Read Online Fourth and Goal by Jami Davenport - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jami Davenport
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swallowed. He caught the flicker of pity in HughJack's eyes and braced himself. “We have to cut you."
Derek stared at the three of them. Shock rippled through him, along with waves of pain, physical, deep, sharp, and strangling. He forgot to breathe, then gulped in air before he passed out. “I know I can help this team.” His voice sounded foreign to his ears, like someone else's.
HughJack frowned, impatience furrowed his brow. “Derek, don't make this any tougher than it is. Another team will take a chance on you. There've already been inquiries."
Another team ? He didn't want another team. Being here with Tyler had been his best shot. His dream come true.
"Wide receivers with your talent are a hot commodity."
Obviously not hot enough . The three men stood. Derek stayed in his chair, unable to move. He stared up at them one by one. They didn't waver. Not one of them blinked. It was over.
He took his cue to get the hell out of there with the tatters of his dignity intact. Standing, he initiated iron control on his wobbly knees and queasy stomach. Forcing a smile, he shook hands with each one of them. “It's truly been a pleasure working with you. All of you. Thanks for giving me a shot."
Never let ‘em see you bleed . Stiff-backed and proud, he walked from the room.
He knew the drill. He'd been cut a few times in his short pro career. He should go to the locker room and get his stuff. No way. Not now. The team would still be hanging around. He couldn't stomach their pitying stares and sympathetic comments or Tyler's inevitable tirade. Tomorrow was everyone's day off. He'd drop by and get his stuff then.
Today he needed to go home and lick his wounds.
Rage at the injustice of it all.
Berate himself for the passes he did drop.
Cry in his beer.
And bury his dream.
Derek paced his deck and leaned his elbows on the railing. He cradled his head in his hands and closed his eyes, but nothing shut out the emotional pain and humiliation of failure. How had his life come to this defining moment? The script he'd written hadn't read like this. Someone had rewritten it and not given him any editorial input.
A thin slice of anger cut through his self-inflicted pity. He snatched it from the depths of his despair, pulled it to the surface, and embraced it. Anger brought about action. Pity brought about wallowing. He'd never wallowed before. He wouldn't wallow now.
Damn it. Fuck. Bastards . He'd show them all. They could go to hell. It wasn't over till he said it was over. He'd dig his way out of this pit and claw his way back to the top. He'd caught an uncatchable pass on Sunday. He still had it in him. He knew he did. He'd found that elusive zone. He'd find it again.
Tomorrow . Tonight he didn't have the strength or the ambition.
The anger fizzled out of him, and he slumped into a deck chair, succumbing to mental and physical exhaustion. His phone rang off the hook until he unplugged it and turned off his cell. Six of those calls and numerous voice mails came from his agent. Maybe another team wanted him, but he didn't want another team. Not yet. He needed time, just a few days to formulate a plan. He needed a sympathetic friend. He needed Rachel.
Simon sat next to him and thumped his tail. He spit his ball out on Derek's shoes. Derek patted his head and tossed the slimy toy into the nearby woods. Simon scrambled off the deck and scattered two chairs and a table in his wake.
Derek ignored the destruction and squinted into the darkness, looking for a light in Rachel's little cottage. She wasn't home yet. He should've accepted Tyler's invitation to get drunk at the neighborhood bar.
But damn, he needed her , not Tyler and not a hangover. He needed her gentle acceptance, her sympathetic ear, her sweet smile, the way she made him feel better by just being there. He didn't have any right to need her, and he knew that. So between the needing and the guilt, he felt doubly miserable.
Why the hell did he have to be such a
Derek stared at the three of them. Shock rippled through him, along with waves of pain, physical, deep, sharp, and strangling. He forgot to breathe, then gulped in air before he passed out. “I know I can help this team.” His voice sounded foreign to his ears, like someone else's.
HughJack frowned, impatience furrowed his brow. “Derek, don't make this any tougher than it is. Another team will take a chance on you. There've already been inquiries."
Another team ? He didn't want another team. Being here with Tyler had been his best shot. His dream come true.
"Wide receivers with your talent are a hot commodity."
Obviously not hot enough . The three men stood. Derek stayed in his chair, unable to move. He stared up at them one by one. They didn't waver. Not one of them blinked. It was over.
He took his cue to get the hell out of there with the tatters of his dignity intact. Standing, he initiated iron control on his wobbly knees and queasy stomach. Forcing a smile, he shook hands with each one of them. “It's truly been a pleasure working with you. All of you. Thanks for giving me a shot."
Never let ‘em see you bleed . Stiff-backed and proud, he walked from the room.
He knew the drill. He'd been cut a few times in his short pro career. He should go to the locker room and get his stuff. No way. Not now. The team would still be hanging around. He couldn't stomach their pitying stares and sympathetic comments or Tyler's inevitable tirade. Tomorrow was everyone's day off. He'd drop by and get his stuff then.
Today he needed to go home and lick his wounds.
Rage at the injustice of it all.
Berate himself for the passes he did drop.
Cry in his beer.
And bury his dream.
Derek paced his deck and leaned his elbows on the railing. He cradled his head in his hands and closed his eyes, but nothing shut out the emotional pain and humiliation of failure. How had his life come to this defining moment? The script he'd written hadn't read like this. Someone had rewritten it and not given him any editorial input.
A thin slice of anger cut through his self-inflicted pity. He snatched it from the depths of his despair, pulled it to the surface, and embraced it. Anger brought about action. Pity brought about wallowing. He'd never wallowed before. He wouldn't wallow now.
Damn it. Fuck. Bastards . He'd show them all. They could go to hell. It wasn't over till he said it was over. He'd dig his way out of this pit and claw his way back to the top. He'd caught an uncatchable pass on Sunday. He still had it in him. He knew he did. He'd found that elusive zone. He'd find it again.
Tomorrow . Tonight he didn't have the strength or the ambition.
The anger fizzled out of him, and he slumped into a deck chair, succumbing to mental and physical exhaustion. His phone rang off the hook until he unplugged it and turned off his cell. Six of those calls and numerous voice mails came from his agent. Maybe another team wanted him, but he didn't want another team. Not yet. He needed time, just a few days to formulate a plan. He needed a sympathetic friend. He needed Rachel.
Simon sat next to him and thumped his tail. He spit his ball out on Derek's shoes. Derek patted his head and tossed the slimy toy into the nearby woods. Simon scrambled off the deck and scattered two chairs and a table in his wake.
Derek ignored the destruction and squinted into the darkness, looking for a light in Rachel's little cottage. She wasn't home yet. He should've accepted Tyler's invitation to get drunk at the neighborhood bar.
But damn, he needed her , not Tyler and not a hangover. He needed her gentle acceptance, her sympathetic ear, her sweet smile, the way she made him feel better by just being there. He didn't have any right to need her, and he knew that. So between the needing and the guilt, he felt doubly miserable.
Why the hell did he have to be such a
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