.

“Sometimes I just need to go somewhere quiet,” is what I settle on.

“You’d love my hometown, then,” he replies as we exit the tunnel and continue walking down the sideline.

“Fallbrook is a little blip on the map. For fun, you have two choices—either hang out at the river or play football. There’s no shortage of quiet nooks to hide in where nobody would ever find you. ”

“Sounds nice.” I smile, keeping my eyes glued to the football in my hand as we turn at the thirty-yard line and head toward the center of the field.

“So, since your options were limited, have you always played football?” I already know the answer, but I want to hear it anyway.

He doesn’t need to be made aware of the fact that I know him—and every other player on the Renegades’ roster—better than he knows himself.

Not in a creepy way, but I learned everything I could about the guys we drafted, because when it comes to running a team, it’s so much more than just stats and rankings.

You can have the most talented players in the league, but if they’re shitty human beings and selfish teammates, you won’t get far before it all crashes down.

“Yep, pretty much,” he answers. “It’s a way of life where I’m from.

I knew right away that I’d do whatever it took to go pro.

I almost didn’t make the cut, but somehow, here I am.

I’m not the most talented guy here, but somebody obviously sees something in me.

” I slow down, stopping at the right hashmark and smiling to myself because, well, I see it.

It’s the reason he’s in Cleveland right now… and why I brought him here tonight.

“You’re very talented,” I say, thinking carefully about my next words. He lacks the type of confidence that comes with in-game experience, but if I can make him more secure about his abilities, he’ll be less likely to fold under pressure.

“But?” he questions, raising a brow. I really hope I don’t offend him with any of this, but I honestly think that he’s just a few tweaks away from going from looking like a backup to commanding the field as a starter.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to hide the grimace that’s threatening to take over my expression.

Inhaling deeply, I decide to throw it all on the table.

If he gets upset, so be it. He’s the Renegades’ leader—whether he’s ready for it or not—and the first piece of the puzzle we need to put together to win.

“Well,” I begin, pushing my shoulders back, “your technique needs work. Your release point is too high, which is causing some inaccuracy. You push off your back foot if you settle into the pocket too long, robbing your deep ball of at least fifteen yards every time. And you do this weird thing where you tuck your wrist under the football before you release, which is definitely slowing down those bullet passes.”

He tenses, the muscles in his forearms winding tight as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his black sweatpants. “Who told you that?” His eyes narrow, and he looks around the field as if someone is going to emerge from the shadows to join us .

I wish I could say this was the first time a player has gotten defensive after I pointed out flaws in their execution, but it isn’t.

When I was younger, the guys on my dad’s teams showed respect because they basically grew up with me.

He coached most of them as kids, so it was nothing new when I’d offer advice.

They knew he taught me the same things he taught them, and that I ran with it all, obsessively educating myself even further.

But when I was in college, everything changed.

I could rattle off player stats going back decades, but no matter what, I was always just some girl who couldn’t possibly comprehend the sport—let alone better than any of them.

Lifting my chin, I try my best not to be frustrated, because before today, he wouldn’t have been able to point me out on the street, which means he definitely doesn’t know I could outsmart him on this grass seven days a week. “Me.”

“You?” he echoes on a laugh. “That’s cute. You look like you just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. What do you know about being a pro quarterback?” He scoffs sarcastically, and my blood begins to heat inside my veins as he looks down at me like I have no idea what I’m talking about.

Fuck this guy.

Without a word, I turn my body, shuffle forward two large steps, and fire a pass straight at the goalpost. It sails thirty yards through the air in a tight spiral before dropping and hitting the crossbar with a loud thump.

A choked gasp comes from behind me, and I turn to see Maddox staring in utter shock with his jaw hanging wide open.

“Do you want my help, or not?” I ask with a quirked brow. He closes his mouth, darting out his tongue and dragging it along his plump lower lip for at least a full minute before shaking his head in disbelief.

“Okay, Dimes,” he says. “You have my attention.”