I nod. “Because of the situation.”
“Exactly.”
“Butnotbecause you’re not feeling the same blazing, insane, out-of-this-world chemistry I’m feeling with you. Is that a fair statement?”
Chelsea opens her mouth to speak but wordlessly closes it again.
“That’s what I thought.” I nudge her arm, laughing at her visible agitation. “I really am flirty by nature, by the way. But only when I’m highly attracted to someone, like I am with you. So, please, cut me some slack if I slip up occasionally on the professionalism thing and smile at you a little too big or something. I’ll do my best, I promise, but I can’t suddenly get myself a whole new personality overnight.”
She’s flushing scarlet by now. “Just do your best,” she chokes out.
“You’ve got it.” I raise my fist and she bumps it with her own, and that brief, simple touch sends an electrical current blasting through me—one that ends with a flicker of tingles that tickle my dick and balls.
Shit. My promise not to flirt with Chelsea was an earnest one, but it’s suddenly clear it’s going to be tough to keep. In fact, if those tingles zinging through me like lightning are any indication, it’s going to be next to impossible. But hey, given the situation, I guess I’ve got no choice but to give it the old college try.
CHAPTER 11
Luca
“WELCOME TO YOURfirst film review session, gentlemen,” Coach Martinez says. “What you do in this classroom will significantly impact what happens next for you: if your football dreams go on to live another day or crash and burn.”
As he delivers those ominous words, my position coach is standing at the front of a dimly lit classroom with a screen hanging behind him and a U-shaped configuration of desks before him. There are a dozen or so players sitting here, plus a couple coaching assistants. Three, if you count Chelsea among them, which I do. Especially after this morning’s drill session. I’m not certain about her official role at the Mastodons. When Coach Martinez introduced her yesterday, it sounded like she was going to be “helping him out” with his squad at camp, as opposed to being an official member of his coaching team. Either way, after what Chelsea did this morning during our one-on-one, she’s earned my respect.
Coach Martinez continues, “Over time, gentlemen, it’s a fact that preparation will beat out raw talent, every time.”
I stifle the urge to sigh. Not because what Coach is saying is false, but because it’s so damned true and uncontroversial, so oft repeated by coaches far and wide, it’s hardly worth mentioning.
I glance at Chelsea sitting next to me to see if she’s as underwhelmed as I am, and when she feels my eyes on her, she turns her head and shoots me a lethal look. One that tells me to cut the crap and pay attention. Damn, if looks could kill, Chelsea’s blazing blue eyes would be assault rifles.
“Okay, let’s kick things off by looking at some footage from last season,” Coach Martinez says. “Specifically, a few clips to show you whatnotto do.” He presses a button on his remote, and a few seconds later, an overhead view of a game in progress comes to life behind him on the screen. Martinez directs our attention to a Mastodon middle linebacker in motion—a guy who’s not currently sitting in this room, notably—just before he bites hard on a play-action on a long third down, thereby allowing the opposing quarterback to complete a zinger of a thirty-yard pass right down the middle.
Ouch.
Every linebacker in the room groans in vicarious pain at the guy’s embarrassing mistake, while Coach Martinez shakes his head and grimaces.
“That was a capital offense in my book,” Coach Martinez says. “I wasn’t here to coach him last year, but I can guarantee it happened because he didn’t adequately study film on that QB before that game.”
Out of nowhere, Chelsea gruffly picks up the pen that’s sitting in front of me on the desk. In a quiet huff, she flips open the empty notebook sitting next to it and scribbles something furiously, and a few seconds later, after she’s tilted the book toward me, she points emphatically at her handwriting.
Why aren’t you taking notes? YOU DON’T WANT THAT TO BE YOU!
She can’t be serious. Not biting on a play-action is so basic, there’s nothing for me to take notes about. If I did, what would I write? “Don’t do something totally and completely moronic”?
I languidly take the pen from her and scratch out a reply.Chill, Mathlete. That wasn’t a complex math problem. It was a rookie mistake I’d never make.
Granted, even if it had been something complex, I wouldn’t have taken notes on it. I didn’t take notes during a single one of my college film review sessions, and that worked out pretty damned well for me, so it became my standard way of doing things. At this point, not taking notes is actually an important part of my process. It helps me remain Zen and let my coach’s words wash over me until they become one with my soul. Part of my gray matter through the gentle process of osmosis.
With a roll of her eyes, Chelsea yanks the pen out of my hand, scrawls out a reply, and taps angrily on the page again.The odds aren’t in your favor here, Montague. Count the players in this room, do the math, and take some notes!
I don’t need to count the players. I know there are exactly fourteen of us linebackers sitting in this classroom, including three veterans with guaranteed spots. Add in Moriarty, once his contract is settled, and account for the fact that some of the guys here are middles, rather than outsiders like me, and that means four of us are competing for one particular spot on the roster—the guy who’ll get to sit on the bench and occasionally go in as Moriarty’s backup, whenever the situation allows.
“Okay, now this is what I want to see,” Martinez says excitedly, referring to the latest video he’s got playing on the screen. “Look at how he waited and triggered on a dime! He read the QB perfectly, and thenbam! He exploded and broke free. Do that every time and you’re going to make an impact.”
As Martinez finishes his comment, Chelsea presses her fingertip into my forearm to emphasize her effusive agreement with him. Andboom, just like this morning during our one-on-one drill session, my skin electrifies at the sensation of Chelsea’s flesh against mine.
My heart rate increasing, I grab the pen off the table and scratch out another note.I grew up with Roman as my rolemodel, and he’s always been obsessed with studying film. I know how to do this.
With a look of disdain, Chelsea snatches the pen from me and scribbles away for what feels like an eternity before she pushes the notebook toward me again.
