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

know what cleaning Rodriguez’s clock is costing me, Joe’s a friend, and I know he won’t laugh at me or shame me.

“You thought wrong,” I answer. “Coach Fielding ordered me to see an anger therapist before camp starts.”

“Butter my butt and call me a biscuit!” Joe exclaims, but when he notices my somber expression, he adds, “What? That’s not so bad. If it were me, I wouldn’t mind a quick chat with a cute shrink. White coats are hot.”

I lift my hand and count on my fingers. “First, the therapist might be male. Second, it’s not just a chat. Coach wants me to follow an intensive impulse management program with an end report stating, quote: ‘your emotional state has been professionally evaluated and deemed fit.’ Third…” I wiggle my finger at him. “I’m not you.”

Joe grew up in a household full of gossipy girls—he’s got six younger sisters—who trained him to be forthcoming about his private life with almost anyone. While I’m as comfortable sharing personal issues with strangers as a cat swimming.

Joe shrugs. “Don’t do it, then. What can they possibly do if you—”

“If I don’t comply, I’m not allowed to take part in the camp.”

Joe gasps. “You’re royally screwed, dude. You must do it, then.”

Yeah. Joe sized up my situation perfectly.

Coach Fielding isn’t only famous for his disregard of climate-adequate clothing but also for his strict rule that whoever skips the August training camp can’t play for his team in the next season.

It’s a retaliation he came up with after an offensive line veteran attempted to avoid the month of hell by orchestrating a bogus family emergency. As it turned out, his wife who was supposed to have gone into labor wasn’t even pregnant.

I nod. “I know. I can’t let Jamal push me under the coaches’ radar. I’ll become as meek as a sheep if I need to, but I won’t sit on a bench during the games.”

“There’s a tree stump in Momma’s swamp with a higher IQ than Jamal’s, but the boy sure throws well.” Joe scratches his thick black hair, producing a rustling sound. “You’re right to be afraid of him.”

“Thanks for pointing that out,” I grumble.

Unfortunately, it’s not just Jamal’s throwing skills that worry me. It’s his youth and the effervescent zeal that comes with it. I used to have that, too, when I started, but the years have caused it to wear off somewhat.

“Didn’t Coach Williams defend you?” Joe asks.

I swallow back the bile that rises at his question. “No. The most absurd part is that Coach Fielding claimed I’ve got anger issues. In plural. Isn’t that ridiculous? I only made one blunder. One.”

I expect Joe to agree with me. My friend crashes into defenders, throws violent stiff arms, and runs through people rather than around them on the field. He must surely see that I have no excess fury to shed.

To my surprise, Joe hisses through his teeth. “Well, I only witnessed it from a distance, but you seemed possessed when you jabbed Rodriguez. What were you even thinking?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Rodriguez made a bunch of idiotic remarks about my footwork and then a nasty joke.”

“And those are reasons for you to pitch a hissy fit? Since when?” Joe wrinkles his nose, flaring his large nostrils. “I admit Rodriguez could make a preacher cuss. But in our years together, I’ve never seen you lose your temper. Not like that. You looked like Gomez when you launched at the guy.”

Gomez played on our team before getting suspended for beating up his agent badly. The poor man had landed in the hospital with major concussions. Gomez’s motive? His agent missed out on closing a sponsorship Gomez desired.

I snort. “Thanks for putting me into the same category with that psycho.”

I’m nothing like that loony. Mine was a simple slip, a brief moment of irrationality. I was probably tired, like Coach Williams suggested.

Joe purses his lips. “A little burr in your saddle ain’t a problem. It drives you to hit harder, run faster, and throw farther. But you’ve got too much of it lately.” He pats my arm. “Is something going on you’re not telling? Perhaps a family issue?”

A throbbing spreads into my ear at his comment, and I suppress a growl. “Nope. Family has nothing to do with it.”

Joe opens his mouth then shuts it. He adjusts the waistband of his shorts, then blinks at me. “Huh! Okay, then. But you’ve got to figure out who licked the red off your candy. This upcoming season is my last, and I want you as happy as a dead pig in the sunshine when we claim that Vince Lombardi trophy together.”

I stare at Joe’s serene face and shake my head. “I don’t get how you could decide to just quit.”

Though Joe is a year my junior, he told the coaches that after this season, he wouldn’t get his contract renewed with the team.

Joe gives me his signature, lopsided grin. “We’re living in high cotton here. Absolutely. But you can have that in your retirement too, with the right strategy.”

Joe would know all about that. He’s attended every boot camp NFL has ever conceived: broadcasting, speakers bureau, leadership and advocacy. You name it, he’s done it. He even dragged me to a seminar once about how to become a coach.

Joe must read the doubt on my face because he adds, “Don’t tell me you’re still as passionate about the league as you were when you got drafted? I know I’m not. I prefer to retire of my own will. I’ve had my prime time, and I’m happy to go down before losing all my grit for the game. Or before the coaches can kick me out.”

I believe Joe’s got more than one season in him, but it’s true that the owners and coaches cut players as they please, especially if they’re in demanding team positions such as running back.

I shrug. “Perhaps you’re right. But I couldn’t do that. I still feel like I belong here more than anywhere else.”

Though my career doesn’t give me the