Still, I'm the one fucking up right now, not them. So Paul has a right to bitch. "What do you mean?"
"You're throwing based on outside visual cues," Robbie says when Paul stalks off without answering. Guess Paul doesn't want to help the new guy until I earn his respect. All right, I can play that game. "Like the sideline. You're throwing to an American sideline, expecting that width. This field is twelve yards wider than what you're used to. Just try to throw to the man, not the field until you get used to it."
"What's his problem?" I ask Robbie quietly while Paul grabs some water. "I'm just asking."
"Rumor has it that the only reason he kept his spot on the team this year is because of the fifty-fifty rule," Robbie says. "The team brought in some new free agent American talent on the line, and so he was kept around so that they could cut Henri Batard, the old right tackle. Henri got traded to Montreal, which I guess is better for him, anyway. Closer to home."
"But by bringing in Dave Hawk, your new center, that threw off the fifty-fifty balance," DeAndre says. "Don't worry about it, one of the weird parts of the rule is that quarterbacks don't figure into the equation. You're equally Canadian and American in the League's eyes."
"Great . . ." I mutter, and take a deep breath. "All right, well, I'll keep that in mind. Let's run it again."
Practice continues, and I start to get the hang of things. It's actually fun as I look around, mainly because of the bigger number of players on both sides. The number of linemen is the same, but because Canadian rules has twelve players per side, it means I can have five and even six targets on each passing down. It's a lot like a video game, and as I relax, I start to have some fun with it.
We head to the line, where I get into shotgun behind Dave Hawk, a massive guy from Minnesota who played third string and scout team in the League for two years before coming to Canada for the past three. He's a consummate pro, and I take his snap without any problems, scanning my receivers. Robbie is my primary option this play, and I see him with half a step on his defender, so I let it fly, hoping my grip is stable.
The pass isn't perfect, I'm still adjusting to the new type of ball, but I've thrown a lot worse, and Robbie catches it without breaking stride too much before he's slapped, signifying the end of the play. That's another thing Coach Blanchard likes to do, limit contact. I'm used to it as a quarterback, but on the Fighters, most of the other players also have limited contact, except the linemen who have no choice quite often. Some coaches might say that it makes the Fighters 'soft,' but it should keep us from being injured.
"That's better," Coach Blanchard says from his position behind the play.
I step back while he gives the second unit quarterback, a Canadian veteran named Vince Cunningham a few snaps. Vince has been with the team for ten years, and been playing in the Canadian League for twenty-one years, and I've been told he's going to go straight into an offensive coordinator's role after this season is done.
"That's another thing you're going to have to learn," Robbie, who also is getting a few plays off, says as he unsnaps his helmet. "The pace. You don't have forty seconds of play clock to work with, you've got twenty. Lots of guys can't handle the pace at first, even QBs. They get tired, and it starts to affect them at the end of drives. Just a hint . . . you're going to run a lot."
"Thank you Coach Taylor and Carrie," I mutter, and Robbie gives me a strange look. "My old S&C coach, and his main intern. Those two can make an Olympian toss their cookies if they wanted to. I'll hang."
I go to say more, but a flash of black hair on the sidelines catches my attention, and I turn my head to see April watching practice. She looks cute in her team polo and khakis, not as hot as last night, but still cute. Her dress was the right mix of classy and sexy, and the way her hair flowed down her back, I've never seen hair quite like it before, totally natural while still looking nearly salon perfect.
"Tyler? Tyler! Head's up!"
I turn my head back in surprise just as a ball comes arcing back from the players out practicing, with the bad luck to be aimed directly at my nuts. The ball blasts me between the legs and I drop, holding my injured testicles in agony while my knees fold and I collapse onto the grass. I hear startled reactions then laughter from everyone on the field, but my eyes are squeezed tightly it hurts so damn bad.
"You okay?" Robbie asks, kneeling down next to me.
“Not really… the crown jewels,” I gasp out, slowly opening my eyes. "What the fuck happened?"
"Coach called for you to take over, so Vince tossed the ball toward you," Robbie says, trying to not laugh. "I can see why you don't play wideout."
"F . . . fuck you," I reply with a shaky laugh. "Holy shit that hurt."
I get to my knees and Robbie gives me a hand up, which I accept gratefully. "Well, next time pay better attention. You've been staring at Fumbles for two minutes now."