I Hate Football Players 3 | 18+

Chapter 125: Logan

Coach's words prompted a few head nods, although the number of fists tightly clenched around collars and at guys' sides were definitely more than usual before a regular season game.

"But the past is in the past, what matters now is the next sixty minutes," Coach's voice hardened with the look he gave as he scanned around the pindrop-silent room. "You're hurt, I get it. You're tired, I get it. Your season is over."

With a few paced steps, Coach stopped and pointed one finger out the locker room's exit doors. "But your postseason starts right now! For the next sixty minutes, all that matters this season happens out on that field! Stay tough, linemen dig in the trenches, receivers and backs run your asses off, corners, LBs, and safeties watch your targets, and LT..."

"Logan," Coach Peterson's eyes met mine and threw me his silent challenge. "Light 'em up."

A rumbled, "Yes Sir," rang out from the locker room, along with a few nodded heads.

"Emmitt." Coach Peterson nodded at Emmitt, who pushed off the wall he leaned against and walked into the center of the room.

Right as Emmitt launched into his warchant-like spiel, my attention turned inwards for my own game prep routine. I strapped on my gloves and squeezed my fists. I tightened my helmet strap, my chest guards, and my knee pads. I joined in the final 'Dawgs' chant, clapped my palms onto my receivers' shoulders, and took my place in line near the door.

I'm ready.

From the first step I took out onto the field, our normal warmups blurred into the pregame events. My weight shifted from one foot to the other while I pressed my palm tightly into my chest, and mouthed the national anthem. After the roar of the flyover jets, the massive NFL stadium setting blurred around me. The seats blurred as my eyes shifted around for one in particular.

Once I focused my eyes on one particular section, the east corner, third row, center seats, I found my small group of purple and gold-dressed supporters. Among the black blur of seats, she was my focus. Her dark hair was pulled up high in a ponytail, her beautiful face bare of makeup except for a black number ten outlined in white on her right cheek, and the brightest smile dimmed only by the sparkle in each of her dark brown eyes.

There's my girl.

The same tightness that pulled inside my chest every time I saw her after a separation returned as I pointed one finger at Ellie. She cupped her hands into a heart shape in the center of her chest, right between the 'one' and 'zero' on her jersey, palmed her heart, and pointed right back at me.

Okay, that one might be a little too girly.

No hearts, Ellie, even though you have mine.

With one look at my girl, my game simplified. The crowd noise evaporated inside my ear drums, the national coverage's fanfare disappeared, and my focus turned inward. I saw only my ten offensive teammates, the turf dug under my cleats, the ball clutched by the head referee, and the trust I held in my skill set.

A coarse breath rushed out my lungs, I slipped out my mouth guard, and set my line. My cleats gripped tightly into the turf, my brain took a quick mental scan of the setup ahead of me, and my brain clicked into autopilot.

Left guard wants me to eat turf. Let him catch me.

Right linebacker thinks he'll sack me on the inside.

Left nickelback underestimates Wes's short-distance speed bursts.

"Let's go!" I roared out in a deep, nearly unfamiliar voice and extended both hands down and forwards. "Red-ninety-three! Red ninety-three! Hut hut hut, hike!!"