Page 1 of Against the Clock
CHAPTER 1
DANIEL
This is gonna fucking hurt.
The moment I’m more worried about taking a hit than fucking up a pass is the moment I wonder if the pundits and TV personalities and long-retired gridiron gladiators are right.
This could be my last season.
The noise of the crowd, the sound of my own breathing in the helmet, the rush of blood in my ears all goes quiet. Deadly silent. A massive linebacker bears down on me, a snarl turning his lip up, his sheer size the only thing I can focus on.
They seem to get bigger every year. And every year, I just get older.
My teeth grind against my mouthguard. I lift my gaze from his red face, past the tidal wave of lime green and blue headed toward me, looking for a receiver.
The taste of potential glory is metallic in my tongue, tinged with menthol-scented pain reliever creams. A half-second ticks by.
There.
Number nineteen’s open, the rookie wide receiver, Tyler Matthews. My brain reacts faster than my sluggish arm, my team’s defense reacting quicker still.
The ball cannons from my hand, and no sooner have I launched it than the hope for glory fades into fear. I jerk sideways, throwing myself out of the path of the linebacker who looks like he would like nothing more than to grind my ancient ass to dust on the fucking turf.
Well, ancient by pro football standards. At thirty-nine, I’m hardly old, but I might as well have one foot in the grave, if I listen to the shit reporters can’t seem to stop spewing at me during every post-game press conference.
The linebacker moves faster than a man his size should be able to.
Shit.
I pick up the speed, unwilling to take the hit. Unwilling and unable. I cannot afford another injury. If the body keeps the score, then a football player’s body keeps it with a vengeance.
A blur of blue-gold pom-poms signals I’ve crossed into the sidelines, and I chomp the mouthguard, trying to stop my momentum without tearing the ACL I’ve already fucked over so many times that my goddamned medical release file is thicker than that beast of a linebacker’s skull. Not to mention my damn shoulder.
Metallic pom-poms fly past my face, and a girlish scream rings out.
Shit. Shiiiit.
I need to smash into a cheerleader even less than I need to reinjure any of my joints.
I veer left, hopping slightly, my eyes fixed on the scantily clad women in my team’s colors.
And plow straight into someone else.
In my periphery, a shiny black object goes flying. In front of me, there’s a tangle of limbs clothed in more than the cheerleaders, and I’m still falling.
All I can see is the terror in her wide brown eyes, the way her lush pink lips are parted in an ‘o’ of surprise.
All I can think is that I’m about to tackle one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Just fucking great.
CHAPTER 2
KELSEY
This is not good.
The huge football player slams into me and all the breath leaves my lungs in a guttural noise that’s nothing compared to the crunching sound of the iPad I’ve been taking notes on when it smashes next to me.