Chapter 15 Luca
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 when she 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 three vying 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 clear they 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.”
“Show ’em, Montague. For both of us.”
“You’ve got it.”
With a curt nod, Chelsea jogs her hot little ass off the field, her dark ponytail swinging as she goes, and a moment later, we’re off again.
As instructed, I make Chelsea’s adjustment, and this time, the QB’s throwing mistake is so big and obvious, a corner in the backfield is able to snag the ball for an interception that makes the entire defensive unit cheer.
I share a huge smile with Chelsea from afar, but she quickly looks away when Bellamy walks up and says something to her. Holy shit. Is that a good sign for me or a total coincidence that he’s talking to her right now?
My position coach, Coach Martinez, yells my number to come out, so I jog toward Chelsea and Bellamy, hoping to covertly listen in on whatever they’re talking about.
As it turns out, no stealthy maneuvering is necessary to eavesdrop: The second Bellamy sees me approaching, he calls to me to come over.
“That was some good pressure that time, Ninety-Five,” he says.
“Thanks.” I unstrap my helmet. “Chelsea gave me some good advice right before the snap. She’s got great instincts.”
“Keep listening to her, then.” With that, he takes off toward the other end of the sideline, probably on his way to talk to Coach Parker or one of the offensive guys.
“You impressed him, Coach,” I say with a nudge to her arm and a grin.
Chelsea bites back a smile. “No, you did. I’m not the one who executed the play flawlessly.
” She looks down at her iPad, still trying not to smile.
“I’ve been taking meticulous notes throughout practice on everything you’ve done right and wrong—mostly wrong—and I’ll add everything to the spreadsheet I’m making for you tonight. ”
“When can I see this fancy spreadsheet you keep talking about? I’ve never had a coach keep track of things that way.”
“You’ll see it when it’s time. But the spreadsheet is only a means to an end—the place where I’ll compile the data I’ll eventually use to create a detailed, personalized playbook for you.”
I stare at her in awe. Maybe trainers for superstars like Roman and my cousin Marco do stuff like that for their players, but nobody’s ever put that kind of effort in for a player like me. “Sounds exciting. Why don’t we meet up tonight so you can tell me all about it? Your room or mine?”
Chelsea full-on snorts. “Nice try, Montague. I’ll never step foot in your room, and you’ll never step foot in mine.”
“Okay, we’ll meet somewhere else. I want to hear all about this stuff you’re doing for me.”
“I’ll show you everything later, in a week or so, after I’ve observed you in some full-pads-and-tackles practices and scrimmages.”
“Awesome. It’s a date.” When she flashes me a warning look, I add, “Coach.”
Man, our chemistry feels even more scorching than ever.
Back in Bloomington, I had a hard-on for Chelsea’s big ol’ math brain and incredible sense of humor, along with everything physical she had going for her.
But now that I know she’s a football genius, on top of everything else, and also ferociously good at sticking up for herself when required, well, damn, I’m so insanely attracted to her, I can barely keep it together in her presence.
Chelsea’s nostrils flare. Suddenly, she looks like she can read my mind.
“Enough chitchat, Ninety-Five,” she says. “Watch your teammates and try to learn something.”
With a smirk, I wrench my gaze off Chelsea and direct it toward the field, just in time to see the rookie outside linebacker who replaced me getting stonewalled even harder than I did earlier.
“You want me to learn from that?” I tease.
Chelsea stifles a giggle. “Yeah, what not to do.”
Our glances furtively meet again, and the mere inches between our arms suddenly feels magnetic.
Like I’m being physically pulled to brush my skin against hers, if only briefly.
I refrain, of course. But all that does is ramp up the heat I’m feeling for her; so much so, I’m surprised our chemistry hasn’t singed the turf beneath my cleats.
“Stop doing that, Luca,” Chelsea whispers sternly.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that. You’re being too obvious.”
I look away from her, red-faced and dumbfounded.
I’m having some dirty thoughts about what I’d like to do to the coach’s daughter, that’s for sure.
But I know full well Coach Parker is standing mere yards away down the sideline, along with the general manager and everyone else with my fate in their hands, so I was making a conscious effort to keep my dirty thoughts under wraps.
“How did I look at you?”
“Like a volcano about to erupt.”
I grimace. Sounds about right. “It won’t happen again, Coach.”
“I don’t believe you. But try your best, please. Seriously.”
I bite my lower lip. “You know …”
“Don’t say it.”
“Say what?”
“Whatever you’re about to say. It won’t help matters.”
“No, it’s a good thing. It’s coaching related.”
She exhales. “Okay, what is it?”
“I was just thinking if your goal is to coach the very best player out of me possible, then you probably shouldn’t ban me from flirting with you completely. That would be counterproductive, don’t you think?”
Chelsea makes a skeptical face. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m clearly motivated by wanting to impress you. Highly motivated. So, maybe making me feel like there’s at least a chance of me getting with you would inspire me to perform acts of epic greatness. It’s a tale as old as time, baby. Boys like showing off for pretty girls.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes once again. “I’m not going to manipulate you into playing well by disingenuously dangling my sexuality in front of your nose, Luca.”
“Why not? Also, would it really be disingenuous?” I waggle my eyebrows.
Chelsea blushes and doesn’t reply. Which means the answer to the question is an emphatic, “No, it wouldn’t be.”
“Fun is fuel for me, and flirting is fun,” I persist. “In fact, you could even say flirting is my version of making a color-coded spreadsheet.”
“Stop.”
“All I’m saying is banning me completely from doing my all-time favorite thing would extinguish the flame of joy for me—aka the flame of fun, which is fuel for me—and that, in turn, would almost certainly negatively impact my performance on the field.”
Chelsea rolls her eyes. “If you say, ‘Fun is fuel,’ to me one more goddamned time, I’ll strangle you with the laces on your cleats.
Also, you should be watching the action on the field and learning everything you can, not flirting shamelessly with your coach, who’s not even remotely affected by those dimples you’re currently flashing me, you shameless flirt. ”
I can’t help laughing and shooting her an even bigger smile that’s sure to make my dimples pop even more. “Yes, Coach. Sorry about my shamelessness. I’ll try to rein it in.”
“Thank you. Please do.” She shoots me a heart-stopping smile before returning to the action on the field. But she’s not fooling anyone. The crackling energy that coursed between us just now felt like a physical thing. Undeniable and unstoppable.
“Hey, before we leave this topic for good,” I say, “can I make one quick request?”
“Nope.”
“I totally get you screaming at me to show everyone what a badass coach you are. I know I deserved that today. But now that you’ve done that—and very effectively, I might add—can you please tamp down the blustery, screaming coach routine for a bit?
At least save that stuff for a practice that’s more important than a no-pads-no-tackling glorified drill session. ”
Chelsea looks flabbergasted. She looks around to make sure nobody is watching us, and when she returns to me, she steps into my personal space, so close the tippy-top of her dark hair is now touching my chin strap dangling from my helmet.
With both hands, she roughly grips my face mask and spits out, “Listen carefully, Ninety-Five. The way you do anything is the way you do everything. Make that your mantra in everything you do, both in life and in football, and the limit to your success, both on and off the field, will not exist.”
With that, she releases my stunned face with a sexy wink and returns her attention to the action on the field like she didn’t just rock my world and send rockets of lust shooting through every vein and nerve ending in my body.
My God. The ruthless grab of my face mask. The way she shoved her nose into my grill. And most of all, the blazing blue badassery in her eyes. All of it confirmed she’s the hottest woman alive. A goddess. A unicorn.
There’s no coming back from this moment for me.
I’m a goner. Suddenly, I don’t care about the risks associated with going after the head coach’s daughter.
I want Chelsea Parker, and I want her now.
In my bed. So we can pick up where we left off in Bloomington.
And I’m going to do whatever stealthy maneuvering it takes to get her there.