Chapter 6 Luca
Luca
FRESHLY CUT GRASS.
That’s the scent enveloping me as I’m led into the practice facility, along with a whole bunch of familiar sights and sounds.
Players laughing and chatting as they stretch and warm up on the field before me.
Fans buzzing as they watch excitedly from the viewing areas at the perimeters for the arrivals of their favorite players and new ones to watch.
The comfort of the scene reassures me as I walk onto the field, dressed in Mastodon-branded workout gear. Football is my religion. The field, my church. Even if I’m here to vie for a spot on the worst team in the NFL, this is nonetheless hallowed ground to me and every guy here.
“Maguire!” a booming voice calls out to my left.
When I look, it’s a fellow linebacker from my days at Nebraska—a middle LB, unlike me—who’s jogging toward me with a huge grin on his rugged face and his massive, tattooed arms outstretched.
“Calhoun!” I call out. “Hey, man! Wow!”
Jeremy reaches me and hugs me heartily, and we clap each other’s backs and laugh with glee at the unexpected reunion.
“I had no idea you were coming here!” Calhoun bellows in his deep grumble. “I thought you went to the Admirals.”
“I did, but it fell through at the last second.” I tell him the story and Calhoun shakes his head in sympathy.
“Keep your chin up, man,” he says. “Your time to shine will come again.”
His kind words mean more to me than he could ever know. “What have you been up to lately? Last I heard, you went to the Knights.”
Calhoun shrugs. “Yeah, they put me on the practice squad at the end of last season. I was super bummed but determined to kick ass and prove them wrong. I thought for sure they’d want to keep me around, but it didn’t pan out.
” He lets out a huff of dejected air. “I don’t know, maybe it’s for the best. At my age, it’s probably better to be a big fish in a small pond.
I want to get in the game, man. Give me some reps. ”
Man, I can relate. I wasn’t on the practice squad last season, thankfully, but I sat on the bench more often than not, waiting to get the call.
Not being a starter almost killed me, but even so, I’d much rather do that than play on a dreaded practice squad for anyone, which is a massive step below what I did last season.
“So, how’s Roman liking the Thunderbolts?” Calhoun asks, shaking off the bummer vibe. It’s what everyone’s been asking me, ever since Roman shocked the world by switching to a new team after so many years.
“So far, so good.”
I always keep things vague when talking about my famous big brother, unless I’m talking to someone in Roman’s small inner circle.
Roman’s always been an insanely private person, but that’s especially true now that he’s got a new girlfriend living with him and part-time custody of his four-year-old, Maverick.
A group of players walks over, several of whom I’ve already met, either from playing with or against them at some point, and boisterous conversation ensues.
“Hey, can you still do your famous gymnastics routine?” a wide receiver from my first NFL team asks.
“Luca used to do that at Nebraska, too!” Calhoun bellows.
Immediately, all the guys standing around start goading me on, until finally, one of them says the magic words that flip a certain switch inside my brain: “Unless you’re too old and weak to pull it off now.”
“Too old and weak?” I shoot back. “Dude, I’m this close to quitting football to chase gymnastics gold at the next Olympics.”
All of a sudden, everyone starts shouting if they’re in or out on a bet—for or against me pulling it off—and their rowdy energy feels like a balm for my ragged soul.
Suddenly, Roman’s voice yells at me, No antics! No bullshit! You’re not in a sitcom, Luca! But fuck that. And fuck him. I’ve got to do it. They’re chanting my name, for fuck’s sake! And like I always say, fun is fuel.
“Prepare to be awestruck, gentlemen!” I shout, eliciting a whoop of celebration from the now large and raucous crowd.
As they continue chanting my name, I bound over to the nearby goalpost at the end of the field and quickly perform a few exaggerated stretches and lunges under the uprights.
Yes, I should warm up my muscles before performing this stunt to prevent injury.
But also, it’s my experience as a lifelong entertainer you’ve gotta make the crowd anticipate in order to maximize the eventual payoff.
My brief stretching routine completed, I stand next to the large, perpendicular support beam, looking up at my destination and trying to envision my ascent.
When I’ve got my mind right, I take a deep breath and scale the bar like a monkey, prompting the crowd to whoop and applaud like I’ve just gotten a game-winning sack in a playoff.
As my audience titters and cranes their necks, I inch my way hand over hand along the bar that runs parallel to the ground, my six-foot-five frame dangling over the grass.
“Back up down there, unless you want to get kicked in the head!” I boom to a few guys standing close to my feet.
And when I’m sure I’ve got plenty of room to maneuver safely, I start swinging my body back and forth like a pendulum to gain momentum, which prompts the crowd below me to cheer and hoot even more loudly.
Once I’ve got myself going with solid force, I throw my legs up and perform a somersault over the bar with gusto, one that makes the players below me guffaw so hard, several of them immediately crumple to their knees onto the turf.
Oh, man, I’m really flying now. Cooking with gas.
As a tide of laughter and cheers sends endorphins rushing into my veins, I perform my signature move—the one that’s always the biggest crowd pleaser: I link my legs on the bar at my knees so I’m hanging upside-down like a bat, flail my arms like I’m totally out of control and about to fall, which isn’t the case at all, and shout out a string of highly cartoonish exclamations.
Stuff that’s worthy of Pee-wee Herman, basically.
Like, “Whoa-whoa-whoa!” and “Look out below!”
The move kills like it always did back in the day. So much so, a few more guys have fallen onto the ground in uncontrolled laughter, while several others are doubled over and holding their sides.
As I’m just about to change positions and grasp the bar with my hands again, the roaring, gleeful laughter beneath me comes to a sudden and eerie stop, almost like someone’s pressed a real-life mute button.
Out of nowhere, it’s totally quiet, other than the distant sounds of fans cheering and shouting.
I turn my dangling head and look below me, trying to figure out what the heck’s going on.
And that’s when I discover two unexpected faces staring up at me.
Shit. Even from this angle, I recognize one face as belonging to Coach Parker.
And I think that pretty white-haired lady standing next to him is the widow who’s notoriously taken over the Mastodons from her late husband this season.
Unlike Coach Parker, who looks pissed as hell right now, the pretty older lady is smiling up at me.
So, hey, at least there’s that. Not to mention, the fans in attendance are making it clear they’re thoroughly enjoying my shenanigans.
“Hello, Luca,” Coach Parker says tersely, a vein on his upside-down forehead visibly pulsing.
“Hey, Coach Parker.”
“This is quite the grand entrance, son.” He folds his large arms over the Mastodon on his polo shirt. Plainly, he didn’t mean that as a compliment. But you know what? I’m going to take it as one.
“Yeah, thanks. I’m a huge believer in making a memorable first impression.”
“That you have. I’ll give you that. This is Ms. Williams. The team owner.”
“Hi, Ms. Williams.” I shift my upside-down gaze to the smiling white-haired lady. “It’s great to meet you, ma’am.”
“You, too, Luca. Or would you prefer ‘Monkey Boy’?”
“Call me whatever you like, Ms. Williams. This is your world, and we’re all just living in it.”
Ms. Williams giggles. “Call me Ginny.”
Feeling like the bit has most definitely run its course, I perform a midair sit-up and maneuver myself till I’m hanging from the parallel bar by my hands.
Should I inch over to the middle pole and slide down like a firefighter as my grand finale or simply release my grip and tumble several feet onto the grass below?
The first option would gas up the crowd, I’m sure, while the second option would probably be more to Coach Parker’s liking.
Before I’ve made up my mind about which dismount is preferable, my attention is drawn by motion in my peripheral vision.
A man in a Mastodons jacket and slacks is walking onto the field alongside a young woman with dark hair and a rocking body.
Like her companion, she’s dressed in Mastodon gear, except she’s wearing a staffer’s polo shirt, shorts, and sneakers, all of which look damn good on her.
Man, that girl totally reminds me of Chelsea the Mathlete. Wait. Holy shit. Is that actually Chelsea the Mathlete, after all this time? Oh my God. I think that’s her!
No, it can’t be. There’s no way. I’m being stupid. Pathetic. And yet, as the young woman walks closer and I get a better look at her gorgeous face, every cell in my body knows it’s her. In fact, there’s no doubt about it.
Now granted, I’ve had more than a couple false Chelsea the Mathlete sightings over the years—times when I was positive it was her, but when I sprinted closer, I discovered my mind had been playing tricks on me.
But this time feels different than those times—every bit as electrifying and real as that one infuriating time I thought I’d spotted Chelsea in the stands at my game against Northwestern right before the snap and then couldn’t find her again when I had the chance to look again.
“Hey, Chelsea!” Coach Parker shouts to the young woman when he notices her arrival. “I’ve got a job for you, kiddo!”
Holy shit. Chelsea. That confirms it. It’s really her.
“Coming, Dad!”
Dad?
Did I hear that right? Coach Parker is Chelsea the Mathlete’s … father?
As my brain processes this new bit of information, my hands involuntarily loosen their grip on the bar, and down, down, down my big body goes, crashing in a crumpled, flabbergasted heap onto the grass below.