Read Online Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance by Lauren Landish - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Landish
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and to be honest, the ball just feels a bit . . . different.
There's no center in this drill, just me and the receivers, so I drop back, taking my five steps before looking. I look down field, where I see DeAndre Ballard, the top wideout on the team, running a fifteen yard out pattern. There's no defenders, this is just the first day of practice for me and I'm just getting my feet underneath me again, which is good as my throw falls far too short, DeAndre having to stop and actually go back a step to grab the pass.
"Shit!"
"What was that?" Coach Blanchard asks. He's been watching the drill this whole time, and so far he hasn't had too many good things to say. "That's a high school level throw!"
"I know," I say, upset. Coach is being nice, I haven't fucked up a simple no defense throw like that since my flag football days in elementary school. "My bad."
"Yeah, well, take a minute and get your head right, Tyler. I need to check on how the linemen are coming along."
Coach Blanchard walks over to the other end of the stadium, where the big men are starting to work on some light pad drills. I'm in shorts and shoulder pads myself, the big red 'no touch' tank top over my white practice jersey. The receivers come over, less concerned than I thought they'd be.
"Sorry about that last one," I say, trying to be casual. Still, I'm frustrated, this has not been the start to my pro career that I was looking for. If I want to earn a shot down in the States again, I'm going to have to look a lot better than I have been.
"Don't sweat it," DeAndre says. Another American, he's been with the team for nearly ten years, and was with Calgary before that. He's coming to the end of his pro career, and from what I read quickly about him, he might stay in Canada. He met his wife while he played in Calgary, and is eligible for Canadian citizenship if he wants it. "It took me a while to adjust too."
"How long? I mean, I threw it just like I did before."
"That's your problem," Paul Manson, another one of the wide receivers, says. Paul's Canadian, and has been playing for about three years. I was surprised to learn that one of the rules of the Canadian League is that half of the players must be Canadian citizens or permanent residents, which creates some friction between the different groups. The Canadians feel upset that the guys like me are brought in, when there's a lot of guys who grew up under what they call "Canadian Code," playing the game.
Meanwhile, of course, there are the guys like me, who played college games in stadiums bigger than anything in the Canadian League and had television audiences that were almost the size of the entire population of Canada. We've played on a bigger stage, and against some better athletes as well… no offense to DeAndre, Paul, or Robbie Storm, the other wideout that I've been working with, but Duncan Hart would kick all their asses.
Still, I'm the one fucking up right now, not them. So Paul has a right to bitch. "What do you mean?"
"You're throwing based on outside visual cues," Robbie says when Paul stalks off without answering. Guess Paul doesn't want to help the new guy until I earn his respect. All right, I can play that game. "Like the sideline. You're throwing to an American sideline, expecting that width. This field is twelve yards wider than what you're used to. Just try to throw to the man, not the field until you get used to it."
"What's his problem?" I ask Robbie quietly while Paul grabs some water. "I'm just asking."
"Rumor has it that the only reason he kept his spot on the team this year is because of the fifty-fifty rule," Robbie says. "The team brought in some new free agent American talent on the line, and so he was kept around so that they could cut Henri Batard, the old right tackle. Henri got traded to Montreal, which I guess is better for him, anyway. Closer to home."
"But by bringing in Dave Hawk, your new center, that threw off the fifty-fifty balance," DeAndre says. "Don't
There's no center in this drill, just me and the receivers, so I drop back, taking my five steps before looking. I look down field, where I see DeAndre Ballard, the top wideout on the team, running a fifteen yard out pattern. There's no defenders, this is just the first day of practice for me and I'm just getting my feet underneath me again, which is good as my throw falls far too short, DeAndre having to stop and actually go back a step to grab the pass.
"Shit!"
"What was that?" Coach Blanchard asks. He's been watching the drill this whole time, and so far he hasn't had too many good things to say. "That's a high school level throw!"
"I know," I say, upset. Coach is being nice, I haven't fucked up a simple no defense throw like that since my flag football days in elementary school. "My bad."
"Yeah, well, take a minute and get your head right, Tyler. I need to check on how the linemen are coming along."
Coach Blanchard walks over to the other end of the stadium, where the big men are starting to work on some light pad drills. I'm in shorts and shoulder pads myself, the big red 'no touch' tank top over my white practice jersey. The receivers come over, less concerned than I thought they'd be.
"Sorry about that last one," I say, trying to be casual. Still, I'm frustrated, this has not been the start to my pro career that I was looking for. If I want to earn a shot down in the States again, I'm going to have to look a lot better than I have been.
"Don't sweat it," DeAndre says. Another American, he's been with the team for nearly ten years, and was with Calgary before that. He's coming to the end of his pro career, and from what I read quickly about him, he might stay in Canada. He met his wife while he played in Calgary, and is eligible for Canadian citizenship if he wants it. "It took me a while to adjust too."
"How long? I mean, I threw it just like I did before."
"That's your problem," Paul Manson, another one of the wide receivers, says. Paul's Canadian, and has been playing for about three years. I was surprised to learn that one of the rules of the Canadian League is that half of the players must be Canadian citizens or permanent residents, which creates some friction between the different groups. The Canadians feel upset that the guys like me are brought in, when there's a lot of guys who grew up under what they call "Canadian Code," playing the game.
Meanwhile, of course, there are the guys like me, who played college games in stadiums bigger than anything in the Canadian League and had television audiences that were almost the size of the entire population of Canada. We've played on a bigger stage, and against some better athletes as well… no offense to DeAndre, Paul, or Robbie Storm, the other wideout that I've been working with, but Duncan Hart would kick all their asses.
Still, I'm the one fucking up right now, not them. So Paul has a right to bitch. "What do you mean?"
"You're throwing based on outside visual cues," Robbie says when Paul stalks off without answering. Guess Paul doesn't want to help the new guy until I earn his respect. All right, I can play that game. "Like the sideline. You're throwing to an American sideline, expecting that width. This field is twelve yards wider than what you're used to. Just try to throw to the man, not the field until you get used to it."
"What's his problem?" I ask Robbie quietly while Paul grabs some water. "I'm just asking."
"Rumor has it that the only reason he kept his spot on the team this year is because of the fifty-fifty rule," Robbie says. "The team brought in some new free agent American talent on the line, and so he was kept around so that they could cut Henri Batard, the old right tackle. Henri got traded to Montreal, which I guess is better for him, anyway. Closer to home."
"But by bringing in Dave Hawk, your new center, that threw off the fifty-fifty balance," DeAndre says. "Don't
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