Alpha Foxtrot_Offensive Line Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  ALPHA FOXTROT

  Offensive Line Series

  By Tracey Ward

  ALPHA FOXTROT

  Offensive Line Series

  By Tracey Ward

  Text Copyright © 2018 Tracey Ward

  All Rights Reserved

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  SHANE LOWRY

  SCOUTING REPORT

  Position: Offensive Guard

  Height: 6-5 Weight: 296 Age: 25

  Born: Everett, WA

  College: Nebraska

  High School: Cascade High School

  Draft Declaration: December 16th

  Awards

  SENIOR YEAR:

  Joe Moore Award - Nebraska Offensive Line

  First Team All-American

  JUNIOR YEAR:

  First Team All-Big10

  First Team All-American

  SOPHOMORE YEAR:

  First Team All-Big-10 Selection

  FRESHMAN YEAR:

  College Football News First Team

  All-American

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHANE

  April 26th

  McGinty’s Pub

  Everett, WA

  “When I say ‘Shane’, you say ‘Lowry’! Shane!”

  “Lowry!” the bar shouts back.

  “Shane!”

  “Lowry!”

  I laugh, the thunder of my baritone covering the crowd. They stare up at me where I’m stationed on top of the bar. They have smiles on their faces and stars in their eyes. I’m a god here tonight. I’m Zeus. I’m a legend. I’m a Super Bowl champion come home to let the huddled masses gleefully kiss the ring.

  “DJ!” I shout to the scrawny guy with the hipster glasses by the jukebox. “Spin that shit!”

  He nods obediently before punching in the numbers I gave him. I know them by heart. This is my jam. It has been since I was seventeen and first started sneaking into this place to hit on women way out of my league and get buzzed on watered down rum and Cokes.

  Timbaland’s Throw It On Me comes bursting out over the speakers throughout the bar. Terry has turned it up for me. It has to be louder than usual to be heard over the crowd gathered around me. I stand tall, my head nearly touching the ceiling, a beer in one hand and the crowd held securely in the palm of the other.

  I rap to the song that I know by heart. It’s terrible. I’m terrible because I’m a white boy and I don’t have an ounce of gangster in my big-ass body, but I don’t give a shit. I’m not up here to be praised. I’m here to have fun, drink beer, and flirt with every woman in a ten mile radius.

  Living in L.A., I don’t get this kind of attention. The place is flooded with celebrities, and a football player is less likely to be noticed than, say, Leonardo DiCaprio or Zac-fuckin-Efron. But Everett, Washington is something else. I’m not just a celebrity here. I’m their everything. I get recognized at the Costco. The Dari Mart down the street. I can’t go into the post office without getting swarmed. Hell, there’s been a framed picture of me on the wall in McGinty’s Pub since before I started coming here.

  Because in Everett, I’m the Efron.

  When the song ends, I throw my arms wide to embrace the people and the vibe that’s bouncing off the walls, ceiling, floor, and cleavage of every sexy slice of pretty peppered through the room. I feel it in my chest. It rumbles under my feet as they applaud and scream, cheering me on. Begging for more.

  “Who do you love?!” I demand.

  “Lowry!”

  “Who do you love?!?!”

  “Lowry!”

  I smile, pointing my beer at all of them. “That’s what I like to hear. Terry!” I swirl my finger through the air. “I’m covering everyone’s tab tonight.”

  “Whoo!”

  Terry, an old veteran with long white hair and one big green eye, nods curtly. He’s locked down tight. I’m not sure he even has emotions, but the look on his face is as close to joy as I’ve ever seen. He’ll make a killing tonight. It’ll probably be the first time since the last time I was here. It’s the reason I came to McGinty’s tonight and every night I’m in town. Terry’s been good to me since before I was me. I owe him the same show of respect. The best way I can manage that right now is with the Black Amex I gave him when I kicked off the party that’s now raging through his bar.

  I wave at the roaring swarm of people at my feet. “Clear a hole!”

  They part like the seas for Moses so I can jump down to the ground in one smooth move. Hands slap me on the back. People bump against me, shouting things I can’t quite hear, but I nod and smile. Whatever it is, it’s good. That’s all I need to know.

  Out of the throng surrounding me, a brunette with a high ponytail and flushed cheeks launches herself against me. Her legs go around my waist, her arms around my neck. Her mouth seals solidly over mine.

  I don’t fight it. I go with it, holding her to my body with both arms around her waist and my tongue sliding home inside her mouth. She tastes like Pabst and kisses about the same; sloppy. She’s a warm, wet mess that I need to get away from sooner than later, but for now, just for a second more, I lean into the moment because that’s my mantra. It’s the way I live every moment of every second of my life. I lean in. I give everything one hundred. Three hundred and sixty-five.

  When her kisses get a little too greedy and her hips start to grind against mine, I untangle myself easily from her arms. I set her down gently, giving her a smooth smile to soften the blow. I keep hold of her narrow hips until I see her friends clustered to my right. It’s easy to spot them by the collection of cell phones recording every moment of the kiss. That’s the girl’s bragging rights for the
year. She briefly made out with Shane Lowry – Los Angeles Kodiak’s left tackle, Everett legend, and Hustle magazine’s Beefcake of the Year Award winner.

  I gently nudge the girl into their general direction. She stumbles safely into their collective arms.

  “Get her home safe, okay?” I tell them with a smile.

  They giggle and nod. No one forms a coherent sentence in reply.

  “Shane! Shane! Hey, man! Can we get a picture?”

  I stop to pose for a picture with my DJ and his friends. That one picture turns into ten as more people step up to replace them once the first round disappears. It goes on and on until I’m nearly blind from the flashes.

  “Time out, guys!” I shout to the next group of people moving in for their chance at a picture. “I’ve gotta take a piss. I’ll be right back.”

  My exit is followed by groans of disappointment and proclamations of love. I catch the standard plea from one woman to put a baby in her. Tempting as that offers sounds, I make my move toward the bathroom without looking back.

  I don’t actually need to pee. I need a break. As much as I love this shit, it gets to you after a while. It’s creeping on one in the morning, meaning I’ve been here for four hours. I’ve only finished one beer but I’ve kept that bottle in my hand to keep people from offering to buy me more. Celebrity is a drug. It can feel amazing but it can also screw you. Alcohol makes me stupid and being stupid can get me in a lot of trouble. More than I’m already in. I can’t get in a fight tonight, and it’s been my experience that the key ingredients for fights are alcohol and testosterone. This bar is drowning in both.

  Once I’m in the men’s room, I put a guard down on the toilet seat and park my fully clothed ass on it. I pull out my phone to cruise ESPN. Tonight was the Draft and I’m curious who we picked up. I should be in L.A. at the stadium watching with the team, but I needed time away. It’s been a crazy couple of months for me.

  Before I can find the list of Draft picks for the night, I come across an article about Tom Berg, the quarterback for the Giants. The headline is shouting scandal but I can’t believe it. The guy is straight edge as they come.

  “You’re hiding.”

  I jolt, nearly dropping my phone in the toilet. “Jesus Christ!”

  “Calm down, Sally,” Clint drones from the stall next door.

  I glare at the mint green wall between us. “How the hell did you know it was me in here?”

  “Your shoes. They’re stupid. Only an L.A. asshole like you would wear shoes like that.”

  “Sorry we can’t all wear the same Chucks we’ve had since high school.”

  “Who are you hiding from?” my brother asks.

  “Everyone. I was going flash blind out there.”

  “Poor baby,” he grunts. The toilet flushes loudly as he unlocks his stall. He comes around to stand in front of me with his pants still undone and his shirt covered in what I fuckin’ hope is water. His curly brown hair looks wet too. So does his beard. “You know if you didn’t rile ‘em up,” he burps with worried eyes before continuing, “they wouldn’t swarm you.”

  “Have you been drinking from the toilet bowl again?”

  “No. I’ve been vomiting in the toilet bowl again.”

  “Is that puke on your shirt?”

  He glances down at it, swaying on his feet a little. “No. That’s a drink. I spilled a drink.”

  “In your hair?”

  Clint touches his head gingerly. He laughs when he feels the wet locks on his forehead. “That’s funny.”

  “Is it? ‘Cause you’re the only one laughing.”

  “I’m the only one with a sense of humor. Dick.”

  “Button your pants.”

  “Button your… face.”

  “Good one.”

  “Fuck off,” he mumbles.

  At the sink, he watches himself zip up his pants in the mirror with great determination. Like he’s splitting atoms, not putting his penis away.

  “You fuck anyone yet?” he asks me absently.

  “No,” I chuckle.

  “Isn’t that why you came out tonight? To get your dick wet?”

  “No. I came out to have fun.”

  “Sex is fun.

  “How would you know?”

  “Ha!” he laughs loud and false. “You’re funny.”

  “You’re shit-faced.”

  “And I’m still funnier than you are.”

  “A dildo says what?” I ask rapidly.

  He frowns at his own face. “Huh?”

  “Close enough.”

  “You know what I hate about you?” he asks the faucet as he washes his hands. “You take the easy route. You always have.”

  “I’m in the NFL!” I cry indignantly. “How can I have taken the easy route?”

  “You were good at it so you did it. Woopty shit! Have you ever tried doing something you’re not good at? It’s hard. But you’d never know that because you don’t do things like that. You only do what’s easy. Try talking to a girl who doesn’t give a shit who you are and see how easy it is to get with her then.”

  “Dude, I do that in L.A. all the time. That’s my life there.”

  “Then why are you here in Everett?”

  I frown at his stupid face in the mirror. “Fuck you, that’s why.”

  “You’re here because it’s hard to win a girl over with personality instead of fame. You know, like normal guys have to do.”

  I snort. “Thank God I’m not a normal guy.”

  “I’d like you better if you were.” He wipes his hands on a shredded piece of paper towel before tossing it at the base of the garbage bin, though he didn’t mean to. I’m pretty sure he meant to bank it but he has no skill. Sober or sloshed. “But, nope! You’re Shane Lowry. You’re a nutsack.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nutsack Sally!” he sings in falsetto.

  “Alright, buddy, that’s enough,” I groan, rising from my toilet. I put my hand under his arm to lead him toward the door. “Let’s get you home to the basement, you little troll.”

  He leans on me hard. It should be tough to carry half his weight considering what a chubby shit he his, but I’m stone against him. I work out six days a week, six hours a day. I could carry him out of here princess style if I wanted to.

  “Don’t you have to get back to your adoring fans?” he slurs thickly.

  I steer him toward the back exit, away from the crowd that’s waiting to swallow me whole. Clint doesn’t need the mob right now. He doesn’t need a Super Bowl champ. He needs his big brother. He needs his bedroom, a bucket, and a glass of water on the nightstand, so that’s what I’m going to get him. “Nah, man, I’m good for tonight.”

  He hiccups roughly. “Don’t tell Mom I was drinking, okay?”

  “Dude, you’re twenty-one. She doesn’t care.”

  “Don’t tell her!” he panics.

  “Whatever,” I laugh. “Yeah. I won’t tell her.”

  “Can we get Taco Bell on the way home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you buy me a burrito?”

  “I’ll buy you two, bro.”

  “Thanks, nutsack.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  SUTTON

  April 27th

  KBC Studios

  Los Angeles, CA

  I hate these meetings. Eric always calls them at the oddest hours, as though we’re expected to be awake and functioning at any time because that’s the way he is. But no one else in the world is like Eric Croft. No one should be. Especially at five-thirty A.M..

  “Cocaine.” Eric drops the newspaper down on the conference table with a theatrical thump. “Tom Berg was caught buying a shitload of it. He’s out of the NFL. He’s probably going to jail, so needless to say, he’s off the show. We can’t use him in the special.”

  “Damn,” I mutter under my breath. The cover of the paper stares up at me, mocking me. Crushing my dreams into powder as fine as the dust Tom was planning to snort up his nose.


  To my right, Clara rubs my arm consolingly. Over the years, she’s become sort of a stand-in mother for me here on the show. She gives good advice that I rarely take, but it’s nice to know someone cares enough to try.

  “How much is a ‘shitload’ of coke?” McKay asks Eric curiously.

  “I don’t know, McKay. A lot.”

  “But where did you get the measurement of a ‘shitload’?”

  Eric sighs. He pushes his hand through the thick, black hair hanging down over his forehead. It’s graying lightly around the temples. He won’t bother covering it because as handsome as he is, Eric isn’t vain. He’s driven and it’s his drive that’s made him start to gray at only thirty-six. His face is covered in a meticulous layer of scruff, the sides of his head shaved nearly bald, making the deep blue of his eyes glow like neon. “The paper said it was ‘copious amounts’. I took license and translated that to roughly a shitload. Okay?”

  It is not okay. McKay doesn’t deal in abstracts like ‘copious amounts’ and ‘a shitload’. He likes facts and figures, but he can see that Eric isn’t supplying those this morning so he nods in acceptance of the nothing he’s been given.

  Eric takes a step back from the table to address the entire room. There’s a select few of us present at this early hour. Eric, of course, our executive producer. Taj, his underling. Our choreographer and my Mother Hen, Clara. Two lawyers named Bill and Bob, though which is which, I can never remember. The show’s talent scout, Becky. McKay, our director. And me, a professional dancer. I’m only here because this Tom news affects me the most. Up until this morning, he was my partner on Dance the Night Away as well as one of the most feared quarterbacks in the NFL.

  Now he’s just some cokehead rotting away in a jail cell.

  “The head of the network has already spoken to the Chairman of the NFL,” Eric continues. “They both agreed that the best thing for everyone is to find a replacement for Tom as soon as possible. After this meeting, none of you have ever heard of Tom Berg. If you’re asked about him, you have no comment. We want to distance ourselves and the show as far from him as possible.”