Chapter 11 Luca #3
“And me,” Bradshaw says, as a few other veterans in the room also echo the sentiment.
One of the veterans says, “I played three seasons with Lincoln Parker before I got traded here, and he’s still like a brother to me. That makes Chelsea my honorary little sister, even if she has no idea about that.” He shoots daggers at the rookie to emphasize his point.
“Guys, I was just joking,” the rookie says, his palms raised. “I swear, it won’t happen again.”
“It better not,” I grit out, and the veterans who’ve got my back flash me a collective look of solidarity.
A long, tense silence ensues.
But finally, it’s my old buddy Calhoun who breaks it.
“I have a question,” he says, his index finger raised.
“You said we can’t mention a hair on Chelsea’s head, but I’m wondering if it’d be okay for me to comment on Chelsea’s thick, shiny hair in a totally nonsexual way?
I’ve always appreciated a really good head of hair, whether it’s on a man, woman, child, dog, or horse. ”
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. ”