Sack: Eligible Receivers Read online

  Sack

  Eligible Receivers

  Sarah Curtis

  Copyright © 2021 by Jeanine Grasso. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author/publisher. This is a work of fiction. The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to any real persons alive or dead and events are coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Dedication

  For my son, without whom, I wouldn’t know a damn thing about football.

  And

  For Ken, the only person I ever want sacking me.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  Coincidence or Fate?

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by Sarah Curtis

  Where to Find Me

  Chapter One

  Colt

  The sun burned the back of Colt’s neck as he looked down the sea of green to the goal post at the end of the field. His helmet, held by the faceguard, dangled from the fingertips of his left hand, but his right told a different story, clutching a football in a tight grip.

  It felt good to be back on the field. He’d missed it.

  A presence came up beside him. He ignored it, not wanting to ruin the moment. He knew Oz would respect his silence. Oz Olsen wasn’t much of a talker. At six foot four and two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of pure muscle, he was a quiet giant, and at times like this, Colt appreciated that. Too soon, the field would be overrun with the rest of the team, and his time of contemplation would be lost.

  He studied the stands, empty now, but in a few short weeks, they’d be full. Fans outfitted in black and silver, cheering and clapping and stomping their support and encouragement for the team they loved above all others—his team—the Portland Phantoms.

  Football had always been a part of Colt’s life and one of the few things, still to this day, he and his dad could truly bond over. One of his earliest memories was Sunday afternoons parked on the couch in front of the television. Dad with his beer, him with a soda, eating the junk food his mom would only allow that one day a week. Back then, it didn’t matter who was playing, he cheered for them all, but his dad had been a steadfast Niners fan. So, when Colt had discovered his aptitude to throw a football with precision and accuracy at the age of fourteen, that was when his dream of becoming the star quarterback for the San Francisco team had been born. His dad had idolized Joe Montana and later, Steve Young and Jeff Garcia, and Colt couldn’t wait to one day follow in their footsteps.

  But some dreams die a grisly death.

  Even with the high stats to back up his performance, coming from a small university in California without scout presence, he ended up one of the last picked in the draft. Disappointment had lain heavily in his gut when he got the call he’d been accepted to the Phantoms as a second-string QB. And worse, he’d seen the same disappointment in his father’s eyes.

  He’d spent the next five years proving the 49ers had made the wrong choice, spending countless hours perfecting his timing. And once he became starting QB for the Phantoms, he spent the next five years after that, proving to the world he could make a failing team a star by taking them to number one in their conference for the past three years running.

  Stick that where the sun don’t shine, San Francisco.

  He had only one goal left. Take his team to the Super Bowl and win a ring.

  And he would make that happen this year or kill himself trying. His career would be coming to an end soon, and he didn’t have too many chances left. He’d trained hard during the offseason and was pumped and ready to go.

  The quiet serenity was broken as more players walked onto the field followed by their head coach, Marvin Cress.

  “Listen up.” Though short of stature, Cress had a booming voice that carried across the field. “Craig will be here in a few minutes to run drills with you. After that, we’ll be running plays.” He looked down at his clipboard, and his bald spot gleamed in the sun. “Colt and Linc,” he looked up, eyeballing him and then his wide receiver, “you guys will be with me. The rest of the offense will go with Wagner.”

  “Defense, you’ll be with me,” Gregory Brown, defensive coach and all-around asshole, said. “Hope you ladies ate your Wheaties this morning.”

  Oz mumbled, “Asshole.” Though a man of few words, the ones he spoke were usually right on the money.

  Colt felt for the guy. He’d hate to be saddled with Brown, and as an outside linebacker for the defense, that’s exactly what Oz was—stuck with him.

  Colt slapped him on his shoulder currently covered by a thick layer of pads. “Just remember, your dick is bigger than his.”

  Oz snorted and even managed a small chuckle.

  Drills were hell. Even with his extra time in the gym during the offseason, when their Strength and Conditioning Coach, Craig Rhodes, finally blew the whistle to stop, Colt was winded. No amount of hours in the gym could beat a workout of base rotations, squats, ankle jumps, and good old-fashioned sprints across the field. And he noticed as the team huddled around the side benches throwing back water, he wasn’t the only one sucking wind.

  Shucking his helmet, Colt tossed it on the ground before reaching for a bottle of water and dumping it over his head. He closed his eyes as the chilly stream penetrated his closely cropped hair to his scalp and ran down his face. It rained more often than not in Portland, but July was Oregon’s hottest month. Add being outfitted in full practice gear to that and it was fucking hot. He grabbed another bottle of water and chugged it.

  Lincoln Scott, or Linc to anyone who knew him, came up beside him. “We missed you at TJ’s party on Saturday.”

  Colt raised a brow. “I’m sure I wasn’t missed.”

  “Come on, man, don’t be like that.”

  Linc was everyone’s friend. The life of the party. Especially the one-on-one kind. Getting the best from both sides of his mixed heritage, his flawless mocha skin and honey-gold eyes attracted the ladies. Not that Colt was judging, it just wasn’t the lifestyle he was into. Never had been. Sure, he’d hooked up a time or two—he was human—and had even had a couple of short-term relationships—very short term. He wasn’t sure if it was his reserved disposition or his complete dedication to football that turned the women he dated off, but something was the culprit. What he did know was it was a him and not a them thing. He lost count of the number of times a woman told him he didn’t pay them enough attention or that talking to him was like talking to a brick wall.

  He polished off his water and tossed the bottle into the recycle bin. “I’m sure the party was a huge success even without my illustrious presence.”

  Linc snorted. “You’re such an ass. Why is it I’m your friend again?”

  “Because I tell shit straight and don’t pamper your ego.”

  He shook his head, trying and failing to hold back a smile. “Just saying, you missed out, man. G
ot some serious action.”

  Colt held up a hand. “If you want to stay friends, that’s info I don’t want to know.”

  “Not even if it involves a hot blonde with an Australian accent?”

  “Especially if it involves a hot blonde with an Australian accent.”

  “You know what they say about all work and no play.”

  Colt leaned over and picked up his helmet, smacking the silver logo on the side. “I play every damn day. Just lucky for me, I get paid for it.”

  “Colt. Linc. You’re up.”

  Looking sharp, Colt jogged over to Cress, Linc following close behind.

  He handed them each an iPad. “I want you two to work on the new plays we’ll be adding to the lineup. Get the mechanics down before you practice with the team.”

  Colt scanned the three new plays. He was confident, with a few run-throughs, he and Linc could execute them flawlessly.

  He tossed the pad on the bench, picked up a ball, and signaled to Linc. “Let’s do this.”

  They jogged to the middle of the field, the rest of the team watching as they got into formation.

  He called out the snap count. “Black thirty-three. Black thirty-three. Hut. Hut.”

  Linc took off running.

  Colt backed up three steps and waited for a beat. Pulling back his arm, he snapped it forward, releasing the ball with a flick of his wrist, and watched it soar.

  Down the field, Linc pivoted. His arms went up. He jumped. And made the catch.

  “Yes.” Colt cocked his elbow and fist-pumped the air.

  Coach blew the whistle and shouted, “Again.”

  They did it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  In the locker room a few hours later, Colt peeled out of his sweaty practice gear. His shoulder was sore. He’d need to hit the ice bath before he went home. It sucked getting old. Not that thirty-two was over the hill, but he knew his NFL years were numbered.

  Which made achieving his goal all the more crucial.

  Colt wasn’t as worried about retirement as some pros were, wondering what they’d do next. He had Colt’s Kids to focus on—the non-profit he’d started a few years ago to help raise awareness and give support to the victims of child abuse. Up until then, his contribution had mostly been his money and celebrity—his face and name the driving force for donations. But maybe with more free time, he could grow his charity to a national level and help more communities than just the local ones.

  “You guys see the new pub that opened down the street?”

  Colt turned at Oz’s question to find him standing in front of his locker, one towel wrapped around his waist, another he used to scrub at his hair. When finished, he tossed his head, and the long strands—honey brown when wet but would lighten to a dark blond—parted to curtain his face.

  “Always thinking with your stomach.” Linc, freshly showered, sauntered to his locker.

  “Better than thinking with my dick.” Oz scooped his hair, tying it into a man bun.

  “That’s Mr. Dick to you.”

  Oz turned, placing his hands on his hips. “Please tell me that’s not what you call it.”

  Linc stepped into his jeans, hiking them over his hips. “What? Yours doesn’t have a name?”

  Oz ignored that. “Who’s coming with me?”

  “I’ll go.” Linc stepped back from his locker to sit on the padded bench to throw on his shoes.

  “Colt?” Oz directed his way.

  “No. I’m going to head home and go over the new plays.”

  “All work and no play makes Colton a boring boy,” Linc sing-songed to his laces.

  That was the second time that day he’d said something similar, and Colt had to admit, it irked while at the same time made him think.

  “You need to eat.” Oz pleaded with his eyes.

  Colt assured himself it was Oz’s look and not Linc’s words that had him changing his mind. He sighed. “Fine. Give me ten to shower.”

  Ivy

  Ivy repeatedly stabbed the broken button on her laptop’s keyboard. “No. Not now!” She picked up a pencil and used the eraser end to jab at the little dot that had once been covered with a letter tile. She just needed it to last until she was finished. Only a few more hours of work and she could bill her current client.

  The Parting Glass was a new pub that had opened up downtown, and the owner, Emerson Kelly, had splurged for Ivy’s whole promotional package. It would be enough money for her share of two months’ rent, fill the empty fridge, and buy the new laptop she’d been eyeing.

  She was almost done setting up their website—if she could just get the kriffing L button to work. She jabbed at it one last time with the force of all her frustration. A line of L’s appeared on the screen.

  “Gah.” She highlighted all but one and hit delete.

  Tossing the pencil on the desk, she typed the rest of the sentence, then sat back to assess her handiwork. She was a tough critic, but even she had to admit it looked good. Anyone landing on the page would have no doubt The Parting Glass was an Irish pub.

  Ivy clicked on the photos tab. The page was half full of pictures of the exterior and interior. She got a shot of the rustic, brick building, the outside patio seating area, and a close-up of the storefront sign. Inside shots were of the large oaken bar, gaming area—complete with pool tables and dartboards—and dining area.

  Ivy scrolled halfway down the page, stopping when the photos came to an end. She wanted to fill the rest with more interior shots when the pub was open and full of people. Nothing drew customers better than displaying other people enjoying themselves.

  Ivy checked the time. Almost five. She could be at the pub in time to get some good pictures of the dinner rush. Then after she loaded the photos, she just needed to add the menu and she’d be all set. Project completed.

  Bank account fed.

  The front door slamming had her swiveling in her chair and looking down through the banister slats to see Jason had come home. Their place was small—only one bedroom—which belonged to Jason. Ivy had designated the open upstairs loft as hers when they’d moved in four years ago. She used the majority of the space as her office but did have a queen-size bed crammed against the back wall.

  “What are you doing home so early?” Jason usually got off at six and was never home before six thirty.

  He stripped off his blazer and loosened his tie before flopping onto the couch. “Would you believe me if I told you I was sick?”

  Ivy stood, went to the railing, and looked down. Jason’s hair was mussed like he’d been running his fingers through it and he did look a bit tired but other than that… She narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “Please don’t tell me you got fired.” It would be his third job in as many years.

  Jason had anger management issues, but she’d had high hopes for his latest job. He’d been at his current position as a telephone sales rep for over eight months, and his boss really seemed to like him. Jason had charm and charisma when he chose to use it.

  “The technical term is laid off.” He leaned his head back heavily against the couch to look up at her, the worry lines around his eyes prominent even from her high perch.

  “What happened? I thought your boss liked you?” Jason was—even she had to admit—drop-dead gorgeous. His boss was female and didn’t feel threatened by that as some of his male bosses in the past had.

  “My old boss did. Got a new one a few weeks ago.”

  That was news to her. “So, what happened?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing really. He’s had it out for me since he started.”

  Ivy highly doubted the nothing really part, but she also knew she wouldn’t get the details out of him until he was good and ready to tell her. Which also might be never.

  Sighing, she went downstairs and sat on the couch next to him, taking his hand. “I’ll be getting paid in a couple of days. That will tide us over until you find something else.”

&n
bsp; And there goes the new laptop.

  She wasn’t coddling him, she’d learned long ago that nagging at Jason had less of an effect than being supportive. Jason also liked to be the man of the house and her mentioning that she would foot the bills would grate on his ego and thus give him a metaphorical kick in the butt to find a job.

  He squeezed her hand. “I’ll start looking first thing in the morning.”

  Worked like a charm every time. Ivy secretly smiled but solemnly nodded. “I’m sure it won’t take you long to find something.”

  “Enough doom and gloom.” He pried his hand from hers and smacked his thighs, sitting straighter on the couch. “At least they gave me my final paycheck. How about I take you out for dinner?”

  Jumping up, Ivy grinned. “I know just the place.”

  The drive from their apartment in the Pearl District to Downtown Portland didn’t take long and soon they arrived at The Parting Glass. The place seemed busy—if the packed parking lot was any indication. Perfect. She would get some good pictures.

  She climbed out of the car and grabbed the strap of her digital camera case, slinging it over her shoulder before slamming the door. Clouds were starting to gather overhead, but it was still hot. Rain was unlikely, though always a possibility. They had a few good hours of daylight left, but if the clouds didn’t clear, she might have to come back to get good patio-dining shots. She made a mental note to arrive earlier in the day when the area wasn’t in shadows—maybe aim for the lunch crowd.

  “The Parting Glass?”

  Ivy looked over to see Jason, his head tilted back, staring up at the illuminated restaurant sign.

  “I wasn’t sure of its meaning either. I had to look it up. The Parting Glass is an old Irish folk song, dating back to the eighteenth century. Well, technically it originated in Scotland, but the Irish consider it theirs as many Irish artists have recorded a rendition of it over the years. The meaning behind the name stems from the final drink a guest was given before leaving to fortify them on their travels.” When she looked over at Jason, a smirk twisted his lips. “What?”