Everyone cracks up, even me.
“He’s not lying,” I confirm. “Calhoun constantly complimented everyone’s hair when we played together at Nebraska.”
“Especially yours,” Calhoun says. “You Maguires are blessed with some damned good hair.” Laughing, he takes off his ball cap and runs his palm over his shaved head. “You’re giving me hair envy, man.”
Again, the room bursts into collective laughter.
Addressing the crowd, one of the veterans asks, “Is everyone cool with Calhoun and only Calhoun getting a free pass to comment on Chelsea’s hair? If so, say aye.”
“Aye,” the room responds in unison, and another round of chuckles ensues.
A few guys razz Calhoun a bit, but with obvious affection, and the conversation eventually shifts, this time to the topic of Jacob Moriarty and his ongoing contract negotiations. As a group, we wonder aloud how much of a payday he’ll get in his new contract and when he’ll show up to camp.
But before we get too deep into our discussion about the Mastodons’ star edge rusher, the door to the classroom swings open, and it’s none other than my babysitter and new personal coach, the head coach’s daughter, the former mathlete with the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen and a rocking body that even looks good in an oversized polo shirt, who pokes her head into the room.
“Grab your notebooks and iPads, gentlemen,” Chelsea chirps. “You’ve got a twenty-minute break to check your phones and grab a snack before heading to the auditorium.”
As we all start gathering our stuff and getting up, Calhoun says brightly, his tone tinged with harmless, class-clown energy, “Hey, Coach, I’ve been meaning to tell you: You’ve got one hell of a head of hair.”
As all the players explode with laughter, Chelsea flashes Calhoun an easy, wry smile that conveys she’s feeling unbothered, rather than wary, in response to Calhoun’s seemingly out-of-the-blue comment. Surely the fact that Calhoun smartly prefaced his compliment by addressing her as “Coach” has telegraphed his only intention is to welcome her into the squad with open arms rather than make her the butt of some unknown joke. Not to mention, in light of the tense conversation that just went down about Chelsea outside of her presence, Calhoun’s also brilliantly signaling to everyone in this room he expects them to address Chelsea as “Coach” from now on.
“Thanks so much, Calhoun,” Chelsea shoots back breezily, her snark on display. “I’d say the same to you, but unfortunately you don’t have any hair to compliment.”
The comment gets an even bigger laugh than Calhoun’s initial one. Even more so when Calhoun removes his ball cap and rubs his shaved head to prove her point.
“The poor kid’s had massive hair envy since college,” I interject.
“It’s true,” Calhoun confirms, returning his cap to his head.
“Aw, poor Jeremy.” Chelsea shoots Calhoun an exaggerated pout of sympathy. “We’ve all got our crosses to bear, though, huh?”
Atta girl.She handled this moment expertly. With confidence and without missing a beat, the same way any other capable coach would do.
I knew by now that Chelsea grew up with football players around her at all times. But now that I’ve seen her deftly respond to Calhoun’s unexpected banter without suspicion or defensiveness, I know for certain she’s well equipped to take on all aspects of the coaching job she’s so obviously gunning for, both on and off the field.
After the moment with Calhoun passes, Chelsea looks straight at me to make her next comment, though when she speaks, she plays it off like she’s addressing the whole room through her tone and volume. “Now, don’t lose track of time during this short break, gentlemen. Set an alarm if you have to.” Her eyes remain fixed on mine, letting me know every word she’s saying is for my benefit alone. “Coach Parker always says, ‘If you’re on time, you’re five minutes late.’ And I promise you, if you’re even one minute late for the all-team, you’ll have to answer to me.”
CHAPTER 12
Chelsea
“CATASTROPHE AVERTED.ATleast, for now.”
I’m giving this update to Daisy in a far corner of the designated “phone zone”—a pleasant courtyard patio area outside the main building of the training complex. A whole lot of us, including Luca, beelined over here to use our phones before the upcoming all-team session in the auditorium, and now we’re all scattered around on our respective calls.
Daisy leans into her camera, like she’s leaning into my ear, and whispers, “Do you think he might blab to another player about what you two did in college?”
I’ve got my earbuds in and my eyes trained firmly on Luca on his own FaceTime call across the courtyard, so there’s no danger of him or anyone else overhearing my conversation with my longtime best friend. “No, I’m sure he realizes telling anyone what we did back then risks it getting back to my father,” I whisper. “Plus, I can tell he’s really started to respect my coaching abilities, so I can’t imagine he’d undermine me by blabbing about that stuff.”
Across from me, Luca is gesticulating wildly with his free hand and laughing heartily.
“He realizes this is probably his last shot at making a team,” I add. “He won’t screw that up.”
“Poor guy.”
“Don’t feel too sorry for the cocky bastard. He’s a Maguire. He’ll be fine, no matter what.”
“Uh-oh, Chelsea. He’s a cocky bastard? You’ve always had a major weakness for those.”
