Focused: A hate to love sports romance(11)

"And you don't think that helps me?" I asked.

He stopped walking. "I know you're playin' right now. I know you are."

I held my arms out. "Why? You said you'd be angry, right? Where do you think I put all that energy?" I lifted my chin at the field in front of us. "I put it out there."

"You are one crazy motherfucker, Griffin." He shook his head again. "I knew it then, and I really know it now."

Logan—Coach, as I needed to get used to thinking of him as—whistled sharply from the sidelines, and Kareem shoved me hard enough that I stumbled. I shoved him back, which made him laugh, but he was the only one. Coach Ward glared at me.

"Is this how you paid attention to your coaches in Miami?" he asked, arms folded across his chest. Behind him, I noticed a couple of suits—one man, one woman—and a guy holding an expensive-looking camera.

Lifting my chin, I clasped my hands behind my back like a soldier facing his commanding officer. "No, sir."

"It's my bad, Coach," Kareem said on a laugh. "Noah thinks his"—I gave him a sharp look, and he grinned—"his natural state of repressed anger means he can beat my ass off the line."

The guys around us laughed, and Coach cracked a reluctant smile. "Yeah? What do you think about that, Jones?"

Kareem slapped a hand on my back. "I think this boy is crazy, and I'm ready to prove it."

The suits and the cameras aimed their attention fully in our direction now, and the cheers and laughter of my new teammates were just enough to distract me from wondering what they were doing.

I shook my head. "Kareem, don't embarrass yourself. Let's just get to work."

In truth, I didn't want to line up like this at my first practice and turn it into a circus. As much as I wanted to be the best, I didn't need the spotlight that came with it. I wanted to break records to prove that I could. I wanted to lift more, run faster, train harder because I was good at it. My body constantly craved that burn, the satisfying edge of pain that told me I was the hardest worker on the field.

But Logan waved at us to do it, so I'd flatten Kareem without a second thought.

Our teammates surrounded us, leaving adequate space in the middle for Kareem and me to face each other. Someone handed us practice helmets, and I strapped mine on while he did the same. The tall, thin woman in the suit pushed some players out of the way so the cameras could see us clearly, and I rolled my neck to ignore them and focused on what I needed to do.

The joke about my natural state of anger fueled the tightening of tension in my muscles as I crouched in front of my former college roommate. He was two inches taller than me and just as wide.

His body held all the same carefully crafted muscles and knowledge of body mechanics for when you were trying to take out an opponent. He kept his fingers loose where they propped him up in the grass, and I did the same, no hint as to where we might move or which direction we might take.

He grinned behind his helmet, and I narrowed my eyes, letting the full blaze of power unroll through my arms and back and legs when I imagined knocking him over. Our teammates heckled and hollered; most cheered on Kareem, but a few voices were saying my name. Coach stood between us, silver whistle in his mouth, which would be our signal.

Movement from behind Kareem pulled my gaze away for a split second.

Molly. On the practice field.

Her blue eyes met mine and widened.

What was she doing out here?

The whistle blew, sharp and loud, but Kareem shoved forward a split second before I did. Because, of course, I hadn't fully been paying attention. That was enough for me to have to dig my cleats in and push against him, our shoulders wedged against each other as we fought for the dominant position.

A bright pulse of anger went unchecked that I hadn't flipped him over yet because of her, and that was enough for me to shove him over onto his back.

The guys cheered, some groaned, and Logan watched us with a slight smile on his face.

"Not bad, Griffin," he said.

I held out a hand, and Kareem took it. He slapped my back in a half-hug when he was back on his feet.

"Asshole," he said, but he was smiling.

"Pansy," I returned, which made him laugh.

The crowd dissipated as they started lining up for drills, and when I was about to do the same, the suits and the cameras—and Molly—approached Coach Ward and me.

He looked about as happy as I was at their presence. The one thing he wasn't was surprised. "Can I help you?"

The woman, statuesque and composed and entirely out of place on a practice field, looked me up and down slowly, like I was under a spotlight. I fought not to curl my lip up at her.

"Noah Griffin?" she asked, holding out her hand. I took it. "I'm Beatrice Kelly, Chief Marketing Officer for Washington."

"Pleasure to meet you," I said stiffly. It wasn't. I wanted to be practicing.

As Beatrice introduced herself to Logan, Molly clutched a black and red clipboard to her chest, face blank, and eyes trained on the bright green turf.

"If you don't mind, the crew will be here filming for the remainder of practice, and then I'd like to steal fifteen minutes with both you and Noah when you're done."

Logan glanced at me, then back at her. "And if I do mind?"

She smiled slowly, eyes about as warm as a block of ice. "Then you can take it up with Cameron after practice, and after we've met with Noah."