Free Fourth and Goal by Jami Davenport

fucking nice guy? Being a guilt-free asshole like Tyler had its advantages. Except he'd never be able to live with himself.
    He reached for his cell and started to call his father, hesitated, and laid the phone on the patio table. His dad and stepmother were on an anniversary trip to Mexico. His sister was in grad school working on a thesis. He felt abandoned by everyone who cared for him. No surprise there. He had been abandoned by his real mother. So he guessed a shrink would say he had abandonment issues. Hell if he knew. Right now that subject was too damn heavy to consider.
    Simon trotted out of the woods with ball in mouth and waited for him to throw it again. With a pat to Simon's head, Derek trudged into the house and grabbed a beer from the fridge and popped the top off the bottle. He brought it up to his lips, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat. Maybe he'd get stinking drunk by himself, but somehow that didn't appeal to him either. Simon curled up on the rug in the corner and started snoring. Oh if only Derek's life could be so simple.
    Restless, he decided to check on the horses. He took another swig and tossed the half-empty bottle in the garbage. Leaving Simon napping, he slipped out the door.
    Dusk settled over the warm summer night and cast long shadows across the tree-lined driveway. The gravel crunched under his feet. An owl hooted in the distance. He rounded a corner and stopped in the shadows.
    A vehicle rumbled down the county road, slowed, and turned into the farm entrance. It stopped in front of Rachel's cottage. It had to be Harvey; nothing else made that kind of noise. He hesitated, uncertain what to do, as if he hadn't worn a path in his carpet waiting for her.
    He hated being vulnerable, didn't like people to see him bleed no matter how well he knew them.
    As he watched, Rachel got out of the truck and headed for her front door. She paused and leaned against her porch railing and stared up the hill at his house. Gripping her cell phone, she dialed a number, waited, then flipped it shut and shook her head. She was trying to call him. Again.
    He couldn't stomach her pity. Not after he'd celebrated with her last night, while all the time she'd known he wasn't good enough to make the team. She'd witnessed his performance, and she knew her football.
    Tripping over something, Rachel grabbed the railing and righted herself. After a quick glance around as if making sure no one had caught her latest bout of clumsiness, she disappeared into the house.
    Like a coward, Derek turned tail and made his way back to his house. Keeping the lights off, he ignored her repeated calls and everyone else's. Images flitted across his big-screen TV, but he never saw them. Numb with grief, he finally fell asleep.
    Ignoring the sympathetic look from the security guard, Derek faked a cocky smile and tipped his baseball cap to the old man. He rounded the corner, then stole into the empty locker room. Pausing inside the doorway, he looked around one last time. Tyler's locker featured several pictures of himself, such as a Sports Pulse magazine cover shot. The Jack's All-Pro tackle, Mountain Morris's locker ran over with crap, including several pairs of shoes, pads, and jerseys. Derek never moved too close because it smelled like something might have gotten lost in the mess and died in there. The poor rookies on either side of him couldn't get within five feet of their lockers, not that they'd want to.
    Shaking his head, Derek moved across the room. That last catch had been too little too late. Sometimes childhood dreams faded and died. This one had gone out with a bang and a whimper.
    Anxious to end the worst twenty-four hours of his life, he stuffed the items from his locker into the duffel bag. He still couldn't believe it. Sure, Coach had been apologetic, said all the expected things, like what a tough choice it was, but they had to go with a sure thing rather than an unknown quantity.
    Damn ! Derek slammed his fist