Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (ebook and pdf reader .txt) 📕

hoodie, his go-to attire, as sweat trickles from my nape to my spine. I bet he wears this thick sweatshirt for the same reason he turns his AC off in the middle of the summer—to show his team that he walks his “mind takes power over matter” talk.

Coach Williams throws me a warning glance, indicating that I need to cut it out and agree already. After the tape viewing, Coach Williams accompanied me to see our head coach. Based on our history, he likely recognizes my rebellious chin tilt and my resistant attitude for what it is—pure show.

I have no choice. I have to agree to any condition Coach Fielding throws at me, however unreasonable it might be.

Our head coach knows this. That’s why he lifts a brow at me as if asking, “So what’s it gonna be?” but it’s clear from the faint smile tugging at his lips he’s glad he’s pinned me down.

I draw in a sharp breath and level his glance. “I’ll be glad to follow your advice, Coach.”

My wording aims to save face. We all know it’s not a piece of advice they’ve given me.

Coach Fielding slams his fist on his desk. “Finally. You’ve got three weeks before camp starts. Use them.”

He cocks his head toward the door to signal that my audience is over and I should get the heck out of his office.

I’m all too happy to comply.

Despite my calm facade, my blood is boiling. If I stay in the hot office a second more, I might confirm the coaches’ delusional verdict that I have pathological rage issues in need of immediate intervention.

Coach Williams stands up and follows me outside. Once we’re at a safe distance, he stops and says, “You made the right choice, son.”

I snort. “The only one, really.”

“Indeed.” Coach Williams sucks the air between his teeth. “Will you stay in Georgia for your program?”

I shake my head.

No way. I don’t need the guys on the team finding out what sort of punishment I’ll be receiving. Also, I’ve already told Mom and Devon I’ll be spending two weeks from my vacation in Phoenix.

“I’ll ask my agent to find me a place at home. That way, I can at least have the semblance of a holiday and catch up with friends and family in my wee free time.”

He nods and pats my shoulder. “Of course. Please, make sure your agent prepares a non-disclosure agreement. No press is the best press in these matters.”

“Exactly my thought,” I answer with a forced smile, but my voice simmers with repressed frustration.

I can’t help it. I feel betrayed by Coach Williams. He, of all people, should know what I’ve given up to be where I am. Even if he didn’t want to take my side, I expected at least a “You didn’t deserve this, but that’s how it’s gotta be” remark from him.

Coach Williams captures my gaze. “I understand it might’ve been only a slip-up, Wyatt. You’re overworked. But it’s useless to make excuses for your behavior. You messed up, and you need to make amends. If you don’t, you grant Jamal a free pass to lead signal-caller this season.”

His words aren’t exactly what I wish he’d say, but they at least show me he doesn’t think I’m a nutcase.

“I won’t let that happen,” I say with determination.

“Great.” Coach William grins. “Do whatever it takes to make us forget you ever punched Rodriguez. But don’t lose all your anger, ’kay? We need some to win our next Super Bowl.”

Thanks to the years spent training under his wing, I know Coach Williams possesses a werewolf gene. He’s got the good sense to pretend to be human most of the time. Still, he could quickly transform if I point out just how illogical and hypocritical his last statement is.

I swallow back my question about how I’m supposed to distinguish between harmful rage and useful rage. “Will do my best, I promise.”

“I expect to see you here in August.” Coach Williams punctuates his phrase with a firm slap between my shoulder blades.

Despite my bulky frame, my ribs twitch as his palm lands on me.

He turns and trudges toward his own office.

I stroll to the field because I’m in no mood to chat. Though most of my teammates have probably gathered their belongings and left already, some guys—like Leo, who’s incredibly slow with his showers, or Greg, who’s got a fetish for folding his jersey neatly—could be still in the locker room.

I stroll alongside the yard signs until I reach the farthest end zone. The sun is maybe a third of its way down, peeking out from behind the stadium’s highest chairs. The rays shine to the right and left from one focal point that mostly remains hidden, creating a myriad of sepia tones on the field. I let my gaze drift around, taking in the empty turf.

In its current, quiet state, it’s hard to imagine the sweat, action, pain, and blood that are tied to these grounds. Just like the deadly battles in an arena, we, the players, are like the gladiators: as much slaves as heroes of this very gridiron.

I close my eyes and let the silence settle around me, hoping it’ll ease the stone in the pit of my stomach.

I stand there motionless until a loud yell jerks me out of my thoughts.

“You look like ten miles of bad road, Wyatt!”

Great. So much for enjoying the quietude. 

My eyelids spring open, and my eyes zero in on Joe’s lean, dark figure approaching me.

“How did your meeting go? Did the coaches tan your hide?” Joe’s Southern turns of speech always put a smirk on my face even after the meanest workout—and Coach Williams can be real evil with dumbbell bench step-ups and burpee pull-ups.

But today, I only deem his comment worth a shrug. “I’d have preferred some old-fashioned flogging to the sanction I received.”

Joe’s jaw drops, revealing glisteningly white teeth that sparkle against his mocha skin. “What do you mean? I thought you’d just get a fine.”

While I don’t plan on letting our colleagues