Summary: Offensive Maneuvers – It's a new NFL season for New England Patriots' seasoned Quarterback, Edward Cullen. But, is it going to be game-on as usual? With rookie players, a stern Offensive Coach, a bossy PR woman, and a student physiotherapist, who seems unaffected by his 'charms', Edward doesn't think so. And his attitude reflects that – on and off the field. However, as it's said: "the Games must go on," even if drastic offensive maneuvers must be put into play.

Chapter 1

Pulling off my helmet and taking a quick glance at the score board, I know we're going to need to pull our heads out of our asses.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and look back at the field. This isn't over yet, but it may as well be. It's disgusting how brutally the Jets are beating us out here.

Practice hasn't been nearly as rigorous as it should've been, and we've got quite a few green players this year, thanks to the draft. If the coaches had taken my advice, we would've amped the practices and we'd be out here winning.

It's our season opener and we're really looking like shit today. I'm sick of it; we're getting taken advantage of on easy plays.

I'm sure the announcers are tearing us apart. I can't imagine any good comments coming our way other than my footwork, which, if I do say so myself, has been supreme.

Walking into the locker room at the end of the second quarter, my blood is about to boil. I try to reel it in, but it's useless. The coaches just don't seem to care enough, and here I am stressed out for the whole team.

Looking around at the team, I can't see anything that sets my mind at ease. The draft defense hasn't worked out to make a difference; sure they're at the standards their schools set for them, but they're certainly not at NFL level.

Offense isn't much better; we should be running drills, training harder, pushing ourselves to be the best.

"Guys, we need to be better out there. We need to pull it together, and I'm not seeing that from any of you."

Silence. I get nothing from these boneheads. Even the guys I'd consider my friends don't speak. It's ridiculous and I feel as if I'm losing my mind.

"What Cullen's trying to say, is that we, as a team, need to give it a hundred and ten percent!" Coach Thompson interjects.

"Damn right," I agree. Seventy percent would even be good, since we look as if we're handing the win away.

"Well, then!" Offensive Coach Peters exclaims, slamming his binder against the wall. "What are we waiting for?"

"Hands in!" Coach Thompson shouts, trying to rile up any energy left in these men.

I reluctantly put in my hand. Coach counts us down. "On three. One, two, three. Go Patriots!"

Some of the guys are patting each other's helmets, others are grabbing their teammates between the tits, and there're a few who are even slapping each other's asses. It's kind of weird, but that's what footballers do. We psych one another up any way we know how. It's necessary 'cause regardless of how we play, we're still supposed to be a team.

Lining up in the tunnel, we jog out and head to our sidelines.

"Let's show these fuckers what a home field advantage is all about!" I scream before slipping in my mouth guard and heading out to the field.

Coach Peters feeds me the play in my helmet, thanks to the wonders of technology.

The offensive team circles around me and we quickly run through our strategy. "We're going with dive. We need to be fast! Let's do this!"

We slam each other's helmets and break, taking our starting positions.

This one's going to be fun. We're going to run the ball and push for a touchdown so we can clinch this motherfucking game.

We hike the ball and my feet are quick. I hurry back before sending the ball sailing to my running back, Lahote. The play is for him to throw it through the hole that the rest of the offense opens up and to have Collins, the center guard, catch and run it to the end.

Lahote throws it to Collins, who catches it thankfully, and Collins takes off toward the end zone. Mud kicks up from his cleats as he gains major yardage, taking it right to the zone.

Offense must've woke up because we're finally making progress.

Everyone's so damn happy about scoring, but I'm not pleased. "Don't get excited, we need two more strong plays just to catch up."

"Cullen, why do you always have a hair across your ass?"McCarty asks.

"Probably for the same reason we couldn't score in the first two quarters of a game," I reply flatly.

"Jesus Edward, you're always such a poor sport," Black comments. This kid is part of last year's draft. He's still a little green, in my opinion, but Coach Thompson and Daniels think he's a good fit for our defense. I'll give that the kid is built like a brick shithouse, but he's nothing special. He lacks speed and agility. He can take a hit, but not really give one, so unless the other player is running right for him, he's useless.

"Poor sport? I didn't realize we were out there playing for fun. Excuse me for wanting to deserve the paycheck I get. God knows you two haven't earned yours."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" McCartyspits. He's a big fucker, six foot nine and heavy doesn't even begin to accurately describe him, but his hands are usually fast, ready to block. That was last season, though; I haven't seen him do anything fast lately, other than eat a doughnut.

"Yeah," Black agrees.

"Because, dumbass over here," I say, pointing to McCarty, "is supposed to be guarding me, as well as be light on his feet, and we both know that's not the case. And you—" I turn and point to Jake. "You're probably the biggest meathead I've ever come across. You don't even bother to study the plays, let alone practice them properly."

"You're fucking dead."

"Good luck, Black. I don't think you've met my body guard."

"Nope, but I don't need to."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, a little thing called the locker room."

"Why don't you take all the focus you have for me and direct it toward the game? Maybe our defense would actually get somewhere."

"Just go fuck yourself."

"I don't have to, McCarty; I have plenty of girls ready and willing to do that for me."

Coach calls time and everyone takes their positions. I take a seat on the bench, waiting for the inevitable demise.

Our defense loses substantial ground, and I'm left wondering if we're going to make it out of here without this turning into a slaughter house.

"Goddammit Johnson, you keep getting flagged like that and you're going to hand them the victory!" I shout, as defense retreats to the bench.

"Fuck you, Cullen!"

"No, you know what, fuck you! I can have your ass riding the bench for the rest of the season if you keep mouthing off."

He narrows his eyes and spits off in my direction. Shaking my head, I run out onto the field, joining the huddle. Coach Peters comes on in my headset and says it's time to go with an off-tackle. I think for a moment and look at the clock.

We don't have time to force our way through that much yardage. We need miles, not inches, and these guys are tough.

"Well, what'd he say?" Lahote asks.

"Flea flicker."

One of them lets out a whistle. I can tell this play isn't everyone's cup of tea, but it's what's going to work.

Paul looks rather lost and that's not good, since he's going to have a vital role in this play.

"Lahote, it's coming to you, then snap it back to me, then I'll throw to you, Whitlock. We gotta be quick, though." They all nod and we slap each other's helmets again. Keeping our energy levels up is only a small part of what needs to be done here and I'm not sure the team's going to be able to pull it off.

We take our positions and Collins hikes me the ball, sending me back, way back to throw it to Lahote.

"Cullen! What the hell is this?! This isn't the play I called!" Coach yammers in my ear. I turn the headset down and think fast.

My feet are quick, I'm on point. Lahote catches it and tosses it back to me, but as I go up to catch it, some fucker comes right and hits me hard. It's fumbled and we lose possession of the ball.

Walking back to the bench, I'm pissed. My ankle hurts, but I'm more upset with the offensive guards for not doing their job.

"Cullen, what the fuck was that out there?" Coach Peters yells, as I take a seat.

"I don't know, probably our only shot at winning this fucking mess."

"That wasn't the play I called!"

"I know, your play was shit, so I changed. When your fat ass is out on the field, then you can call plays!"

He throws his hands up and walks off. I grab myself a water and try to calm down. We're just entering the fourth quarter; we may be able to pull this around, but it's going to take work.

We spend most of the quarter trying to make up for our shitty defense. I'm still quick as ever, even though my ankle is beginning to twinge, trying to make sure we keep our head above water. As the time counts down I see room for one last Hail Mary play and I go for it. The ball is hiked and I toss it right down to Paul, he catches it and runs like hell for the end zone. It's beautiful. My timing was so on point that he makes it there before the other team even knows what to do with themselves.

As soon as the touchdown is announced, I see there're thirty seconds left on the clock. Our pathetic defense team is going to need to hold off the other team from scoring for the next half a minute. I know that's not normally a lot to ask, but these guys are playing awful.

I know exactly who needs to go and who should stay. It's pretty fucking obvious, but Coach Thompson doesn't seem to see the value my opinion carries.

This game should be the wake-up call he needs. I can only hope, when he's watching the replays this evening he sees where we're weak and presses to get the defense in shape.

The whistle blows and I watch the sad sacks try to hold off the Jets' offense. It's a fight, something it shouldn't be. This game should be won and done, but if we didn't suck so much, they wouldn't have a prayer.

Thankfully, our guys manage to keep the Jets out of scoring position for thirty seconds and we're able to go home winners, even though we didn't play anywhere near our best.

Everyone else on the team is celebrating, while I'm shaking my head.

"Why are you such an asshole?" Johnson asks, taking off his helmet.

"Because they gave me a shitty team."

"If it's so shitty, why don't you ask to be traded?"

"You don't think I have?"

He just shakes his head, chest bumping Collins.

"Cullen, sign your autographs, then hit the showers. We need you out front for the press," Coach Thompson yells.

I roll my eyes and head toward the tunnel.

"Coach, are you sure you want Cullen for that?" Black asks.

"Yeah, they're going to want him. He won the game."

I grin, hearing those words. There's nothing quite like tasting the sweetness of victory, especially when it's rubbed in Black's face.

Jake pushes past me, bumping my shoulder as he goes, and I don't let it affect me because there're hordes of fans waiting to meet me. They don't pay to see that side. They want Edward Cullen, the football superstar.

I slap on a smile and go greet them all.

After mugging for pictures and signing a few autographs, I head into the locker room, stripping into a towel and walking to my shower.

The hot water pours all over me and I close my eyes. I take a few minutes to enjoy the steam, trying to get into a better headspace, before I have to go in front of the cameras.

After dressing in a track suit and donning my team hat, I walk out and wait for Coach Thompson to go over talking points. This is what he does. He wants to make sure we say all the right things to make the team look good as a whole, even though it was me who won the game.

"I think you should just stick to the game. If anything else comes up, simply say: no comment."

"Especially, if they ask about contract settlements," Alice, my tiny PR woman, chimes in.

"Of course," I answer, glaring at her.

"And make everyone look good so the world thinks of you as a team player," she adds with a pointed look.

"What Ms. Brandon said," Coach says, nodding.

"Be honest, too. They eat that shit up," Alice comments, as we reach the door.

I shake my head as I'm practically pulled out the door into the crosshairs of media. They're everywhere, and more than ready to cut you at the knees. All the reporters are shouting my name, and I can't tell them all apart. That's what the handlers are for; one of them figures out who's got a good question and the other one drags their ass to the front.

"Cullen, what do you think was the ultimate reason for the win today?"

Pursing my lips, I reply, "I think it was my superior knowledge out on the field; there's nothing quite like it."

Another reporter is pulled aside. "How did you decide to make that Hail Mary pass today?"

"My gut—I'm telling you, I know the game and I know it well. If I didn't take my chance right then and there, we wouldn't have won."

"What do you think were the major flaws?"

I take a moment to collect my thoughts. "I think, more than anything, it was the lack of discipline with our greener players. I also think the coaches are to blame. They let us off easy during the pre-season and I'm not too happy about that."

There're comments from reporters in the crowd; I can only hope they're getting all I've got to say because the rest of the team needs to wake up.

"Edward, do you think the turnover that happened, while the ball was in your hands, is your fault?"

I narrow my eyes at the prick. "Absolutely not! That's why the other guys are out there. They're supposed to be protecting my blind side. McCarty, left tackle, needs to step up and get moving a little quicker." I pause, taking a breath. I think it's only fair to explain the game to these fools. "If I didn't get sacked, there wouldn't have been a turnover."

Frustrated and on the brink of being furious, I stand up and end the conference. I don't feel as though I owe anyone any explanation. The coaches put me out here to give them a show, I think I've done that.

Hopping in my car, I screw out of the parking and head for my home. I need to go recharge, and I hope Maria has made something tasty for us tonight. I'm exhausted and a good, hearty meal is exactly what I need after that bullshit.

My phone starts blaring from my pocket, and I roll my eyes when I see Alice's name appear on the screen. I press my hands-free button and wait for the car to answer.

"What on God's green Earth was that shit out there, Cullen?" Alice screeches through the phone.

"Me, being honest."

"Dammit, Edward! If everyone on the team doesn't already hate you, they sure as shit are going to now."

"I can handle myself, Alice."

"I tend to think you can't, since you just went on National television and made an ass out of yourself."

"No. That's where you're wrong. The team made an ass out of themselves. They played like shit, and if it wasn't for me, we wouldn't have won."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph you're truly full of yourself, aren't you?"

"If being honest is being full of myself, then I'm guilty. Sorry about that."

"Moving on, we need to do a massive cleanup for this shit."

I sigh audibly, gripping the wheel, as I try to rein in what I really want to say.

"Cullen, are you there?"

"Yes," I grit out.

"I'm going to book you an appearance on one of those feel-good morning shows."

"Christ Alice, I don't want to be part of that."

"Too bad. You come off looking like an asshole and I have to clean up after your elephant-sized dump."

I sigh again.

"I'll call you with the details. Make sure you're ready for what I've got coming for you."

I hum out something that sounds as though I'm agreeing with her. I can't imagine what kind of hell she has planned, but fuck that, I'm not a pony show.

Alice has a way of making me feel ridiculous with her ideas of media support. I hate the media, they're disgusting vermin that belong in the dumpster with their publications. For now, though, I need to make nice, and Alice, I'm sure, is going to guarantee that happens.

Stepping on the gas, I race home. I just want to be in the confines of my house, away from prying eyes and cameras. It's a little disturbing what lengths those bastards will go through to get their shot.

Once the gate is open, I walk inside my beautiful, pristine, white house, ready to relax for the night. 'Cause I've earned it.

Thank you for the support! I'd like to give a hearty shout out to Midnight Cougar, WiltshireGlo, and Cared! Without Midnight Cougar, I wouldn't have ever finished just the first chapter. I love you woman!

I'll see you all soon for some more NFLward and Motoward!

xox