Page 46 of The Backup Plan

We walk back inside together, steps echoing softly.

“Okay, off to get ready for work,” he says like he’s going to get ready to go sit behind a desk and type away all day instead of going to play in the NFL.

He walks backward down the hall. “I’m going to keep that in mind, you know?”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“That you have stamina.”

“Um . . .” My cheeks blush. I don’t really know what to say to that.

He puts his key in the lock of his door. “Because I’ll definitely be putting you through your paces.” He glances my way with a wink. “And Emery?”

“Yes?”

“Glad you’re okay,” he says and then disappears inside.

I stand there longer than necessary before unlocking my own door.

So much for a simple run.

And somehow, I didn’t hate it as much as I thought I would.

Lucas

Team meetings are where reputations quietly live or die.

Not the loud kind. Not the viral clips or Sunday highlights. The subtle kind. The moments when a coach pauses, when a room of fifty-three players lean in, and when the other thirty eager to make the roster for at least one game hope to prove they’re more than just a body filling a chair.

The meetings are held in an auditorium. Extra-large seats are on a sloped floor, so each row is angled for optimal visibility of the giant screen at the front of the room. I take my seat near the front—close enough to show I’m paying attention but far enough away that I don’t look like a kiss-ass. I set my coffee on the collapsible desk and open my playbook.

Cole is already there, sprawled out like he owns the place, but his desk looks much like mine—ready to take notes, to talk about the game, despite the arrogance oozing off him.

A couple of guys greet me with nods. One mutters playfully, “Morning, old man,” under his breath.

I smirk. “Careful. I bruise easy.”

Laughter ripples quietly from those who hear the exchange.

Coach walks to the front of the room, remote in hand, and jaw set like it seems it always is when he’s in business mode—which over the past few days, I’ve come to find is basically all the time.

“Morning,” he says and receives a room full of responses back. “Week one is going well by all standards. I’ve seen a lot of effort put forth. Good teamwork—in play and pulling for one another.” I tune out the rinse and repeat speech I’ve probably heard a dozen times and wait for the real reason we’re all in here because it sure as shit isn’t the kumbaya session.

It’s to study the film from our scrimmage yesterday. Play review.

The first few clips are basic plays, and Coach walks through the what was and wasn’t done properly. Heads nod. A few jokes are made to ease the atmosphere of the room.

And then Coach readies the next one, the screen displaying a clip from yesterday’s install—third and medium, trips right, slant-flat concept.

The play runs. The linebacker jumps the slant. And Cole gets sacked.

Cole clears his throat. “Protection broke down,” he says quickly.

Coach doesn’t respond right away. He rewinds the clip. Slows it down.

I don’t plan to speak up, I really don’t, but the words sit on my tongue anyway. “The problem wasn’t with the protection,” I say.

The room goes silent. A few heads turn my way, but I keep my attention focused on Coach and the play repeating on the screen in front of us.