[18+] ENEMIES TO LOVERS SPORTS ROMANCE.
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Hannah Walker doesn't trust anyone, especially men.
They're manipulative and toxic - her lousy ex taught her that lesson well.
Enter Tristan Beckett, the embodiment of everything she despises. He's arr...
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I was off.
I was just... off.
Practice had been a bitch and my whole body felt like it had been flattened by a ten-ton truck. Might as well be true. My teammates weren't holding back — as they shouldn't — but today? I was running on fumes.
I had been like this the whole fucking week.
I yanked off my helmet and bent over, putting my hands on my knees and taking deep breaths. It was like my brain had taken a vacation without me. I couldn't concentrate on anything, and I was making Rookie mistakes. I was running at half my usual speed, and I couldn't catch a ball to save my life. It was like my hands had developed a sudden allergy to pigskin. They fumbled and flailed and dropped every throw. It was fucking embarrassing.
I couldn't do shit.
"Fuck," I groaned, running a hand through my wet hair and splitting out the phlegm that had gathered at the back of my throat.
I stayed hunched over, sweat pouring down my face, while I wondered how the fuck I'd ended up in this sorry state. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was the smooth-talking, quick-thinking, go-getter guy who had it all under control.
Straightening as I interlocked my hands behind my head, I focused on my breathing. I needed to calm down before my team saw how much this funk was getting to me. Because whatever the fuck this was needed to stop. Like, right now.
Our first pre-season game was tomorrow and I couldn't afford to start off the season looking like a fucking noob. Not when my whole team was trusting me to lead them to the Championships. Not when I was entering the NFL draft after this year.
"Hey, man," Tate drawled as he jogged over, his helmet tucked under his arm.
I let out a sigh and dropped my hands to my sides. Tate, my closest friend and co-captain, stopped beside me. He placed one massive hand on my shoulder, a show of support that only increased my frustration.
Fuck. I felt like I was really letting him down.
"We all have off-days, Beckett. Don't beat yourself up too much," he said.
"It's been like this all fucking week, Tate. I can't afford to pull this shit tomorrow," I growled.
"You won't. You couldn't possibly play any worse than you did today," he joked, slapping my shoulder.
I let out a bark of laughter. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, but don't jinx it. I might as well be playing pee wee right now."
Tatum's eyes sobered and met mine. "Exactly. It's our first preseason game, unimportant in the long run. Who the fuck cares?"
"Uh, I do? It's my first official match as the Knight's Captain. Sue me if I want to start off with a bang."
"I think you need to be doing a different kind of banging. When's the last time yo—"
