Page 21 of The Fouls We Make (Braysen U #3)

Reed

“How’re you feelin’, man?” Colter asks. “You good?” He gives me a solid smack on my shoulder pads, knocking his helmet into mine, hyping me up for the game.

“Of course I’m good,” I grunted through my mouth guard.

Everyone knows the stakes of this game. It feels more personal than the last time we played Rixton. They’re a solid team, but the fact that Wells, Tate’s ex, is on the other side makes me more determined today.

Although I can’t shake this nagging worry in the back of my mind that maybe Tate should’ve sat this one out at home with Everly.

I’m channeling all this intensity into the game. No one except maybe Hayes understands why I’m so fired up. All my teammates know is that I’m in the zone and to give me the fuckin’ ball so I can run this shit.

The stadium is packed, making it hard to pinpoint Tate and Everly in the sea of blue and teal. The student section is a rowdy bunch, but I know they’re having fun.

I don’t doubt Tate can hold her own. She’s used to attending hockey games. She reassured me she could handle pumped-up fans.

Rixton starts strong, scoring two touchdowns. The first came from a long pass down, with their breaking free into the end zone. The next came after Beckham threw an interception right into Wells’s chest.

It grates on my nerves that it happened, and we’re scoreless going into the second quarter. It’s even more infuriating knowing it was Wells fuckin’ Perry who caught the pass and scored.

I slam my helmet down on the rack and collapse onto the bench after our third straight four and out.

“What the hell are we doing, guys? Did you forget to wake up this morning? Because this feels like a fuckin’ nightmare,” I growl.

“Chill out, will ya?” Beckham chirps.

“No, I won’t chill out. Did you forget you’re not playing in Rixton anymore? What the hell, bro? You threw the pass straight to him.”

“I thought Zane was coming right. I was throwing it to where he was supposed to be.”

“Yeah, well, where he should’ve been was right where that stupid fucker was standing. Out of every player on the field, you had to throw it to him?”

Beckham glares at me and walks away, stalking down the sidelines toward our offensive line coach who’s trying to defuse the situation. Zane sits beside me and knocks me on my shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, but judging by the deep exhale he releases, he’s just as frustrated.

“It’ll be all right. We’ll pull our heads out of our asses and come back. Just like we always do.”

I scoff and shake my head. “Maybe, but not before we get our asses handed to us first.”

Our defense manages to make a stop. Thank fuck too, because we desperately needed it.

In the locker room at halftime, Coach Ferentz lays into us hard about our lack of focus. We’re being too messy and making one too many mistakes.

“Everyone needs to remember their role and execute it. Every yard, every point. We’ve got to earn it.”

Beckham steps in. If anyone knows how to get us riled up, it’s him.

“I’ll own the interception; that was on me, but the game is not defined by one bad play. We still have the second half to go out there and fight with a vengeance.” He turns, his eyes zeroing in on mine. “Are you going to go out there and fight? Or are we going to lay down and let them take this from us?”

“Fuck no,” Colter hollers. “We’re gonna fight because that’s what dawgs do.”

I’m laser-focused going into the second half, seeing red.

On our first drive, Beckham fakes a pass and tosses me the ball. There’s a tight hole in the offensive line, and I slip through. I don’t see their defender coming, and he punches the ball out of my grip.

We all scramble for the ball. Thankfully, Zane is behind me and manages to dive to recover it. As I help Zane up, someone behind me makes a snide comment about having butter fingers.

When I turn to see who it is, I recognize the number on the chest as belonging to Wells.

“Ignore him,” Zane says, shoving me toward our huddle. “Don’t let anyone get in your head.”

“You ever just want to rock a motherfucker? Because damn, something about that guy makes me want to knock some sense into him.”

Zane chuckles, wrapping his arm around me.

“Make him pay for it on the next play and run straight past him, all right?”

When we run the next play, Beckham fakes another pass. This time, I’m right behind Colter when he plows into the defender, and I slip by, taking off down the field. We pick up thirty-two yards before I’m tackled in the red zone.

As soon as I jump up and run past Wells, I mutter toward him, “How’s that for butter fingers, prick? Word on the street is you like to take advantage of women. Sounds like some shit a pussy would do.”

He charges at me, ramming his helmet into mine. I grin around my mouth guard, relishing the fact I’m getting under his skin.

“I’m coming for you next time, twenty-eight.”

I smirk. “I’ll be waiting. I wish you fuckin’ would.”

Beckham calls another play. This time, I’m blocking left to open up a pass downfield. They’re expecting him to run the ball, so when he fakes a handoff, I lower my shoulder and charge at Wells, shoving him to the ground.

The crowd roars, and the refs blow their whistle. “Personal foul, unnecessary roughness on number twenty-eight.”

Wells is slow to get up, and my teammates are there to help me.

“Get over here, Hendrix,” Coach shouts.

I trudge to the sidelines, pull off my helmet, and slam it on the ground. I take a seat, staring at the big screen. The collision felt like two trains slamming into each other.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? It’s football. What, you can’t take a fuckin’ hit?” I bellow.

“What the fuck has gotten into you?” Beckham grunts, grabbing me by my pads.

“The previous play is under review,” the announcer says over the loudspeaker.

Coach stands on the sidelines, his arms crossed, gripping his play call sheet. He doesn’t have to say a word to me. The look in his eye tells me I’ve dug myself a deep hole.

“Hendrix, get your fuckin’ ass on the bench,” Coach orders.

I sit down heavily. Knox, a defensive end, takes a seat next to me.

“What the hell was that?” Knox asks.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I grumble.

He scoffs. “You’d think you would’ve learned after all the shit Hayes went through last season. Only this time, there’s no doubt you were targeting him, man. Where’s your fuckin’ head at?”

“Ruling on the field is a flagrant one. Fifteen-yard penalty from the previous spot. Replay second down.”

“I don’t know how you got away with that one, but you might want to buy a lottery ticket after this if we win.”

We settle for a field goal, bringing our score to ten points. We need a touchdown and a stop to have any chance of winning.

As the offense jogs off, Beckham heads straight for me.

“You do realize pulling that shit is only making things worse for Tate, right?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You think he isn’t gonna do some digging on you and figure out where all your animosity toward him is coming from?”

“Or maybe he’ll realize it’s from him being a cocky prick, and he needs to learn to shut his mouth?”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Beckham scoffs. “He’s no different from any other player. Yet you've been gunning for him from the moment you stepped on the field.”

“Maybe you’re right, but it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it.”

“Save it for later. This is about the game. You realize, when Talon gets wind of this, he’s going to be pissed too. The last thing we need is for him to know Tate’s here.”

“You want to attack me for making it worse for her. Why don’t you tell her about the little phone call I overheard? What were you two talkin’ about?”

Beckham steps closer to me. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I suggest you drop it right now.”

I raise my hands in mock surrender and smirk. “Oh, so it’s okay for you to dig into people’s business, but the rules don’t apply when it’s someone else? Maybe you and Talon should stop interfering in her life. Let her make her own choices.”

“Like who? You?”

“If so, what the hell are you gonna do about it? You and Talon gonna jump me too?”

Beckham presses his lips together. “Don’t speak on shit you don’t understand.”

“Maybe you’re right, or maybe you should do the same.”

Beckham swipes the tablet off the bench, then charges to the other end of the field. Zane glances over at Hayes and Colter, who stand off to the side, taking it all in.

“Is he suggesting you and Tate are…?”

“Zane, mind your own business, will you? I’m sure you have your own.”

He has no clue Wyatt tipped me off about their history. If Colter found out, I wouldn’t be the only one dealing with a falling-out on the sidelines.

Colter would have his ass handed to him.

Hayes interjects, holding his hands up.

“Beckham’s right. Don’t speak on shit when you have no clue what you’re talking about.”

We all fall silent. The next time our offense takes the field, Coach leaves me on the bench, like a toddler being punched time-out.

Our argument seems to have fired everyone up. On the first snap, Beckham throws a long pass to Hayes, who takes it for a seventy-eight-yard touchdown, putting us up by three.

I glance behind me into the stands and spot Tate near the front railing, wearing Everly’s Braysen U pompom beanie and a pair of oversized aviator sunglasses.

Only when I see her does the tightness in my chest ease.