Page 37 of The Hot Shot

It takes me a second to remember what the hell he’s talking about. When I do, I sigh. James is back from New York, and we’re supposed to go to our friend Malcolm’s annual “Cocks and Cocktails” party. I slump against my chair. Same people, same conversations. Why that has suddenly lost its appeal, I can’t say, but just the thought of going exhausts me.

I’m tempted to tell James I don’t want to go, but I know he’ll just nag and cajole me to go anyway. Besides, I clearly need to get out of this loft and out of my own head for a while.

Six

Finn

Things some people might not know about my job—I am a chess player. You might think I’m just standing there in the huddle or on the line of scrimmage, shouting out instructions passed down to me by the coach. In reality, it’s more than that. I’m reading the defense, arranging my guys like pieces on a board, reacting and plotting. And I’m given about five seconds to do it.

I am a cheerleader. I don’t have pom-poms, and while my ass is admittedly cute, I don’t shake it—much. But I am absolutely cheering my guys on. Pride is a powerful motivator. So is loyalty. I create both when I tell them how fucking brilliant they are on good plays, for them to keep pushing, never let up.

I am a leader. They look to me to set the tone, to take the game in hand, even if some of them will never admit it.

And I am an actor. If I fold, if I show fear, it’s game over for my men. There isn’t a play in which I’m not faking the defense out, putting up a good front, and playing mind games.

On the field, it’s mind, body, and sprit working in perfect harmony. As I said, best job in the world.

Then... we have the other days of the week.

I suppress a sigh and flip through the massive binder on my lap. In the armchair next to me is my backup QB, Dillon. Wooster, the third-string quarterback, sprawls on the couch.Not sure why that fucker gets to lie down. But house rule regarding seating has always been first come first serve. Somehow Wooster always gets the couch.

Altman, our offensive coordinator, is droning on, explaining the new play calls that I could read for myself if he’d end this meeting and let me. One hundred and thirty new play calls, to be exact.

Did I mention I’m also a student? Every week, I study, learn, memorize. Playbooks are my life. I read over them at night, during breakfast, whenever I get the chance. But right now?

I want out.

My head isn’t in it. It’s past five on a Friday, I’m fucking tired, and we’ve been here for hours, reviewing footage and now the playbook.

Fingers snap, the sound catching my attention. Altman’s cold blue eyes bore into me. He’s about fifteen years older than I am, once a backup quarterback who got traded around toward the end of his career. It’s the thing we fear most, being tossed aside, scrambling to find work, and finally realizing no one will pick you up.

But Altman made the most of it. He’s an excellent offensive coordinator and will probably be a coach one day.

“You got something to share with the class, Manny?” he asks now.

This is my second year working with him. I can read him well and know he isn’t pissed. Yet.

I give him an easy smile. “Yeah, I’ve gotta use the can.”

“Can’t hold it in, Manny?” Dillon teases.

“Heard it’s bad for the prostate,” I say blandly.

Wooster snorts. “Wouldn’t want Manny to lose his shit on the field, now would we?”

That’s exactly what he’d love. But, despite what people might think, we’re not exactly enemies, either.

Even so, I give him the finger. “Spin on this a bit,Rooster.”

Altman snorts. “Dick around on your own time, kids.”

But he lets us go.Thank fuck.

As soon as we’re out in the hall, Dillon is on the phone, making no effort to keep his voice down. “Hey, baby,” he croons. “Just got out. Yeah. Yeah.” He nods along to whatever his wife is saying.

I know it’s his wife because he always calls her after meetings, and he always calls her baby.

I walk a little ahead of him, trying to get out of earshot, but maintenance is buffing the floors and it’s slow going.