The words rise up from the page, beating like they’re alive.
The Mercenaries are thrilled to share that they’ve traded for Drew Adams from the Los Angeles Devil Sharks. The quarterback, who has a top-ten passer rating, will be moving across town to the Mercenaries and will likely start in the first game of the season.
7
SPANK ME WITH A TACO
Drew
When Maddox hit me with the news, it wasn’t the trade that surprised me. My old team had been releasing players left and right during the off-season to reduce payroll. I figured my number would be up soon, and they’d bounce me to Baltimore, Miami, or maybe Seattle. Someplace with a weakness behind the center.
But a trade where I don’t even have to pack up my things?
That was a helluva surprise, and some Midas-touch level agenting from Maddox.
Maybe some of Carter’s football luck is rubbing off on me. The Mercenaries aren’t a bad team. They’ve just been toxic off the field, and that shit hasa way of following you into games and messing with your head.
With the deal finally done, I embrace the change with open arms, and on Thursday, I head to the Mercenaries practice field.
It’s a tough one, but a damn good one. By the time practice ends, my muscles are drained and I’m sweat-soaked, but I can’t complain. This is how practice should be.
I walk off the field with Gabe Clements, the team’s new receiver who’s known around the league for his smooth hands, his predatory intensity on the field, and his unwavering devotion to pre-game rituals.
He claps me on the back. “Nice work, Adams. And thanks for taking my spot as the new guy. It’s been hell with them calling me The New Dude all throughout training camp, but it looks like you just got that nickname.”
“Happy to take it on.”
“Excellent, New Dude. Now, let’s show the whole city why they traded for us this year.”
That’s what I want—a receiver corps that’s focused on the game of football. I offer a fist for knocking. “Let’s do it.”
He knocks back. “We’re gonna blast out of the tunnel for the first game like we’re fucking cheetahs,” he says. “Cheetahs with hacky sacks.”
Hometown trades aside, I’m not usuallysurprised. But…hacky sacks? “Google translate please,” I say.
“New Dude, I’m with a new team. I need a new ritual. I retired my yoyo from last season. I was a hacky sack ace in college.”
“Along with a Rose Bowl-winning receiver?”
He arches a brow, clearly impressed with my knowledge. “Multi-talented is my middle name. Anyway, I’m switching to hacky sacks for my new pre-game ritual. You in?”
I’m not a ritual guy, but if Gabe is, then I’ll go along with it. “I’m in.” I take a beat as we reach the tunnel. “But maybe send me a calendar item so I don’t forget?”
He growls. “You won’t forget, New Dude.”
“You’re right. I won’t. Seriously, you can count me in. You, me, we’re a package deal.”
Gabe cracks a small smile. “Yes, we are,” he says, squaring his shoulders and walking a little taller.
Good. I want him to know I’ll have his back, and I hope he’ll have mine. That’s how we’ll need to work together on the field—with trust and support.
“I’ll throw ’em as long as you catch ’em,” I say.
He holds his arms out wide. “We’ll get along just fine then, New Dude. Because these arms were made to cradle the ball.”
I like Gabe’s brand of cocky confidence.
We head indoors, the blast of cool air-conditioning a welcome relief from the heat. I glancearound the concrete hallway, still getting used to the look and feel of the facilities.