Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
It’s the worst mistake of my entire preseason. Actually, I didn’t even do something that stupid in any scrimmage, either. And worst of all, I did it at the worst possible time, when everything’s on the line for not only me but Chelsea, too.
The hometown crowd boos me mercilessly as I line up for the next snap. It’s a pass play, but I don’t get anywhere near their quarterback, since I get hung up by a block and their QB gets the ball off in jiffy. One more snap, and I’m chasing after their running back again. But ultimately, he breaks my tackle, and then two more in the secondary before he hurtles himself into the end zone.
Touch down, Raptors. Mostly thanks to me.
I jog back to the sideline with my helmet unstrapped and my soul on fire, wishing I could turn invisible. Coach Martinez yells something encouraging to me, but I can’t make it out above the loud cacophony of boos from the stands.
“Shake it off,” Coach Martinez says, so I march behind the players and personnel lined up on the sideline to an open space behind them and in front of the fans—a spot where I can pace back and forth while trying to calm myself down.
“De-feeeeec-tive!” a fan in the front row yells at me, a guy in a Raptors jersey, which inspires his buddies sitting next to him down the line to immediately join in and make it a chant.
Assholes. I’d like to see them get out here and try to do better. One snap and they’d all get killed. Literally. I flip my trolls the bird with both hands, even though I know it’s a terrible idea, and might even catch me a league fine. And, unfortunately, the stunt only goads my trolls on to curse me out and chant even more loudly.
“Bye-bye, Defective Maguire!” one of them shouts, so I turn on my cleat and quickly march away.
Defective Maguire.
That’s what people have called me for years now. Ever since I went in the sixth round of the draft while Levi went in the first, the same way Roman and Marco had before him. Ever since I didn’t live up to my potential at my first team and immediately got traded in favor of a veteran at my position who’d just gotten released from another team. I’ve stoically dealt my whole professional career with fans, sportswriters, and talking heads comparing me unfavorably to Roman—and now, Levi, too—for years, so why am I letting those nobodies in the front row get to me now?
“Hey, Ninety-Five.” It’s Moriarty, appearing out of nowhere to block my forward progress. We haven’t been friendly, obviously, but I’m thinking he’s here as the leader of the team to uncharacteristically encourage me to keep my head up. That’s the only reason I stop when he appears before me—because, stupidly, I’m thinking he’s going to say something helpful to me. But, man, am I wrong. With a wicked smile on his sweaty face, Jacob Moriarty looks me straight in the eyes and says, “You’re all everyone talked to me about while I was holding out. Maguire, Maguire, Maguire. ‘He’s breathing down your neck, Jacob. Just like in college.’” He grins in menacing fashion. “And now, the guy who was supposedly gunning for my spot just showed me and the whole world why everyone calls him the Defective Maguire.”
Every cell in my body wants to clock him, but since that’s exactly what he wants me to do, I fist my hands and gnash my teeth and somehow manage to cling to the last shredded fibers of my self-control. “Step aside, Moriarty.”
On the contrary, he takes a step forward, causing his chest pads to bump mine. “When you’re tossing and turning tonight in an empty bed about that embarrassing rookie mistake you just made, I want you to imagine me fucking Chelsea till she can’t walk tomorrow, because that’s exactly what I’m going to be doing tonight to celebrate my sack and your fuckup.”
My brain glitches and my vision blurs. As rageful stars fill my eyes, I launch forward and shove Moriarty’s chest with all my might, with the fury and force of a hurricane, and Moriarty stumbles backward a few steps in response. When he quickly recovers his balance, however, it’s clear he’s now in beast mode. With a roar, he launches himself at me with fury in his dark eyes, and I meet and exceed his energy by grabbing his face mask to keep his head in place and then punishing him with no-holds-barred punches to the side of his helmet.
Surely my punches are causing more pain to my fist than Moriarty’s head, given that he’s fully protected by hard polycarbonate and foam padding. But I’m not thinking clearly right now. In fact, I’m out of my head, unleashing weeks of stress, anxiety, and white-hot jealousy, here and now, all at once, onto Jacob Moriarty’s helmet.