I Hate Football Players 3 | 18+

Chapter 107: Logan

"Double." I pointed one finger at Jamal, my runningback who slumped over and gasped for breath after the thirty-yard run he just burst into for on the previous play, then pointed at Kade, my fullback. "Reverse, then flick to Wes."

"Fuck yes." Wes gaped at me. We'd run this play, more jokingly than seriously, a few times in practice but we'd reached the point of the game where a statement was needed and this one was bold and ballsy.

"Fuck," Kade cursed before he nodded tightly under my hardened gaze.

"Just throw the damn ball back Foster," I teased him then pointed to the line of scrimmage.

I lined up behind Zander my center like normal, with Seth and Wes stretched out wide on the ends, Jamal on my left hip and Kade halfway between me and the sidelines. His muttered curses spread a grin on my face and I stuck my hands right under Zander's ass.

"R-two, R-two! Hut hut hike!" Once the textured leather was pushed into my hands, I slipped the ball to Jamal, who faked his run while I ran in the opposite direction.

Just like we'd planned, Jamal flipped the ball to Kade, who probably prayed every prayer the poor guy knew. His toss flipped back to me was shaky at best but I clutched the ball while red jerseys stumbled around us, a step behind.

Exactly where I need them.

At the quick scan down field, I set my stance wide, clenched my legs as I wound back, grunted with effort, and threw the ball hard and long. It sailed clean, crisp, and long down the field right on point just like in practice. Once my hands were empty, my breath stalled while I watched as Wes' number eleven battled out his single-man coverage. A pair of red-sleeved hands raked over him step for step but he reached up, snatched my throw into his grasp, planted both feet into the turf, then rolled a few times over in the endzone.

After the sideline 'two' signal from Coach Donovan, with zero celebration, my right hand lifted and I sprinted down the field with my right hand's index and middle fingers raised. The crowd's roars filled our ears as we quickly lined up on the Red Wolves' three yard line. The stadium exploded at near-concert level volume at our two-point conversion attempt that I intended we broke decibel records with.

With only a quick hand signal for a naked bootleg play, we lined up shoulder to shoulder and tight before I fanned out the receivers for a faked passing place. Arkansas State's defenders shifted as expected, then off the snap I faked the handoff to Jamal while my feet did all the work. With a twist in my torso, I surged forwards with all the strength and power my legs expended, until body after body slammed hard into me. Helmets clashed, swear words were hurled at me, arms grabbed, and fingers groped me over.

Still upright with at least two pairs of arms around my hips, I pushed and drove my momentum until a hard weight crushed into my back and surged me forwards. A loud grunt escaped my mouth as I landed on a red-shirted defender, then rolled forwards until my right shoulder hit the turf. On instinct, I curled around the ball to the sound of a fired off cannon, enveloped only by the stadium's pure jubilation.

Punches into my gut, chest, even my groin, and feet kicked into my shins weren't enough and I kept my latched hold on the ball. Slowly, body after body was lifted off me until I gasped a hard break of late afternoon air to a wide grin on Darrius' face between a few bits of turf stuck in my helmet cage.

"Nice booty," he joked, then before I laughed his large hand slammed right into my right ass cheek.

That'll leave a mark.

"Thanks for the shove." I leaned forwards and smacked my helmet against his, then finally dropped the ball. Equal parts relief and adrenaline surged through me while I trotted back to the bench and round after round of fist bumps, high-fives, and slaps all over me. Once I got my bearings near the bench, I grabbed a bottle of water and lifted my eyes to my number one fan.