The Girl Next Door
The Boy Next Door Chapter 18

"Montgomery, get your a*s off the field!" Coach barks when I fumble yet another pass. "Kwiatkowski, take his place!" F*ck.

F*ck.

F*ck.

I need to get my s**t together before I get permanently pulled. Instead of making eye contact with Beck, I stare at the turf and jog off the field. I already know what I'll replace in his eyes and that's a-what the hell is going on with you look. I can't blame him for it either. The last couple of practices have turned out to be a complete shitshow. Passes I should be catching with ease are getting dropped, missed, or slipping through my fingers. On one of the last plays, I actually tripped over my own damned feet. If you didn't know better, you'd think I'd never even seen a football before. It's embarrassing as f**k.

Ever since I first stepped foot on the field, my game has been consistent. I don't have high-highs or low-lows. I'm a solid player. Dependable. Coaches know this. My teammates know it. Beck knows it, as well. I'm always in position, ready to catch whatever my QB throws my way.

Except today.

And yesterday.

Not to mention the day before that.

Now that I think about it, my game has been off for the last week. Specifically, since my run-in with Alyssa outside the apartment building. She's dominated almost all of my thoughts. I can't stop thinking about her. Or searching for her. I'm like a stalker, hanging around the building, trying to catch sight of her.

Most people, the ones who know jack about football, think the game is all brute strength and physicality, but that's not true. It's mental. And that's where I'm falling short. My head is no longer in the game. It's wrapped up in my ex. Unless I can turn things around on the field, I'll be riding the pine for the immediate future. And that's never happened before. Not even when I played Pop Warner and started off with pads that swallowed me up.

Coach ignores me for the remainder of practice while Kwiatkowski, our second-string wide receiver, runs through a handful of plays with Beck. And wouldn't you know it, the junior receiver catches every damn pass thrown to him. It only compounds the feelings of powerlessness already wreaking havoc on me. I've been first-string since I stepped foot on campus freshman year. My spot has never been in question.

Now it feels like I could lose everything I've worked years for in an instant. By the time Coach blows his whistle at the end of a two-hour practice, my head is a f*****g mess. I need to get out of here and figure out how I'm going to fix this problem. Once in the locker room, I keep to myself. I've had a shitty practice and I'm not in the mood to joke around with these assholes. Even though I remain silent, Beck doesn't take the hint. Instead of giving me a wide berth, he drops onto the bench and peels off his jersey before tossing it in the locker.

I feel the heaviness of his gaze burning a hole through me. He might not give voice to all the questions swirling around through his brain, but I hear them loud and clear just the same. Beck and I have been playing ball together since we were kids. We recognize each other's tells and quirks. Half the time, I know what play he'll run before he does. The guy never has to seek me out on the field, I instinctively know where I need to be and get into position. As far as football is concerned, we have some kind of weird mental connection. It's what makes us so good on the field.

It's just another reason the last couple of practices are f*****g with my head even more than Alyssa. Sure, everybody is entitled to an off day. It goes with the territory. But this has turned into more of a slump and that scares the f**k out of me. Especially with the season looming right around the corner.

What if I can't turn it around?

This is my last year at Wesley. The goal had always been to go out on a high note with a winning season. I want to bring home a conference championship before taking my rightful place alongside my father in the personal finance company he founded. These are my glory days, the ones I'll look back at with longing and fondness when I'm stuck behind a desk for twelve hours a day, trading stocks, and shoring up client portfolios. At this rate, I'll be glad they're over.

I keep my gaze focused straight ahead. The last thing I want to do is field any questions or talk about the obvious elephant in the room. Everyone knows that once you do that, it becomes real. There's no shoving the genie back in the lamp. With rough fingers, I rip off my jersey and shove it in my locker. Agitation wafts off me in heavy, suffocating waves. I'm all but choking on it.

The rowdy locker room turns quiet as Coach stalks through with his Wesley Warriors ball cap pulled low over his eyes and a clipboard clenched in his hand. Air gets wedged in my lungs as I wait for what I know is coming next.

"Montgomery," he barks, "get your a*s in my office as soon as you're dressed."

I jerk my head into a tight nod but keep my lips pressed together.

f**k.

Coach Taylor glares at the group of half-naked guys and barks out a few more victims. When he's done, he slams the door to his office with so much force that it rattles on its hinges.

Devon Baker, a three-hundred-pound lineman, laughs, "Better bring some lube with you, Montgomery. Doesn't look like he's in the mood to give it to you gently." Like I don't know that?

I glare at Baker before giving him the finger.

Our first game against Tennessee is in two weeks. If I can't pull my s**t together, there's no way Coach will allow me to step foot on the field. They're a tough team with a powerhouse of an offense. The thought of cooling my a*s on the bench while Kwiatkowski takes my place makes me gut sick. Beck clears his throat, drawing my attention to him. "So-"

"Don't even say it, man." I fall silent and rip off the remaining pads. It's like they're choking the life out of me. I've never felt that way before. I don't understand why I'm failing at something I've always excelled at. Always taken pleasure in.

"Say what?" he asks nonchalantly, continuing to strip off his clothes.

Even though it's uncomfortable, I admit through stiff lips, "That my game is off." For the first time since we've entered the locker room, I give Beck a bit of side-eye to get a read on his expression. It's just like I suspected. Concern mingled with confusion. Exactly what I don't want to deal with. I've always found it easier to suppress my feelings and shove them deep down inside where they can't see the light of day.

Keep it moving.

That's always been my motto.

Acknowledging the truth is like a sucker punch to the gut. Expected, but still a surprise.

It started out with a day. Just a momentary blip and then I was back on track. There wasn't anything to be concerned about. A few days later, I fumbled a play. It was a misstep. A mistake that, if made during crunch time, could cost us a win. It was all downhill from there. The mistakes have been piling up. Every practice has turned into a shitty one. Each time I step onto the turf, I give myself a pep talk, telling myself that this is the one that turns it around.

That hasn't happened.

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