False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) by Alison Hendricks Page A

down, and considering I’ve never been in a program as intensive as this one, it’s a lot to keep up with.
    I see Mills lag a little, too. He isn’t as fast as he was before; isn’t as quick to react. We let drives get through that are caught by the smaller LBs. It sucks, but I can only try and start fresh each new play, and hope the law of averages is just working itself out.
    Practices are open by that point, and fans have started coming to watch. Mostly the diehards, or the alums. A few of the players’ girlfriends, too. I still don’t see Mills interacting with anyone in the stands, though. He and I are two of the only players who never really have anyone.
    As we draw closer to the start of the season, everybody starts getting a little more tightly wound. Even I end up shoving a lineman a little too hard after he grabs my mask to keep me from stopping a play. Tempers are running high, and the testosterone in the locker room runs even higher.
    But usually just when things are about to reach the boiling point, somebody suggests heading to the bar, and after a few rounds everyone goes back to being best buddies again.
    The guys have teased me about footing the bill, though. Every time we go to The Top now, there’s always somebody who jokes about me picking up their tab. I guess I wasn’t as discreet as I thought, but if there’s any real animosity over it, I can’t really feel it.
    Of course, all of that was before the season started.
    On our last pre-season practice, everybody’s playing at the top of their game. Competition is fierce, and I can feel the weight of everyone’s ambitions in my aching muscles. I pull something halfway through, but I grit my teeth and play through the pain, deciding to just ice it afterward.
    It feels like a shorter practice than normal, and when we’re told at the end of it that starting assignments for the first game have been posted in the locker room, it’s a stampede to get there.
    I allow the crowd to pass me by and jog into the tunnel, trying not to let anxiety consume me. I don’t expect to make it. Even though I played hard and I feel like I’ve improved since being here, there are a lot of guys who are way more talented and driven than me.
    Mills hangs back with me, and I can’t help but feel a little surprised. We’ve talked a little bit over the past few weeks. I feel like we’re actually reaching the teammate stage, instead of the rival stage. But his manner now is friendly. His fingers are curled around his face mask and he holds his helmet at his side, giving me a lop-sided grin.
    My heart stutters at that, and I start to feel anxious for an entirely different reason.
    “You nervous?”
    Yep , I think. But not for the reason he suspects. Not now, anyway.
    “A little, yeah. I don’t really expect to get the spot, though.”
    Mills shrugs. “Coach said it’s up for anybody this year. You held your own.”
    I smile, but try to keep my attention focused forward, on the other players who are making their way in front of us.
    “Thanks. You and I make a pretty good team.”
    I feel a flutter in my stomach as I admit that, like I’m trying to tell this guy that we should team up in other ways. Jesus Christ. My libido doesn’t need to start second-guessing me. Not now that things are on the verge of being good.
    Thankfully Mills is oblivious to the inner-workings of my mind. He just lets out an amused noise.
    “Keep it up and they’ll come up with some cheesy-ass name for us.”
    “Oh, God,” I say on a laugh. “Like from one of those terrible ‘90s sports movies.”
    “Hell yeah. We’ll be the two assholes on the villains’ team. The Enforcers or The Bruisers or some shit.”
    “The Steamrollers,” I add in.
    “The Undertakers.”
    “The Doom-makers.”
    We keep up with that all the way to the locker room, with the suggestions getting increasingly more ridiculous. That warm buzz is back again, and I have a grin plastered to my face as I wade