The Price of Mason (Forbidden Men 10)

“Uh…” Cringing, I rubbed the back of my neck as it heated with humiliation. “I tripped.”

He blinked once, twice. Then his eyebrows shot up. “You tripped? Over what?”

My wince turned into a gulp before I mumbled, “My feet.”

“Christ, kid.” Sighing, he stepped back and ran a harassed hand through his hair.

On the field, the quarterback who’d replaced me hiked the ball, and the center snapped it to him, causing the offensive and defensive lines to rush at each other, helmets clashing, bodies impacting, grunts cursing. The new quarterback, blessed with a grace and agility that made me sniff with bitterness, reversed smoothly before planting his feet and winding back his arm to launch the ball to a receiver. Too bad he hadn’t lost his balance and gone tumbling onto his ass the same way I had when I’d tried that same exact maneuver. Though I did get a small jolt of satisfaction when he couldn’t quite connect with the receiver, and a safety intercepted the ball instead. If I hadn’t fallen on my ass, I would’ve made that pass. No problem.

“What the hell are we going to do about you, Julian?” Coach said in exasperation, shaking his head over the pick on the field as he turned back to me. “You’re the fastest kid on the team, you have the most accurate throwing arm, and you might be more dedicated and determined than any player I’ve ever coached before. But you have absolutely no coordination or balance in your damn feet. It’s like something is blocking the path from your brain to your toes. You fall down more than you can stay upright.”

“I know.” Heaving out a depressed breath, I bowed my head as I shook it shamefully. “I’m sorry.”

“Camp ends at the end of this week. Try-outs are in a month. And you are nowhere near good enough to make the cut. I know how much you want this, Julian, and how hard you’ve been working for it. Pick is literally going to kill me if you don’t make the team.”

At the mention of my dad, I glanced up. My father was basically the coolest, most chill guy on the planet. Nothing pissed him off, unless you wronged one of his kids. But this was not one of those situations.

“He won’t,” I assured, knowing my dad. He wouldn’t blame the coach at all. And honestly, he wouldn’t blame me either. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even be disappointed. He wasn’t one of those sports-fanatic or even pushy dads. Honestly, he probably only got into football these days because I was obsessed with it.

“Well, it’ll break my heart if you don’t make the team,” Coach muttered moodily. “So I’ve come up with a plan that might just work.” Then he winced and added, “If you’re willing to try it.”

I perked to attention, only to frown over that last part, because…willing to try it? What the hell did that mean?

“What’s your plan?” I hedged suspiciously.

He sighed, obviously nervous about telling me, which only put me more on edge. Jesus, what did he want to do with me, perform a lobotomy?

“Look, I’ve been doing some research, and I think I’ve come up with an idea to help with the balance and coordination thing.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, rolling my hand to convince him to spill it already. “What?”

He winced and rubbed the back of his neck before mumbling, “Dancing.”

My eyebrows lifted and my head cocked to the side, because I swear I’d just heard him say dancing.

“Come again?” I murmured. Damn, how hard had I cracked my head on that last play? Did I have a concussion? Why was I suddenly hearing the word dance come from my football coach’s mouth?

He lifted a hand as if I were going to argue with him, which I hadn’t planned on doing, because I was still waiting for him to tell me what his real plan to fix me was. “Just hear me out. The article I read says it can help football players in a lot of ways. It’ll boost your core strength, leg strength, foot strength, and most importantly...your coordination.”

My mouth fell open. Well, hell. He was serious. He was really fucking serious. He expected me to take a dance class. I mean, I had no issue with dancing, personally. It was perfectly fine for anyone else to take one or twelve of them. I even enjoyed watching my sister’s recitals. But it was most certainly not my thing.

Because I couldn’t dance. Like at all. It was beyond pathetic, I was quite aware. I blamed my birth mother entirely, as I always liked to do when I wasn’t good at something.

So, of course, I said, “No fucking way.”

Coach was quiet a moment, studying me with his arms crossed over his chest. Then he dropped the bomb, announcing, “I already enrolled you in your sister’s class.”

“What? You can’t do that.” Could he?

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“I did,” he assured, nodding. “Pick even paid for it.”

Fuck! Dad was in on this too? That traitor! He knew I had absolutely no rhythm. He’d seen me turn Mom and both of my sisters down numerous times over the years when they’d tried to get me to even play around and dance in the living room with them. I was seriously that afraid to even attempt it.

“Noel,” I whined. “Seriously, man, please don’t make me do this. I’m just going to humiliate myself.”

With a sympathetic cringe, he slapped a hand onto my shoulder. “You know I can’t make you do anything, but I really think you should. So it is my strong recommendation that you at least try it.”