Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130380 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130380 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Jordan smiled at Keon, nudging his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Yeah. And, Mason, you wouldn’t have been able to take Keon down if Jordan hadn’t slowed him with that attempted tackle, huh?”
“Probably not. He’s so fast,” Mason said.
“And it was a great tackle,” Keon said to Mason before I could prompt him. “You really wrapped me up, I couldn’t break it even if I wanted to.”
“See?” I said, thumping each of them playfully. “Now that’s what makes you stronger as a player and team right there.”
Coach Henderson’s shadow washed over the four of us, and I stood to join him as he nodded toward the field. “Alright, you three, back out there.”
“Yes, Coach!” they said in unison, and then they were jogging back out to play, laughing to each other instead of fighting.
Coach Henderson was the head coach of the Pee Wee team I’d been assisting him with since my sophomore year at North Boston University. It started as an accident, really — just me stuck on campus over the summer and bored, looking for something to do that wasn’t conditioning. That was about all we could do during the summer without breaking the rules of college ball. There were no real practices until fall camp.
Henderson had seen how antsy I was and offered me this unpaid job — one I took without thinking twice.
“They’re going to miss you next year,” he commented as the kids lined up for another play.
“Ah, most of them will be moving on to the next level, anyway,” I said. “And those who aren’t won’t be thinking of me.”
“You’d be surprised. You’ve really made an impact with these kids.” He paused, shaking his head. “Though I find you giving them advice on being humble quite comical.”
“Hey, I’m as humble as they come,” I said defensively.
“Right. What was it you said in that interview after the championship game last year?” He tapped his chin. “Oh, that’s right. I’ve broken two school records in my three years here, and by the time I leave, I’ll break them all.”
I blinked. “What? That’s just facts. NBU has never had a running back like me and you know it.”
He smirked and shook his head, clamping a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe just practice a bit of what you preach, eh, kid?”
I shrugged him off, but smiled, because maybe he was right. Maybe I could use a slice of humble pie on my plate now and then. But that just wasn’t how I rolled. For me, the key to success had always been cockiness.
Play like hell. Rub it in every defender’s face when they can’t stop me. And remind anyone who asks that I’m the best there’s ever been.
It didn’t matter if it was true or not. When you said something enough, you started to believe it. And when you believed it, you became it.
Those were my father’s words, and I held them like a creed.
My dad, Nick Parkinson, was and still is the best receiver to have ever played at Southern Alabama University. He was also a beast in the NFL until an injury ended his career, but not before he’d made enough cash and connections to set up a place for him in the sport forever. Now, while he spent most of his time as a commentator on television or an advisor for young players, he lived out the rest of his dream through me.
When Coach blew the final whistle of practice, I helped pack up before hitting the gym on campus. Some of my teammates slacked during the summer, only showing up for the bare minimum of what was required of them. But I wouldn’t be caught dead doing the same.
Summer was what separated the good from the great, the college athletes from the ones who would go pro. I used every bit of my time working toward my ultimate goal.
To play in the NFL, just like my dad.
I was drenched in sweat by the time I climbed in my car to head to my campus home — affectionately known as The Snake Pit. It was the team house, bought in the 80s and passed on through generations and generations of players. It was home base, the house we partied at when we won and strategized at when we lost. It was old and decrepit and — now that our responsible, clean, and organized quarterback had graduated and gone pro — a lot messier than it used to be.
But it was home.
As I drove, one arm on the steering wheel and the other hanging out my driver side window, I soaked in the warmth of summer, the feeling this particular summer brought me. It was the last one of my school career, one final summer before senior year at North Boston University.
Before my final year of college ball.
We were champs now, coming off one of the hottest seasons in our school history. Going into the start of the season with that number one rank would be sweet, but it would also mean we had a target on our back — one I had full plans to make impossible to hit.