“Oh, you’re in for a surprise, Colt,” I say with a smile. “If I were you, I’d start packing.” I walk past him and that obnoxious grin of his. As usual, the bastard thinks he can stroll in here and own the whole fucking joint with his bravado. I always hated that arrogance of his.
Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, Colt has no idea about the hard work necessary to get to the top. Oh, I’m not badmouthing him - I know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve known him for a long, long time…
My dad worked for Colt’s father, on his ranch, so we go way back. We even started playing football at around the same time. And, as if being born with more money than he could comprehend wasn’t bad enough, Colt was also a football prodigy. The moment I saw him on the field, his eyes scanning the turf as he prepared to throw the ball, I knew he was born to be a quarterback.
That was in 6th grade.
I never had anything handed to me like that. My parents worked all their life, making just enough to pay the mortgage and put food on the table. And, unlike Colt, I wasn’t a natural on the field. I was awkward and clumsy, and that made me the butt of Colt’s jokes whenever he crushed me on the scrimmage.
I worked harder than everyone else, combined. I woke up at 5 am and lifted weights and then went running. And soon enough, little Colt was losing in the scrimmages.
But that’s what made me fall in love with football - the game doesn’t lie or cheat; it doesn’t care if you’re poor or rich. If you’re good enough, you win. If you work harder than everyone else, you win. That’s it. And back then, Colt was better and deserved to win… I accepted that. What he didn’t know was that I became obsessed with winning.
Colt was a quarterback, so it was only natural that I gravitated towards being a QB’s nemesis - the defensive end. I trained every hour that I could, I watched plays on the Internet until I could decode them. Hell, I even dreamt of football.
And I learned that my success scared Colt. On and off the field.
“Why are you always trying to do better than me?” Colt asked during recess one day as a bunch of us tossed around the football.
Jesus. I didn’t know how to tell him. What was it I didn’t know how to tell him is what you’re wondering, huh?
I didn’t know how to tell him all I wanted was to be just like him - The Best.
I didn’t know how to tell him that I envied his life, but even then, at that age, when I saw him take it for granted or throw away opportunities, it seemed like a slap in the face to me. I would have killed for any of those chances Colt got - whether it was a doting mother, or a father who paid for extra one-on-one practice sessions with a retired football coach.
And that’s why I had to do better. For myself. For my father, who worked for his.
Instead, I defended myself. “What?” I asked with a sneer. “Afraid of competition? Are you a delicate rosebud?”
The kids around us snickered. They chanted ‘rosebud’ over and over.
I remember Colt and how he hated that name. Throughout the years, it was only me who remembered.
It consumed me. And same as him, football became central to me.
It became my life, it consumed me.
I paid the price — I sweated; I bled — and that’s how I became the best defensive end in the league. That’s why I’m a better player than Colt: while he relies on his talent alone, I’m a fucking machine. I deconstruct the game, learn it, and then destroy everything on my way.
“Bring it, then, cowboy,” Colt says with his smirk.
“You’re on, Rosebud,” I reply back, instantly knowing I’ve hit home.
Don’t get the impression that I have a clouded judgment, though. I know Colt’s an impressive player and, as tough as it is to be on the same team as him, we both need each other. But if there’s only one spot available…well, tough shit then. I know the cost of success and I won’t let anyone or anything take that away from me.
Oh, I’m going to enjoy the look on his face when they send him packing.
I enter Ms. Heaton’s office with my head held high, but I stop under the doorway as my eyes find the woman standing at the desk. Before I can even blink, all thoughts of Colt vanish from my mind.
I had already seen pictures of Julianna Heaton - who hasn’t? - but not one of them does justice to how beautiful she is. Forget about beautiful - she looks goddamn perfect. There’s a devilishness behind her eyes and, even though she doesn’t seem intimidated by my presence, she moves in such a feminine way that I can’t stop my head from starting to send blood rushing to my cock.
For a fraction of a second, I think of pinning her against the wall while slowly peeling off that purple blouse of hers down her shoulders. Then I’d part her legs and trace the contour of her thighs with the tip of my fingers. Christ, what am I doing? I need to keep a cool head. Focus, goddamnit.
“Come in,” she tells me, placing both her elbows on the long mahogany desk as she leans in. Two wide strides and I cross the distance between the door and the desk; I sit down on the chair in front of her, my eyes locked on hers. The look on her face tells me she’s not one to be messed with - Julianna Heaton knows what she wants and she knows how to get it.
“Well, here I am,” I say, leaning back against the chair. “I see that you’ve already met with Colt.” I don’t know why, but knowing that he was inside this very office, alone with her, pisses me off to no end. One look at her and I already know the bastard has devoured her with his eyes. Well, it’s understandable - I’m doing the exact same thing.
“Yes. And before you even say a thing, I know he’s going to be a piece of work, Ethan.” Her lips curl into a grin then, and she folds her arms over her chest. “But let’s get one thing straight - I don’t give a shit about any of that. I don’t care if he’s insane or a loose cannon. I don’t care who’s right or who’s wrong, or if you guys have an ax to grind. I care about who’s the best player and I care about making the NY Nailers a winning team.”