I’m severely annoyed with myself for wanting to say yes to this nonsense. But in my defense, what are the chances he’ll pull off his end of the bargain?
“Fine. Yes.” As Luca whoops, I add, “Now get back to your room and get some good sleep. You’ll need to be extremely well rested to get a single sack tomorrow, let alone three.”
His dark eyes are blazing like a pyre. “Yes, Coach.” With a noticeable spring in his step, Luca bounds toward the sliding glass door, apparently intending to exit the same way he entered.
“Luca, no! Use the door, you maniac, so you won’t break your neck.”
Luca looks genuinely perplexed. “But you made me promise not to—”
“That was before I found out you’re willing to recklessly endanger life and limb as a freaking loophole.”
With a cackle of glee, Luca turns in the other direction and practically floats across the room. “Nighty night, mathlete.”
“Goodnight, Montague. Sweet dreams.”
He stops at the door and rakes his dark eyes over me in a way that feels insanely lascivious. “All my dreams will be extra sweet because they’ll be sex dreams about you.”
“Go.”
With another whoop, Luca opens the door, peeks to make sure the coast is clear, and heads out, leaving me standing alone in my room with hard nipples, a certain kind of pulsing between my legs, and the near-desperate hope that Number Ninety-Five will somehow pull off the impossible in tomorrow’s game and get three sacks.
CHAPTER 23
Chelsea
WE’RE HALFWAY THROUGHthe first quarter of the game now, and Luca still hasn’t gone in, despite our defense already taking the field twice.
To put it mildly, he’s not taking it well. Indeed, every time I’ve looked over at Luca on the bench, he’s looked like he’s about to explode from anticipation.
Our offensive unit is on the field again now, led by one of our rookie QB hopefuls, and I wish so badly I could be sitting over there next to Luca instead of standing here on the sideline squashed between the defensive coordinator and cocky, full-of-himself Jacob Moriarty, who’s not even suited up to play. Admittedly, Luca can be cocky sometimes, too. But the difference is he’s got the charm and heart to back it up, so his cockiness is endearing. With Jacob, it’s nothing but annoying.
The bright spot of the day, at least, is that the defensive coordinator has asked me to stand next to him today and feed him data and stats in real time. That’s a pretty exciting development, since it’s exactly the sort of thing I’m hoping to do in an official capacity one day. But even so, I’d still rather be sitting next to Luca so I can prepare him to crush it when his moment to run onto the field finally arrives.
“Nice speed-rip,” Moriarty mutters to me, commenting on the action on the field. He keeps doing that. Chatting with me. Acting like we’re buds. But there’s zero chemistry between us, even as friends, so I’m getting sick of his commentary.
“Bull rush is coming next,” he adds, when I don’t reply to his first comment.
“If he’s smart.”
The ball is snapped and our rookie quarterback hangs back in the pocket, looking for his target. Just like Moriarty predicted, the outside linebacker for the Admirals comes with a bull rush next. But what’s this? Our little rookie somehow gets away and throws a dart in the nick of time, and it’s miraculously caught by the fingertips by our rookie wide receiver—a cutie-pie everyone adores who’s still on the bubble but making a great case for himself today.
As I clap along with everyone else about the completed pass, Moriarty leans down and says, “The rook’s got a cannon.”
“His accuracy needs work, though.”
“Accuracy, he can work on, Parkette. Having a cannon, not so much.”
Parkette.He keeps calling me that, and I wish he wouldn’t. “Parker,” I murmur, even though I know my correction is landing on deaf ears.
It’s third down now.
After the snap, our rookie steps back in the pocket again, finds that same cutie-pie receiver, and completes another pass—this one for twelve yards. We’re still on our end of the hundred-yard playing field, and it’s only a meaningless preseason game, but everyone on our side of the field momentarily cheers like that was a touchdown pass in the Super Bowl. Obviously, we quickly contain ourselves and act like we’ve been here before. But it’s clear everyone’s feeling a momentum shift on our side of the field, and it’s an exciting thing for a team with such a losing track record as ours.
I peek toward Luca, eager to share a smile about that second pass completion, but he’s not sitting on the benches anymore. I look around and locate him standing with a pack of players on the sideline. Either that second pass got him up, or he’s coincidentally too antsy to sit any longer.
After the next play, Luca finally looks my way, and when our eyes meet, I shoot him an encouraging look. One that says, “You’ve got this, baby.” Our secret moment is soon interrupted, though, when Moriarty leans down to talk to me, blocking my view of Luca’s gorgeous face.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, not even listening to whatever he’s saying. And the second he’s done talking, I crane my neck to peek back at Luca and find him seething, not surprisingly. Clearly, he’s not pleased about Moriarty’s constant chumminess with me, even though I’ve told him I can’t stand the guy. The good news, however, is that jealousy has plainly lit a fire inside Luca—and that’s something I can capitalize on.
