FALSE START (Gods of the Gridiron Book 2) Read online

  FALSE START

  GODS OF THE GRIDIRON: BOOK 2

  Shanna Swenson

  FALSE START

  Shanna Swenson

  FALSE START is an original work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, businesses, companies, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Shanna Swenson

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7329626-6-8

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval systems or other electronic or mechanical means, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names, such as the NFL and its teams, used within this book are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publisher nor the book are associated with any products or vendors mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within have endorsed this book. The Atlanta Gladiators are a fictitious football team used for entertainment purposes only.

  www.shannaswenson.com

  For permission requests, write to the author at [email protected]

  Edited by Jennifer Soucy

  ebook design by: OliviaProDesign

  Gods of the Gridiron logo designed by:

  Books and Moods Designs

  Contents

  FOREWORD

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  SNEAK PEAK AT PASS INTERFERENCE

  AFTERWORD

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ALSO BY SHANNA SWENSON

  ABOUT SHANNA SWENSON

  ZEUS- THE KING OF THE GODS

  "O Zeus, much-honoured, Zeus supremely great, to thee our holy rites we consecrate, our prayers and expiations, king divine, for all things to produce with ease through mind is thine. Hence mother earth (gaia) and mountains swelling high proceed from thee, the deep and all within the sky. Kronion (Cronion) king, descending from above, magnanimous, commanding, sceptred Zeus; all-parent, principle and end of all, whose power almighty shakes this earthly ball; even nature trembles at thy mighty nod, loud-sounding, armed with lightning, thundering god. Source of abundance, purifying king, O various-formed, from whom all natures spring; propitious hear my prayer, give blameless health, with peace divine, and necessary wealth."

  —Orphic Hymn 15 to Zeus (trans. Taylor) (Greek hymns C3rd B.C. to 2nd A.D.)

  Zeus most glorious and most great, Thundercloud, throned in the heavens!

  —Homer’s Iliad

  For my first cousins—Brandy, Jessica, Paige, April, Brooke, Diane, and Rachel

  I absolutely loved spending my childhood with you!

  May we never stop dreaming

  FOREWORD

  In case you weren’t sure—the male MC in this book, Brett “Brickhouse” McFadden was inspired by none other than the legendary gunslinger himself #4 for the Green Bay Packers, Brett Lorenzo Favre.

  Since I was thirteen-years-old, the man and his incredible talents have always captivated me.

  So, without further ado, meet who I deemed Zeus, the king of the gods, on the following pages…

  PROLOGUE

  It was the coldest, most dreary day in February that Brett “Brickhouse” McFadden could ever remember. The wind was unrelenting and the rain merciless, coming down with such force that it stung his back through his thick, black leather jacket. He stood, frigid as stone, at the graveside service of his best friend and favorite wide receiver, Hunter Thomas. The torrential rain pounded along the tarp overhead, which whipped continuously in the wind. The storm drowned out the preacher’s eulogy, adding to the already solemn mood of the day.

  Brett looked over to Hunter’s widow, Madison Hope Thomas, the woman who’d been his best friend since they first met as children at the ripe age of seven. She sat in front and to the right of him, not far from his reach or his gaze. His heart went out to her. She appeared broken and numb; he knew she was because he also felt the same way. He’d been in the car with Hunter the day he died. He was driving Hunter’s car when they’d been hit. He’d been at the hospital when Hunter was pronounced dead.

  It was a horrible nightmare he should soon awake from at any moment, yet he continued to be encapsulated unwillingly in it. He watched the tears stream down Madi’s face in a continuous flow—or maybe it was the rain; he honestly couldn’t tell. She’d given up the handkerchief long ago when it became as soaked as everything else was.

  The preacher seemed to be done with his sermon and stepped toward Madi. She stood and wrapped her arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder. She’d known the old man most her life, Reverend James Young; he’d been her mentor, her preacher and her baptizer.

  Brett’s heart ached for her. She and Hunter had been married for a little over five years and they’d loved each other immensely. Hunter had been an easy going, fun-loving, class-clown type guy. He’d made everyone laugh, while Brett was the more serious one of the trio.

  Madi was the girl next door: a smart, beautiful, classy, southern woman who was—and always had been—the epitome of perfect in Brett’s eyes. He and Madi had been very close since childhood when Brett’s father, Drew McFadden, was hired on as GM of the Atlanta Gladiators football team by Madi’s father, Jerry Taylor, owner and president of the Gladiators— the team that Brett currently and Hunter, formerly, played for. Brett and Madi had been raised together, gone to every single school together, then met Hunter in college—quickly forming an everlasting bond with him. Hunter had immediately taken to Madi; they’d dated and were married not long after graduation. That day had been the worst day of Brett’s life…well, at least, up until today.

  Reverend Young had taken turns hugging everyone around the small group of gatherers at the graveside before suddenly and awkwardly hugging Brett. The old man’s attempt was short-lived as his small frame couldn’t embrace Brett’s larger build. Instead, he pulled back, looped one arm around Brett’s side, and patted his back.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Brett.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he replied despondently.

  “I know how much y’all are hurting right now, but you must take great care of Madi.”

  Brett couldn’t recall how many times he’d heard that in the last few days, as if he didn’t intend to do exactly that. He’d known what he had to do the minute he saw Madi in the ER waiting room, the minute she’d seen the look of despair on his face, the minute he’d caught her in his arms.

  The look Madi gave Brett when she entered the automatic doors of the ER tore his heart right open. She ran to him and looked into his face. He knew he was as white as a ghost—his friend had just died minutes before as he’d held his hand. Hunter had been in such pain, professing his past transgressions, and making Brett promise all sorts of things as he lay dying in a pool of his own blood.

  Brett grabbed Madi as she fell to her knees before him. She breathed
in and out rapidly as she bowed her head. “Oh, God! He’s gone, isn’t he?” She felt like putty in his arms, her voice ragged, on the verge of breaking.

  “I’m so sorry, Madi. I…I don’t even know what to say.”

  Hunter had wanted Brett to drive the brand-new McLaren he’d just bought. A ridiculous car, but Hunter was proud of it and wanted to show it off. Brett had obliged.

  The next thing he remembered was a deafening roar and screeching as time seemed to stand still. He remembered not being able to hear right away then assessing the situation: seeing Hunter crushed into the dashboard and thinking he was dead, right then and there; seeing red—so much red blood—and realizing Hunter wasn’t moving. The next thing he recalled was calling out for help, getting out of the car to find someone, the fear, trying to figure out what to do, praying, pleading, watching as the firefighters used the jaws of life to get Hunter out, the ambulance ride, the guilt, trying to save face as the EMTs worked on his friend…

  Then—sitting next to him, telling him that everything was going to be ok even though Brett knew in his heart it wasn’t going to be “ok”—the guilt. The conversation in the trauma bay after the doctor told Brett that nothing could be done to save him, that it was too late—regretting that it was too late—watching the light fade from Hunter’s eyes… The guilt, the ultimate guilt.

  “…so just turn to God in this time of need as He can hear your prayers and knows what you need before you even ask Him for it,” Reverend Young stated, giving a weak smile as he patted Brett on the arm.

  Brett came harshly back to reality and just nodded his head. The flashbacks were taking a toll on him. He inhaled deeply and moved behind Madi who spoke to Travis Redmond, Skyla Larson, Lincoln and Valeria Porter, TJ Rawlins, and Paxton Guthrie. Brett nodded solemnly to his teammates, the two women, then gently took Madi’s elbow with one hand, covering her with the large umbrella he’d been holding the entire time with the other. He pulled her into his side, tightly holding her as they walked in the direction of the road.

  No words were spoken as he and Madi’s mother, father, and sister headed toward the car. Brett held the umbrella over her as she stepped robotically into her father’s Buick then slid in beside her, closing the umbrella and placing it on the floorboard next to his leg. She fell into his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and sobbed into his shoulder as she’d done for the last three days. His heart broke once again. Oh, how many times can a heart break? he wondered again for the umpteenth time. It was as if the breaks simply got deeper and more painful as each piece re-broke over and over again.

  He looked over to Brooke—Madi’s sister, who was seated beside them—and frowned. Brooke just shook her head and looked away, propping her chin on her arm; she gazed out the window as a tear fell down her cheek. Madi’s dad, Jerry, who sat in the driver’s seat, caught his eye in the rear-view mirror, exhaled, and started the car. He simply stared ahead. Brett noticed the tears in the man’s eyes as he turned his head to look at his wife. Amelia, Madi’s mother, shifted her position in the passenger seat and reached out to take Madi’s hand. She gently squeezed and Madi returned it. Amelia frowned, tearfully looking up to Brett. He just gave her a weak smile.

  These people were his family, every single one of them. His parents were best friends with Madi’s parents. They’d all been as close as two families could’ve been. He’d always treated Madi’s mom and dad as his second mom and dad. And now, they’d lost one of their own.

  The silence was deafening as they rode back to Madi’s house. Only the pounding rain and wind seemed not to take the hint. Brett passed Madi a tissue from the center console and looked ahead as she sighed, blew her nose, and tried to calm herself. He simply sat, stroking her hair and arm in comfort.

  It wasn’t long before he closed his eyes, and all at once, they were pulling into Madi’s garage. They all got out silently, Brett taking Madi gently from the car and cradling her against his side as they walked into the house. Stepping through the mud room, Madi placed her handbag on the side counter and kicked off her shoes, sniffling as she went. She broke away from Brett as they entered the kitchen then stopped at the counter, seeming to be at a loss for what to do and where to go from there, staring off into space. Brett slipped his jacket off and placed it on the back of one of the kitchen stools, watching her the whole time. The rest of the family ambled in and removed their wet jackets, cautiously watching and waiting.

  Suddenly, Madi swung around and looked over to Brett with the most horrified expression on her face. As if she’d just realized something terrible, she brought her shoulders up into a shrug and her face crumpled. He moved to her swiftly and embraced her, holding her to his chest as she bawled like a baby. Amelia came up behind her and embraced her, stroking her hair. She shushed her daughter and tried to calm her, but to no avail. Madi was simply overcome with emotion, and no attempt at comfort would help at that moment. Healing was simply going to take time. Amelia pulled, and pulled, finally succeeding in separating Madi from Brett’s embrace.

  Madi was reluctant and protested, “No, Brett. I—”

  “Shh, hush now. Let’s go get you out of these wet clothes and into a warm bath, hmm?” Her mother stroked at her cheek and kissed the tear running down it. “C’mon,” Amelia soothed her daughter, taking her hand and leading her away and up the stairs.

  Madi continued to protest, “But, Brett…I—” She turned and reached for him, but her mother reassured her once more. “It’s alright, Madison.”

  “It’s ok, Sunflower, I’ll be up shortly, alright?” He nodded and smiled in encouragement. She contemplated that for a moment then finally turned and went upstairs with her mother.

  Jerry was the first one to break the silence. “Jesus, I don’t know about you, but I could sure use a drink.” With that, he walked toward the parlor. Brett turned to Brooke, who shook her head again. She grabbed a bottle of pills out of the pantry and mumbled, “I assume Madi’s gonna need these.” She headed up the stairs after Madi and her mother.

  Brett followed Jerry into the first room adjacent to the front door, the formal parlor. It was where the Thomas' hosted a small group and formerly where Brett and Hunter would have some drinks at the end of the night, on occasion.

  Jerry poured scotch into a highball glass, motioning with his eyes to Brett, who nodded that: yes, he did indeed want one. Brett lit the fireplace and threw some logs in while Jerry grabbed another glass, pouring a fair amount of scotch into it as well. He then grabbed both, handed Brett his glass, and they took a seat opposite one another as Jerry toasted Brett.

  “What a week, huh?” He meant it as a rhetorical question and continued. “Damn…I don’t even know…just DAMN.” He cursed and slammed his fist on the arm of the large, overstuffed Queen Anne chair he sat in. “Sorry,” he apologized, “but I hate to see my daughter like this. I know you do, too.” Brett just nodded and swallowed hard. “I’m gonna miss that son of a bitch, ya know?” He laughed tearfully, then sighed heavily and sat silent for several long moments.

  Brett listened to the rain and the crackle of the fire, struggling to relax his heavy heart and mind. “The next few weeks are gonna be real hard on my Madi. I just appreciate you being here for her, Brett.” Jerry reached forward and patted Brett on the knee. “You’re a good man. I’ve always known that, but the way you’ve been with Madi is truly commendable. She needs you. I guess you see that.” Jerry raised his eyebrows and scoffed. Then he fell into silence and sipped his scotch slowly.

  Suddenly, the front door burst open and in stumbled Frank Thomas, Hunter’s father. He struggled to get his sopping wet umbrella closed, mumbling curses all the while.

  “Well, c’mon in, Frank,” Jerry stated. “Would you care for a libation?”

  “Damn this weather today,” Frank said, slamming his umbrella into the slender stand near the door. “Nah, thanks though, Jer. I’m just gonna grab that casserole for Rita and I, and we’ll head on home. She’s not doing so well right now.
” Brett took that as his cue; he stood to go fetch the dish, motioning for Frank to take his seat. Frank shook his offered hand. “Too bad you couldn’t hear the damn preacher over this stupid rain. The flowers were awful beautiful though, huh? How’s our girl holding up?”

  Brett just shook his head sadly. “Not well, sir, not so well. How about you?”

  Frank sadly shook his head in return. “I’m trying to be as strong as I can for my wife, but I never expected to have to bury my only child today.” He ambled over to the sofa Brett had been sitting on as Brett turned to exit the room; guilt, once more, riddling his soul in ripping torment.

  “I’ll go grab that casserole for you.” Brett excused himself and went to the kitchen. He opened the well-stocked fridge, took the medium-sized chicken casserole from the second shelf, and brought it out to Frank.

  “Thanks, Brett. I doubt we eat it today but…well, maybe tomorrow.”

  “No worries,” Brett said. “There’s so much food in there I don’t know if it will ever get eaten. Want to take some more stuff home?” Frank shook his head in reply. “I can’t hardly get Madi to eat anything. Come to think of it, I guess none of us has had much of an appetite...” Brett trailed off as he propped his hip against the door jamb and wrung his hands.