Chapter 21 Luca
Luca
AS I AMBLE onto the practice field in full pads surrounded by several of my defensive teammates, the summer sun is still low in the early-morning sky, which means the heat will be relatively bearable for the beginning of our second-to-last scrimmage of training camp.
Today’s going to be yet another make-or-break moment for me. With Moriarty signing his big deal last night, there’s now only one spot on the roster for my specific position, and four of us fighting tooth and nail to get it.
Some of the players I came here with stop to sign swag for the fans lined up at the security barricades, but I don’t bother joining them.
None of those people came here to see me.
In fact, they didn’t come to see those guys, either.
They came to see Moriarty walk onto the practice field for the first time at training camp.
So far, their favorite player hasn’t shown his face. Not officially, anyway, although I glimpsed him briefly at the crack of dawn this morning during his one-on-one session with Chelsea.
I wasn’t stalking them. My body woke me up this morning at the usual time without an alarm, even though my brain knew Chelsea wasn’t mine any longer.
Since I was up anyway, I threw on my workout gear in a huff and headed to the big gym on the first floor of the training complex, figuring I’d get in a good workout on my own before this morning’s all-important scrimmage.
Unfortunately, the practice field is briefly visible from one spot on the path to gym, albeit from a far distance, so I would have had to consciously avert my eyes not to see Chelsea and Moriarty together: the team’s golden boy and my coach, my mathlete, my girl.
Not gonna lie, when I saw Chelsea working Moriarty instead of me on a sled this morning, I didn’t take it well.
I felt powerless in that moment. Neutered.
Discarded. Like a total loser. Rationally, I knew Chelsea didn’t have a choice in the matter.
I understood that. But irrationally, I felt rejected and indignant.
Angry and passed over. Not necessarily by Chelsea, but by the Mastodons. By football itself. By life in general.
It seems those teammates I entered the field with are going to continue interacting with fans at the security barriers for a while, so I move through a bunch of players stretching and warming up and find my own quiet spot on the field to do the same.
Man, I wish Calhoun were here. If he were, he’d say something to make me smile, if only briefly.
Keeping my eyes to myself, since I don’t feel like talking or joking around with anyone and my best friend on the team is gone, I get down on the ground in my chosen spot and begin stretching my hammies.
A moment later, Chelsea appears, her head blocking the sun and casting a much-welcomed shadow over my face as she peers down at me.
“Fill those gaps,” she whispers urgently. It’s so Chelsea of her. No greeting. Just straight to business.
“Good morning to you, too.” Shit. After what happened between us in my hotel room, I knew it’d be tough to be near Chelsea again and not get to touch her and kiss her again like last night.
I knew the second she left my room I’d officially become an addict, with Chelsea Parker being my drug.
But I convinced myself I could handle things without my blood pressure spiking and my heart exploding in her presence, because I’m a fucking professional. Apparently not.
“If a running back breaks through,” Chelsea says, “I want you to tackle him like he keeps calling your momma a two-bit whore.”
Man, after what got interrupted last night, I want Chelsea like I’ve never wanted anyone before.
I crave her. In fact, if someone told me I could drag this woman away right now and fuck her somewhere inside the complex if only I’d murder another human being of my choosing, I’d snuff the life out of Jacob Moriarty without a moment’s hesitation.
In fact, I’d consider it a happy twofer, since it would conveniently open up another roster spot for my position.
“Where’s Moriarty?” I ask Chelsea, interrupting the rambling coaching instructions she’s currently giving me. “Is he too busy cashing his first fat check to show up to practice like the rest of us peasants?”
“He’s finishing up a photo shoot in the media room. They’re putting out a big press release today.”
“Did you have your first one-on-one with him this morning?” There’s no good reason for her to know I saw them together during our usual time slot. She’d only think I was stalking her, which isn’t true. I don’t think. Not entirely, anyway.
Chelsea nods. “Yeah.”
“And? How’d it go?”
“There’s not much to report. Not that I’d tell you if there were. Worry about yourself, Ninety-Five.”
I frown. “Are you going to make Moriarty a fancy spreadsheet and personalized playbook, like you did for me?”
Chelsea exhales. “I’m going to do everything in my power to be the best coach possible to the player assigned to me. It wasn’t my choice to work with Moriarty, Luca. You know that.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Could have fooled me.” She runs a palm over her face, looking distressed and sleep deprived. “Now, stop thinking about him and get your mind right. Don’t read the screen late like you did yesterday, okay? Get right in there, and—”
“I don’t need or want your coaching anymore, Chelsea. I’ve got this, so you can run along and make all your dreams come true with Moriarty and forget I ever existed.”
She pulls a face. “Why are you being a dick?”
That’s a great question. Why am I being a dick? Rather than antagonizing her, I should be telling her about how I stayed up late watching film and studying my playbook, in between jerking off to fantasies fueled by everything that happened in my hotel room last night before Raul showed up.
My God, the sight of Chelsea’s glorious tits in that bra did crazy things to me.
And when she straddled me and kissed me like a doomed plane passenger reaching for a fallen oxygen mask, forget about it.
I lost my damned mind. On top of all that, I genuinely want her to succeed and make her dreams come true, even if she’s got to use Moriarty to get the job done.
I genuinely want that for her. So, why am I acting like a kid pulling pigtails on the playground right now?
“Just giving you a hard time,” I mumble.
“Well, don’t.”
“I’m just trying to release you from feeling obligated to help me. I’m not your problem anymore, Chelsea. Raul’s got me.”
Chelsea looks indignant. “I don’t feel obligated to help you, Luca. I want to. You’re not my problem; you’re my …”
I wait, and when she doesn’t finish the sentence, I scoff and say, “Yeah, exactly. There’s no word for what I am to you now. Which means I’m just in the way.”
“Goddammit, Luca.”
“Would you just go, Chelsea? Please. Look over your notes for Moriarty or whatever. I really can’t do this.”
“Do what?” When I don’t reply, her jaw tightens. “This is exactly why you’ve flamed out at all your past teams.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes. Because you’re your own worst enemy, Luca.”
“What the fuck are you babbling about?”
“You self-sabotage. You’re pushing me away, so if things don’t go well for you, you can say, ‘I didn’t even try my best. If I did, I totally would have succeeded.”
I roll my eyes like that’s preposterous. “That’s not it.”
Is that it, though? If you ask me, it’s more likely I’m deeply worried and pissed she’s going to be spending so much fucking time with the team’s superstar in the coming weeks.
Say what you want about Moriarty’s nasty personality, he’s one hell of a good-looking motherfucker.
Plus, he’s now filthy rich, too, which kind of makes up for his shortcomings in terms of personality.
Now that Chelsea’s assigned to Moriarty, what are the odds I’ll ever get to be alone in a room with her ever again, let alone in a hotel room where I’m gleefully removing that cute little pragmatic bra from her tits while she hungrily kisses me back and runs her hands furiously through my hair?
Chelsea starts to reply to my latest denials, but before she manages more than a few chastising words, a sudden roar from the distant crowds of spectators surrounding the field cuts her off, and a half second after that, a veteran lineman stretching near me on the field bellows in a deep baritone, “Moriartyyyy!”
Every head on the field snaps toward the entrance to the field. And there he is. Jacob Moriarty. The Mastodons’ only star player, striding onto the field in full pads, holding a black helmet in his huge hand, and carrying a fuck-ton of new cash in his proverbial pocket.
The die-hard fans standing closest to the field on the other side of the security barrier, the craziest ones who’ve somehow remained loyal and optimistic despite years of disappointments and blunders, scream at Moriarty to come over, and since pretty much all of them are wearing jerseys emblazoned with his number, he dutifully swaggers over and begins robotically signing everything they shove at him, whether it’s jerseys, hats, shoes, or swag.
“They love him,” Chelsea murmurs.
“Yup.” He’s an asshole. But in this town, he’s their asshole.
Before this morning, when I glimpsed Moriarty with Chelsea from a distance, I’d already seen him a few times in person.
Mostly when I’d been warming a bench and had to sit there watching my team’s offensive starters get terrorized by him.
And of course, I’ve seen Moriarty in person whenever I’ve attended a family member’s game against the Mastodons.
Plus, I’ve seen the man I now consider my archnemesis on TV countless times and in film reviews.
Coaches often use clips of Moriarty to make a specific point.
Sometimes, about good form and technique.
More often, about relentlessness and tenacity—the kind of grit nobody can teach.
Say what you will about Jacob Moriarty’s moodiness and stoicism, but he’d rather die than give up a single inch on the playing field.
But even so, despite all that prior familiarity with Moriarty, seeing him here now, in the flesh, up close and personal, feels intimidating as hell.
He’s larger than life. Kinda scary looking, too.
In fact, despite what I just now said to Chelsea about me having everything handled on my own, the sight of Moriarty is rattling my supposed confidence.
I get up from the ground, just in case Moriarty’s planning to come over here to say something to me.
Not that he would, since I’m a nobody to him.
It’s been years since all the talking heads compared me to him in college, after all—with lots even saying I was better than him.
And when I’m vertical, I realize my rival is taller than me, which is hard to do.
Denser, too. Also, far meaner looking than I could ever be. Which, to be fair, isn’t hard to do.
“I should go talk to him,” Chelsea whispers.
“Godspeed.”
“Don’t let him distract you.”
“Go, Chelsea. I’m fine.”
She flashes me a look of rebuke before taking off at a jog, her dark ponytail swinging adorably.
And a second later, when Moriarty sees his new personal coach heading toward him, something unexpected and horrific happens—something that sends rage and panic coursing through my already simmering veins: Jacob Moriarty’s stony, rugged face lights up with a wide, beaming smile.
Excuse me? Why the ever-loving fuck is that normally stoic motherfucker smiling at my girl?
In every media interview I’ve ever seen of the man, dating all the way back to his college days, he’s a goddamned brick wall.
A robot. A monster. But now, suddenly, he’s got butterflies, rainbows, and cheeky smiles for my little mathlete?
“Let’s get started!” Coach Parker shouts. “Gather around, everyone!”
We all crowd around to hear our head coach’s opening remarks before the all-important scrimmage, and not surprisingly, he welcomes Moriarty to camp as his first order of business.
I steal a glance at my adversary, the guy everyone compared me to in college who went on to do great things, while I didn’t.
And when I look over, it’s just in time to see Moriarty lean down—way, way down, considering his height—to casually whisper something to Chelsea.
Something that makes her nod in agreement.
Motherfucker.
Suddenly, that murder hypothetical I was thinking about earlier seems like something I’d gladly do for the sheer hell of it—and maybe not quite so hypothetically.
Like I always say: Fun is fuel. Well, as I’m suddenly realizing, murdering Jacob Moriarty would be the best kind of fun—my version of jet fuel.