The Number Seven (bxb) - Birds of Prey Series: book 1

Asher joined the team for warm-ups, which consisted of stretches, three slow laps around the stadium, and a few sit-ups. He didn't miss the snickers from the team as they ran. If anything, it compelled him to move faster.

Asher might not've been particularly strong. In fact, there wasn't a muscle on him compared to the other men in uniform. But he was fast.

He was faster than all of them.

He finished his laps a solid minute before the rest of the team, got a head-start on his sit-ups, and then he was benched while Mikey punted the ball.

It was interesting watching the team play against one another up close. It wasn't particularly intense, but they were certainly stretching their muscles out on the field.

Jack had eyes on the back of his head, and seemed able to sense the slightest movement from the defense. Owen and Lucas were only decipherable by the numbers on their backs and their positions on the field—and the two were practically at each other's throats from the first snap. Owen was hungry for a quick sack, and Lucas was fending him off like his life depended on it.

The task wasn't taxing for long. Jack was quick with his throws, and hit his target nine-out-of-ten times. And nine-out-of-ten times, his target was heavily guarded by Jessy in the outfield.

When the time finally came for Asher to kick, he did so shamelessly in his woman's shorts. Despite Coach Hensky's begging and pleading for him to change, Asher refused to carry any sort of shame with him onto the field.

He ignored the snickers and murmurs as he approached the ball—which was held steady on the field by Mikey—and kicked. It was a surprisingly hard kick without constrictive pants to hold him back, and the ball went flying easily into the goal post.

Coach's whistle sounded and Asher returned to the bench while the team traded out and all the backup players were brought in to take the field.

"For the love of god," Coach snapped at him, "put some damn pants on."

"No," said Asher, still panting from the jog over. "I like them, they're breezy."

He took a seat by Casey who laughed and slung an arm over his shoulder. "Told you, Coach. He's a tough nut to crack, even for Jack."

"Good," Coach grumbled. He wouldn't smoke during practice, but Asher could tell he was itching for a cigarette. "That kid is the only cracked nut we need on this team."

Asher could sense a shift in the mood when he said it. A tip toward something more sullen and dysmal—even in how Casey's arm went slack around Asher's shoulder.

Neither man said a word, and Asher assumed they were alluding to the fact that the team was a complete and utter skeleton.

In total, the roster consisted of close to fifty players—which seemed incredibly low to Asher. Most of the backups were running laps or training privately on the field outside of the stadium, but even then, the numbers didn't add up.

Most college teams had close to one-hundred players on roster. What was it about Kingsly that made it so difficult for Coach Hensky to get his hands on decent players?

Even the special teams was bare bones. Asher was the only kicker, Mikey the only punter, and there were three returners. There wasn't even a long-snapper; one of the backup centers took on the role for Mikey. And when it was Asher's turn to kick, Mikey did it.

He couldn't wrap his head around how a team like this was supposed to survive the season. There were hardly enough backups for a second string roster, let alone a third.