I Hate Football Players 3 | 18+

Chapter 95: Logan

"Listen up Dawgs!" Emmitt's voice barked out loudly over the hummed pregame locker room activity. One-quarter of the way through the season, the sensuous physical toll had started on some of the guys' bodies.

Thanks to Ellie's clean eating, which I had a newfound perspective towards after she told me she cooked that way because of her PCOS conditions, and my post-workout focus that now included nightly ice baths, physically I felt fantastic. But a lot more athletic tape was administered on ankles, toes, and fingers, to name a few body parts. Knee and wrist bands and braces were slipped on underneath pads.

While Emmitt launched into his pregame hype-up speech, Wes grinned sideways at me. We'd had a productive week offensively during practice, the ones Monday through Thursday that I'd attended anyways, where I clicked with him, Reese, and Seth in one rehearsed short-yard pass play after another. By the way Wes' nearest knee bounced, I knew he was as ready as I felt.

My fingers twitched and I absently listened to Emmitt's speech but more studied his current physical condition. His walking boot had been replaced with a black brace stuffed into his shoes and he still limped but his gait was much improved.

Guess he recovered fast, wonder if he'll play this season.

For Emmitt's credit, he'd handled the injury pretty well, at least from my perspective as the guy who'd taken his roster spot.

He's been a lot more mature than I expected.

"Charlie told me he's trying to rehab in time for the draft letters." Wes nodded in Emmitt's direction as we strapped on our helmets and chin guards.

My eyebrows lifted at that lofty goal. "Think he'll make it?"

"Previous record and team workouts will say for sure," Wes answered in a low voice. "But he probably won't make the combine in February."

"That sucks," I replied quietly.

The NFL combine was an invitation-only event where potential draft-eligible football players had their physical abilities and character evaluated by all thirty-two teams. The two-day event was just as much a showcase of each of the roughly four-hundred attendees' abilities as unofficial tryouts that hopefully impressed the teams prior to the NFL draft.

"Dawgs in the house!" Emmitt's near-yelled chant broke through my thoughts and vibrated off the walls around us.

Almost the entire locker room erupted in a returned, "Who!"

"Louder!" he commanded with a challenged glare around the room. "Dawgs in the house!"

Collectively, the chant gained volume and energy, "Who!"

Fists tightly clenched, he marched back and forth in front of the room, and chanted in rolling route, "Dawgs in the house, Dawgs in the house, Dawgs in the house!!"

Every Husky-uniformed body in the room stood at attention, sucked in a collective breath, then screamed in unison, "Who! Who! Who!!"

As he launched into the last part of his amp-up speech, I leaned against my locker, wrapped my gloves around my hands, then stretched the black leather with a couple squeezed and released fists. Pregame, halftime, and postgame speeches weren't my strength and Emmitt still wore the 'C' for the team's captain, so I gladly stepped back and just mentally prepped myself for the game. My mind clicked through the setup plays we'd pushed through all week.

Cover four short slants, lats, and hooks, cover six deep fake. Cover four short slants, lats, and hooks, cover six deep fake. Cover four short slants, lats, and hooks, cover six deep fake....