“Yes, Coach.”
Chapter 20
Vee
* * *
My grip of the clipboard tightened as Coach Pratt’s speech directed toward Fin came through my headphones. We did believe in Fin. That said, my protective nature thought about his mostly healed rib and worried about his safety.
My gaze went up to the roof and beyond as I sought reassurance. I wasn’t certain who I was asking. I wasn’t raised with a strong religion or faith. Dad used to say he wished there were times he could talk to Grandpa Carroll. Peering upward toward the family suite, I found the invisible recipient of my search. No one could hear me speak. “I wish I could talk to you, Dad. Please look out for Fin and the Coopers.”
The Coopers’ kick-return team grounded the ball on the Colts’ twenty-two-yard line. Our offense was in a huddle. My ears filled with the call coming from Coach Pratt. “Pistol strong right clamp fake nineteen under at Y slide F wall keep left.”
I didn’t need to refer to my notes as the offense lined up in I formation. While I couldn’t hear Fin’s full cadence, with our home crowd respectfully quiet, I heard Fin’s deep voice.
“Set, hut!”
Our center, Matt Spencer, snapped the ball.
Fin danced backward reading his progressions. The O-line was holding. I held my breath as Fin faked a pass to running-back Dijon Ortiz and reared his arm back. The ball sailed through the air.
Caught by tight end JD Downing.
The Big Hurt’s voice echoed throughout Crystal Light, “That’s a first down for our Lexxx-ington Coopers.”
No longer quiet, the crowd was on their feet.
My attention went back to Fin who was adjusting his shoulder pads. I nibbled my lower lip, ashamed I watched the ball and catch instead of watching him. Looking up at the jumbotron, I waited for a replay.
As soon as the ball left Fin’s hand, a Colts defensive tackle knocked him to the ground.
My thoughts went back to the meeting yesterday with, well, everyone.
Coach Tilson had the ability to do whatever he wanted as coach. The only person he needed to speak with was our general manager, Royce Beasley. Nevertheless, our head coach addressed the executives as well.
“Dennison is young and healthy. He’s damn good,” Tilson said. “He’s our ticket to the Super Bowl. Nothing against Graham or Simpson. We need Dennison in weeks sixteen, seventeen, and beyond. Drew and I talked about it. We plan to sit Dennison for tomorrow’s game.”
“What?” Grant asked.
“The Colts are imploding,” the coach said. “We all know what happens when a good team suddenly faces insurmountable adversity. Dennison doesn’t need to be the target of a rogue pissed-off defensive player who could cause him a season-ending injury.”
I swallowed. My instinct was to protest Fin being that target. A quick glance from Aunt Rachel and I knew my response needed to be as owner, not as the person romantically involved with Griffin Graham.
“Royce?” Aunt Rachel asked, reminding me of Dad. He knew when to defer to others.
“I’m in agreement.”
Uncle Darin lifted a gray brow. “Vee?”
I straightened my neck and shoulders. “The experts have spoken. Are we thinking of Graham or Simpson?”
“Graham,” Tilson and Pratt said together.
“He has more play time,” Tilson added.
“We don’t want any of our players injured,” I said. “I trust our Coopers’ coaching staff.”
The memory caused me to miss the snap.
