Gunslinger: A Sports Romance Read Online Free PDF Page A

Whether we'd rather be riding bikes or eating water ice because it was so hot. It was our duty as Stevensons to be there.  
    Football is our legacy.
    In those days we played on some of the hottest, humid Philadelphia summer mornings straight through to the late afternoons. I remember feeling many times like I was going to keel over and pass out. Luckily my older brother Michael knew when I was about to eat rocks, and made sure to pour a pint of Gatorade down my throat, before I met my maker.
    That's exactly the same way I feel now. Blazing hot, and a bit nauseous, but I can't totally blame the heat for it. If I'm going to be totally honest, I haven't been sticking to my usual clean diet of protein and veggies. I ate crap and drank more beer than I should've last night, because I felt like wallowing. Hell, I deserve to wallow. I'm in a miserable situation.  
    Last year my team, The New York Nighthawks, finished second to last place in the league. The year before that we were dead last. The year before that? Hell, I don't even like to think about my rookie year. We sucked balls. And right this very minute, we don't look any fucking better than we did last season. Which is nuts because ...  
    I'm the franchise player.  
    The star.  
    I put butts in the seats and pay the bills around here. So why is my team complete trash? I'll tell you why. I don't have any support. I'm getting my ass kicked out here week after week, and nobody in the head office is doing anything about it. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to diagnose what the problem is. I see it. My father sees it. The fans see it too.  
    Management needs to concentrate on working the kinks out of my offensive line. Unfortunately to stay well under the team's salary cap, our penny pinching owner has secured all these wet behind the ear rookies or broken down veterans that the coaching staff seems to be struggling to put in place to protect me out there on the field. It's even more critical now because we've finished the pre-game season, and now we're about to enter into the regular season, and they still don't have it figured out.  
    Unfortunately that's always been the biggest problem here in New York. Finding the right players at the right price point to protect me every Sunday, because I get sacked more than any other quarterback in the league, and that shit is no fun. When commentators throw out my stats in a broadcast it sounds as if I'm the worst quarterback to have ever played the game, and that I don't know my ass from my elbow. But that's far from the truth.  
    I'm the shit.  
    I was the number one draft pick.  
    I won the Heisman Trophy.  
    I've been raised to dominate and to win. So I definitely know how to avoid my opponents when I'm on the field, but the fact remains that I need time to throw the ball. It's that simple. Football 101. You can't blame me if management can't do their jobs, and pay five good men more money then they've ever seen in their lives to protect me and give me time to throw the damn ball.
    "Stevenson!"
    "Yes, coach."
    "Meet the new guy. We're putting him in place of Wachowski."
    That's just great. Ten minutes ago my tight end got trampled, and the backup is suspended because of a drug violation; so now after halftime, I'm going to be thrown in the middle of the goddamn game with a tight end I've never met before.  
    I realize that injuries and last minute replacement of players is part of the game, but I still hate that shit. I'm having a hard enough time establishing chemistry with the players that I already know.  
    "Pleasure, man," the new guy says eagerly.
    I reluctantly shake hands with this big ass, grinning, muscle-head who appears to be my new tight end. I don't feel like meeting this kid right now, because we're losing and I'm pissed. Plus I don't feel like making pleasantries, or getting friendly with new players. He may not make the cut. Then I've gotten all attached for nothing. I learned that hard lesson my rookie