Icing the Kicker

Icing the KickerAjay Daniel Copyright © 2023 Ajay DanielAll rights reservedThe characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.Characters in this story are portrayed as athletes in the NFL. Liberties have been taken with the standard rules to better suit this story. All players, teams, mascots, etc are purely fictional and not intended to reflect any actual persons or things within the league. Contents Title PageCopyrightPrologueChapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28EpilogueThank youBooks By Ajay Daniel PrologueLake Football isn’t my dream.Growing up, I was always the smallest kid in my grade. While the other guys my age gained mass during puberty, I preferred my lean body honed through years of rigorous training. My porcelain skin, light blond hair, and grey eyes gave me an almost delicate appearance as opposed to the ruggedness some boys yearned to develop. I secretly took pride in my body despite their teasing. I never wanted to put on the weight—the muscle, the sheer bulk—most standard football players have. My height maxed out at five-foot-eleven, and I maintained a svelte, lithe stature through my teens and into adulthood.Playing in the NFL is, for me, a means to an end.In eighth grade, I realized I had a talent in football, and it didn’t involve eating my weight in grams of protein before lunchtime, straining my muscles in the weight room during gym, or throwing my body against a heavy metal sled that always left bruises despite the “padding” the coaches slapped onto the steel frame. No, my talent came in the form of controlled finesse stemming from a childhood love of ballet.I can kick.The coach at my middle school saw me kick a football back to one of their players after it had somehow missed the intended target and fallen onto the track right in my path. The pigskin ball soared across the field from my kick, landing right into the quarterback’s arms as I intended. The coach had fawned over me, begged my parents to let me play, begged me to want to play, and practically slapped a helmet onto my head before I had even decided.So, my teenage years consisted of kickoffs, punt returns, extra points, and field goals.I had only halfheartedly done the football thing, preferring to spend my evenings down at the local ballet studio. Ballet was my dream, but my parents never let me sign up for classes. They said it was too expensive, and they were right. Still, after years of mimicking every video I could discover online, I found myself walking by a local studio and staring into the windows every single day until I finally went in and spoke to someone. Turns out, they were looking for a cleaning lady—or boy, in my case.The ballet center had plenty of things that needed cleaning, and they paid under the table. So, as I sanitized barres and plastic mats, I watched and listened and learned. I would make sure my cleaning ran longer than the instructor was willing to stay, tell her I’d lock up when I was done, then spend the next few hours using the vacated equipment to teach myself everything I heard her teach that day. I’d rush to clean and be home for a late dinner, wake up for early morning football practice, and repeat. Every. Single. Day.It was only during my junior year of high school that I began to dedicate more time to football. It was my high school coach’s fault. He had heard about my sister’s accident—the ridiculously high and constant hospital bills and at-home care her condition required—and told me that I had a way out if I wanted. I could look into a college football program, get a scholarship, and leave home. “To get away from it all, kid,” he’d told me.He also informed me that college football can lead to the Pros, and the Pros would set me up for life—financially.That was all it took.That coach was wrong in so many ways, but his words hit home for me. Not the getting away part or the setting myself up for life part, but the money part—money that I could put toward my sister’s care.I’d gotten serious then, though no one knew the truth as to why. Coach thought he did, but he was only half right.My senior year of high school ended with a couple of offers from different universities. I picked the closest one to home; I still needed to be near my family in case something happened. I chose to major in communications because the coaches told me it would be easiest, despite the fact I never want to do anything within that field. I don’t usually like to talk much because other people seem to always have more important things to say than I ever do. Still, they told me what classes to take and when to take them to ensure I played all four years for the university, and it all led up to my senior year, playing in the final game of the season.The Bulldogs—the university’s mascot—somehow made it all the way through to the end. The very end. The last playoff game of the season, and the pressure was on for us to win.It came down to us and a school named after some jungle feline. Honestly, I didn’t care. I had one job: kick the ball.So, I did it, of course. I kicked to the best of my ability because