“It’s loaded onto the iPad that was issued to you!”
“Really? I didn’t see it.”
“Christ almighty.” With a palm to my forehead, I start marching toward the front door of the auditorium. As I go, I toss out over my shoulder, “Be on the practice field at five twenty-five sharp tomorrow morning, five minutes early for our next one-on-one. If you’re not early, then you’re late, Montague.Don’t you dare be late.”
CHAPTER 15
Luca
“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.”
I bat at the side of my helmet three times in frustration. I was trying to juke the offensive tackle on that last play, but I got stonewalled. Stupid Luca! My footwork gets sloppy whenever I get distracted. Why can’t I focus, when I know my football life is on the line here?
“Come on, Ninety-Five!” Chelsea screams at me from the sideline. “Keep him guessing!”
She’s right. I telegraphed my strategy that time. It was a rookie mistake.
Without looking at Chelsea, I raise my hand to acknowledge her comment and grab a bottle from the hydration assistant who’s just appeared before me. I don’t know why I’m so distracted today. Maybe it’s the summer heat. Or all the fans and media surrounding the practice field, buzzing about the first on-field practice of training camp. Or maybe it’s the way Coach Parker’s been watching me like a hawk all day, probably because he’s looking for any reason to cut me. Or perhaps it’s the rightful tongue-lashing Chelsea gave me yesterday for throwing her under the bus in the film review classroom, or the fact that my attraction to her only increased tenfold whenshe stood up for herself yesterday in the hottest and sexiest of ways.
Or maybe it’s all of the above.
“Hey, Ninety-Five!” Chelsea shouts as I take a long guzzle of water. Breathing hard, I look at her on the sideline, and she screams something about shifting my stance. She’s right again. It’s a great tip.
Chelsea’s been loudly and flamboyantly on my ass like a T. rex throughout this entire practice. And you know what? I fucking love it. Hearing her screaming at me and chewing me out makes me feel like I’m not alone out here while fighting for my life. Plus, given that I screwed her over so badly by mocking her to the other LBs yesterday, it’s only fair for her to do whatever it takes to prove herself today, loudly and conspicuously. Even if that means berating me to do it.
I shoot Chelsea a curt nod about the stance thing before tilting my head back and dousing my hot, sweaty face with cool water. And then, after returning the bottle to the waiting assistant, I get set up for the next rep, this time with the adjustment Chelsea barked at me about.
We’re not wearing pads at this practice. League rules prohibit pads and tackles at training camp for the first whole week. But even so, the past hour has been nothing short of exhausting and intense, both mentally and physically.
The ball is snapped, once again, and the play goes off. But this time, thanks to Chelsea’s tip, I get much closer to the QB than last time. Close enough to force him to make a dumb mistake with everyone watching. It feels damned good.
At my small victory, my eyes meet Chelsea’s and she winks at me from the sideline, letting me know she’s pleased as punch with that result, and the tingles that shoot through my spent, sweaty body in reply feel like an electric current.
After the rookie quarterback on the field—one of threevying for the starting spot—confers with his position coach for a long moment, we all line up again for another rep. And once again, Chelsea’s right back at it, screaming at me like a drill sergeant.
“Focus, Ninety-Five!” she yells. “You look like you’re thinking about dandelions out there!”
That would be an accurate observation, if only “dandelions” were code for a guy losing focus and thinking about how much he’d very much like to fuck his head coach’s daughter.
I clap my palms together loudly and bang on my helmet again, telling myself to get my head in the game. And a moment later, the center snaps the ball to that same rookie QB again, and off I go, breaking a block and doing my damnedest to get to daylight. Unfortunately, the play breaks down on the offensive side of the ball before I’ve reached the QB, thereby provoking a whistle, and everyone on both sides of the ball stops to catch their breath, once again.
As we wait, Jeremy Calhoun at middle linebacker to my left gets substituted out and replaced with a rookie, and I hold my breath, hoping I won’t get substituted out, too. To my relief, nobody taps my shoulder. Which hopefully means the powers that be still want to see more of me. At least, for now.
“Hey, Ninety-Five,” Chelsea says softly, drawing my attention in front of me. She’s here. Standing mere inches in front of my heaving chest. “Did you notice Bellamy’s here? He just arrived, Luca.”
I look toward the other end of the sideline to where the offensive guys are congregated, and sure enough, they’re chatting with the general manager.
“Let’s impress him. This will be the first time he sees you in action.”
“You’ve got it, Coach.”
Chelsea looks around to make sure everybody’s still in conferring and/or waiting-around mode. And when it’s clearthey are and she’s not holding anyone up, she returns to me and whispers, “The tackle knows you’re speed rushing every time, so we’ve got to mix things up this time. You have to stop relying so much on your speed, Luca.”
“Speed’s my secret weapon, baby.”
“Not if he knows it’s coming every time. Now that you’ve established a convincing speed threat, it’s time to go with a speed-to-bull rush.” She holds up three fingers. “This will be our signal for that, okay?”
“Got it, Coach.”
