Second and Short

  Second and Short

  Love by the Yard

  Book Two

  by Michel Prince

  Published by JK Publishing, Inc.

  © Copyright December 2016 Michel Prince

  Rights & Permissions © December 2016 JK Publishing, Inc.

  Cover, art and logo © Copyright December 2016 by JK Publishing, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN # 978-1-370-38043-5

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales are entirely coincidental.

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  Dedication

  I’m so happy to bring this team to life. The members are becoming my friends and I hope that their losses, trials and loves are reaching out to you as a reader. I need to thank my publisher for supporting my books, my editors for helping catch those little mistakes that make such a big difference and Coach B. for helping with the inside look into the NFL so I can keep the timeline realistic. I hope you as readers enjoy and share your love for this series.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Books by Michel Prince

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “You see son, it’s the first five minutes of each half that determines the game,” Gilbert Gresham explained to his son Dalton while he locked his shoulder pads in place. Dalton grew up knowing this day would come and his father, at one point, would be his coach. In the small town of Estes Park, Colorado people thought his starting position freshman year had nothing to do with his skill and everything to do with his lineage. He guessed they were one in the same. Had it not been for a twist of fate and a knee injury his father could have been one of the best the game had ever known.

  Dalton had discovered his love of the game from his father. His childhood had him chasing after his high school football coach of a father with the best record in Colorado history. There wasn’t a Friday in the fall Dalton hadn’t spent at a stadium. Shagging balls for the big kids when he was young, to hearing the salty words his mother would blush at in the locker room. His father loved the chess match that played out every game as pawns were trained and moved all in the goal of another conference title or state tournament.

  A half hour before the rest of the team was supposed to arrive, Dalton was receiving the lecture meant for his ears only. The deeper look into the game because all eyes were on him to fail. To prove the senior, he beat out for the left tackle on the offensive line really was better. Over the years, he’d been successful at most line and even a few receiving positions, but with his size and the fact he had years left to grow, he mastered the spot that for most quarterbacks was critical. Luckily for him, the current senior starting QB was a lefty.

  Grunts and howls rippled through the ranks as the fifty odd players stood shoulder pad to shoulder pad. Tightly packed in the tunnel that led them out to the field with their arms locked and rocking side to side. Dalton could feel his stomach tighten as bile rose up his throat. Lights from the stadium streamed through the cracks between the players and sweat dripped down the side of Dalton’s face. The heat from the day and the confined space wasn’t the issue. They’d lost the coin toss and after the kickoff he’d be starting. The confidence his father had in his ability didn’t stop the fact he didn’t know if he was going to shit his pants, puke or do some combination of the two. Swagger be damned, he was starting left tackle in a varsity game on a team that hadn’t lost the conference in five years. Suddenly the pack of players was moving and he was running through the scraps of paper from the sign the cheerleaders had been holding.

  His feet took him to the sidelines where he proceeded to vomit everywhere on the end of the bench. Unable to remove his helmet in time Dalton struggled to get it off before the smell caused a second round. His father walked over to him and slapped him on the back.

  “Next time do that in the locker room. Can’t let the other team see your nerves.” Dalton’s eyes were watering as he looked up to his father. All six foot five of him standing broadly with his crystal blue eyes trying not to laugh at him. “We have a game and if you don’t want to smell puke all night I’d suggest you take off that helmet and rinse it. You’ve got about three minutes, son. Guess it’s a good thing we had the starting defense introduced first.”

  Fifteen Years Later

  There is something about domination that invigorates a man. Whether on the field, in the bedroom or life. The crack of a helmet as you send a man back five feet so he cannot touch your running back, better yet he’ll never even see your quarterback’s eyes. Your hands pinned tight to his chest right under the shoulder pads so you can’t be called for holding as you use the pads as a steering wheel to send him where you want. The feel of your wrists as they are bent back, but still you do not yield until you’re sure the final whistle has blown. Doing everything legal between the whistles to punish the man who may be your contemporary, but for those few seconds is your sworn enemy.

  Dalton Gresham pushes harder against the Infantry’s defensive lineman, sending him back one, then two, and three yards until Jerome Sp
eed’s hand ceases to be on Dalton’s back and the crowd erupts as he breaks free through the small hole created by Dalton and the left guard, Bart Tomlinson. Once free, the defensive lineman shoves one last time as Gresham lets up because Rome is proving Speed still kills in Chicago. Not enough for a touchdown, but more than enough to convert and get them a new set of downs. Not bad since Rome usually doesn’t run on second and short, but why not have him finish the downs when he got eight yards the first time.

  Walking back to the huddle with his hands on his hips, the six-foot-ten lineman blew out a hard breath.

  “Too much for you,” Rome joked before heading back to the sidelines.

  “I don’t get to take plays off, wussy,” he called back before listening to Matt Bishop call out the next play.

  When he lined up, he saw something in his peripheral field of vision that was off. “Tomlinson,” he barked, unable to move because the ball was still being held by the center, Dmitri Yeltsivinck, and Dalton had stupidly got into a three-point stance. “Blitz left, blitz—”

  “Hike,” Matt called and Dalton surged left to stop the defensive end from cutting around him. Right as his hands made contact, the defensive lineman that Tomlinson was supposed to help block speared Dalton right at his knee, sending a lightning bolt of pain down the side of his leg and a second Infantry lineman cut through and had Matt sacked in a matter of seconds.

  Pain mixed with rage spiked Dalton’s adrenaline and sent him charging after the veteran player that knew the cut block was illegal. Stumbling, his knee buckled as he removed his helmet and swung. The crack from the impact sent the man tumbling back as high pitched whistles echoed around him and yellow flags softly fell to the ground. Ignoring the possible career ending injury, Dalton prepared to swing again only to have Rome step in front of him and hold his hands up. He’d been on the sidelines, but Rome knew he was one of the few members of the Grizzlies with the ability to flip the switch on Dalton when he spiraled.

  “Not now, big daddy,” Rome’s firm voice stilled the giant who at one time had been gentle. “We’ll get the son-of-a-bitch between the whistles.”

  The promise allowed Dalton to drop to his good knee. “If he took my knee…”

  “We’ll take his head,” Rome promised as the other linemen formed a wall around Gresham as he waited for the trainers.

  “There are two penalties on the play,” the referee’s voice echoed in the enclosed stadium. “Personal foul, chop block, on the defense number fifty-three. Personal foul, unsportsmanlike conduct on the offense number seventy-seven. Both penalties offset, number fifty-three has been warned one more infraction and he will be ejected. Due to the severity of the second penalty, number seventy-seven is ejected from the game.”

  Gresham shook his head and let out a howl as the trainer pushed on his ACL. If that son-of-a-bitch took out his knee he’d gut him. Bad enough Matt had been sacked, but to be injured.

  “We need to get him off the field and back to the locker room,” the NFL security officer said as he stood behind the trainer.

  “Good for you, he’s only about three-hundred and seventy pounds with a busted-up knee,” Bucky, the head athletic trainer explained in his normal charming, yet gravelly voice. “I’m sure he’ll just skip his way there unless you think you can help him off.”

  The security officer waved for a cart to come on field and Gresham put his thumb up after they loaded him and took off for the locker room. Worthington, the second string wouldn’t be able to handle the Infantry’s defense and they knew it. Sure, the player that chop blocked him would get a fine, but it was a cheap play and he knew it especially since it could potentially cause real damage to another player. Hard hits, sacks, being tossed around was football, but every man on a roster knew no game was worth costing a man millions.

  Two hours later, every joint ached and burned in the sweetest way. Having been cleared with nothing more than a deep muscle bruise on his calf and a hyper extended knee he would be medically cleared soon. A last-minute hail Mary had saved the Grizzlies from a two-week losing streak and might just let Matt keep his job. The hot spray from the shower helped with Dalton’s joints, but not his muscles. Those would need a dip in an ice bath at some point he was sure.

  “Gresham,” his O-line Coach, Tricket yelled in the shower. “You don’t have those long locks any more, finish up the damn bus is almost filled.”

  “Blame Bucky, he kept me back here like I was some fucking delicate flower,” Dalton said as the spray from the shower blasted his face.

  “Then quit acting like a damn daisy in need of watering.”

  Dalton turned in the shower to see he was the only one left in the open shower. “I’m finishing up.”

  Having shorn his once infamous shoulder length hair in an attempt to soften his persona, Dalton had gotten nothing but shit from the team since he did. Strange the games he had been tasked to play over the years. Somehow he’d gone from the quiet, but confident man, to an asshat. All in the name of success.

  “Willie, any chance you could take a look at my transmission?” Stanley Blume asked as Willeen Fire was on the down swing with her axe. The sharpened edge split the wood with a satisfying crack.

  With her axe handle resting on her shoulder, she tossed the two pieces of pine to the side before picking up another log. “Stan, we’re friends right?” she asked right before bracing her hands on the handle, swinging again. This time the axe got stuck about half way and she lifted both the axe and log for a hard swing to snap the log in two.

  “Last time I checked,” her boss replied with a bit of skepticism.

  “And friends have a trust that matures over time.” Swing, thwack, crack. “So, I trust you won’t take it personally when I say if your truck was a horse I would have shot it three fixes ago.”

  “Hey, my truck is going to make it another three-hundred thousand miles. You mark my word.”

  “The seats will?” she joked and set the axe down. “Or are we talking about the rearview mirror? Because that thing was wiggling a little bit last time I saw it.”

  “It’s a classic.”

  “Just because something is close to three decades old does not make it a classic.”

  “Are you sure? I think you’re classical.”

  “I’m classy, not classical,” she teased the older man, who had been friends with her father when he walked away from the Ho-Chunk tribe in eastern Wisconsin. Between fighting with tribal leaders over gambling, drinking, and drugs, her dad hadn’t been accepted for years before he left. Her mother had been his saving grace, accepting him when he was a mess. Although a few of the older members of the tribe attended his funeral, but by then Willeen had seen herself as a light skinned black girl with fine hair, not a member of the tribe.

  “Can you?”

  “I can, but at some point it’s cheaper to get a twenty-year-old piece of crap for me to work on.” She batted her long lashes at him. “Can I buy you a new engine?”

  “Why? The one I have works.”

  “Except for the transmission, piston rings and oil pump,” she said while counting the offending items off with her fingers. “Why don’t you just spring for a new engine instead of piece mealing it?”

  “Because I’m supposed to keep you employed,” he reasoned. “If you give me a new engine I won’t have a project for you every few weeks.”

  “The cabins keep me plenty busy,” she replied, but knew his heart was in the right place. The cabins at Lost Lake were for tourists with a few people that owned, but they tasked Stanley with the maintenance. He in turn passed the duty off to Willeen, who kept the cabins ready all year long. Fishing and boating brought the tourists in the summer while ice fishing and snowmobiles had them on trails throughout the forest.

  “Speaking of which, Bucky Larsen needs his cabin aired out.” Stanley tossed the key to the least used cabin on the lake to Willeen.

  “Bucky is actually coming up from Chicago?”

  “Not a chance, but he�
�s lending it to a player for bye-week. Said he’d be coming up later tonight.”

  Willeen has been busy closing up the summer cabins with general winterizing. She hadn’t been able to keep a close eye on the Chicago Grizzlies like she wanted too. The lake was located right on the line where the TV stations played the Green Bay Mist instead of the Grizzlies if they were at the same time. She knew the head trainer had owned a cabin on the lake for years, but had met him only once and that was as he was leaving early. Exiling one of his players to the woods must be for a good reason.

  “Okay, I’ll head over there now,” she said as she picked up the axe and put it in the back of her truck. Hopefully there would be logs already cut over at Bucky’s place so she wouldn’t have to haul some over. It didn’t matter because eventually she would have to bring some over if he was staying for a whole week.

  “Thanks kiddo,” Stanley replied and headed back to his truck. As he pulled out of her driveway she heard the transmission slip as his speed increased. Job security. She couldn’t be mad at that.

  Getting in her own beat up F-150 she headed over to Bucky’s cabin. It was directly across the lake from hers. It would take her about ten minutes to go along the road that circled the lake. If only it was winter she could shoot across the frozen water in no time. When she pulled up she noticed the front door was cracked open. No car was around and she wondered if a few of the townies had broken in. It was well known Bucky worked for the Grizzlies and memorabilia sales could fetch some big bucks. Tucking the keys in her pocket, she got out and retrieved her axe from the back of the truck. The townies knew and feared her and that might be enough to scare them off.