I Hate Football Players 3 | 18+

Chapter 23: Logan

I trotted silently over until we stood a few feet apart, close enough that I saw the frown that etched over his face. "Yeah, Coach?"

"Put your helmet on, you're doing all the snaps in practice today," he replied in a straight, no-nonsense tone.

"Yes, Coach," I autopiloted my response but looked at him silently like he'd offer an explanation. "Is Emmitt -"

"Emmitt's still starting," was all he said. "Just getting his ankle checked out. I need to see if you're going to finish for him, that's all."

"Yes sir." I held back the grin that wanted to explode on my face.

For the next ninety minutes, I pushed myself through every snap, play, and setup. My feet burned up the turf, my adjustments were spot on, and while a couple of plays broke down, I hadn't fumbled once.

I had noticed through the entire practice that the offensive guys were a step slower than me, so I lingered for an extra step for compensation. While we moved the ball efficiently, the adjustment made me incredibly uncomfortable, like we'd squandered every one of those extra seconds.

"LT!" Coach Vaughn, the quarterbacks coach, grabbed my attention when his whistle blew shrilly at one point. My hand ripped open my chin strap, then I jogged over to his position next to Coach Donovan on the sidelines with my teeth gnashed into my mouth guard.

"Tell me what I'm seeing here." Coach Donovan, a tall, thin, and bald man who was the Huskies' offensive coordinator, lifted one hand at the field.

"Excuse me Coach?" My eyes roamed over the guys, where the offensive linemen stood half hunched over and gasped for air. Darrius Williams was in the most pain and, at one point, practically bathed himself in Gatorade for some extra electrolytes. Some of the wide receivers however, kicked out their legs like they itched for more yardage.

"Potential." His clipboard hit me flush in my chest and rattled my protective gear. "Untapped. These guys are used to Emmitt, who's a step slower. Make them play with you, not you play with them."

Under my helmet, my eyebrows raised. "How do I do that?"

"Start with the receivers." He thumped a ball into my gut. "Throw it out of their reach."

"Quickest way to make friends," I half-joked, half grumbled but nodded and jogged back to the line of scrimmage.

On the next setup, a long post-route for Wes, I stretched out the offensive line. After the snap, I dropped back one step, paused, and planted my stance. At the flash of Wes' number eleven, I wound up and threw the ball in a trajectory that was two yards past his anticipated current route. He broke away from the defensive cornerback and had room to move, but all I could do once the ball left my hand was stand as a spectator and see how he adjusted.

After a visible 'oh shit' correction in his stride, Wes' legs churned up a notch faster. He almost closed the gap but the ball brushed over his finger tips. A few stumbled steps later, he tripped and a round of expletives left his mouth that I'm pretty sure was heard all the way up in the press box.

"Trying to overthrow me?" He snarled at me back in the huddle.

"Nope." I grinned maniacally at him. "Same route, next time catch it."

"Asshole." With his hands on his thighs, he panted a few breaths, then nodded. The burn of competitiveness in his eyes, the hunger that fed all of us to push ourselves and succeed, contradicted his words and I reset the play.

This time, I dropped back, set my stance wide, then arc'd a perfect spiral in exactly the same direction. With the element of expectation, Wes easily out ran his tired defender, pumped his legs hard the entire route, and the ball sailed cleanly into his grasp. With twenty yards to go, Wes did all the rest but I still punched my fist up into the air when he crossed over the endzone, then dunked the ball over the goal post.