16. Football Still Isn’t Easy
16
Football Still Isn’t Easy
“When I played pro football, I never set out to hurt anyone deliberately - unless it was, you know, important, like a league game or something.”
-Dick Butkus
Dylan
I kissed her.
I couldn’t believe I had done it, but it had felt so damn natural. I’d picked up my stuff, said goodbye to my daughter, and I’d kissed Natalie on my way out the door. It was very “Leave It to Beaver” if Mr. Cleaver had an illegitimate child. The moment played over and over in my mind, but I enjoyed the repeat.
I liked kissing her. It wasn’t the most amazing kiss of my life, but it had felt so right. My lips tingled to do it again. I wanted to feel her smooth skin, smell her soft coconut scent, and have more than just a quick peck on the cheek.
I wanted so much more.
I drove to practice lost in a love haze, nearly running over our Cameron in the parking lot. Hitting him would have been an impressive feat. Cameron was six foot three and three hundred pounds of pure muscle. He would have done more damage to my car than I would have done to him.
“Hey, you’re not on defense today,” he joked as I got out of my car. “Your mind here? Coach has us running plays before it gets hot.”
I nodded. I needed to make a good showing today. I needed to prove not only to myself but to Natalie and Ellie that I was good at this. If I was making Natalie lose sleep, then it better be worth it.
I knew it was going to be a rough practice when my wrist brace decided to pop off in the middle of warm-ups. I bent down to pick it up, and somehow my cleat got tangled in my shoelace. Down I went, a six-foot-four heap of grace and dignity sprawled on the field.
“Nice, Callahan!” Marcus shouted from across the field, his voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm usually reserved for bad reality TV. “Maybe next time, try falling in the end zone—might help us score more points.”
“Thanks for the advice, Coach ,” I muttered, brushing turf crumbs off my pants. My wrist throbbed as I tightened the brace back on. I was determined not to go to the medical tent to sit yet another practice out. Sitting out wasn’t in my vocabulary. Well, unless it involved sitting out of wind sprints. Then I suddenly became fluent.
“Let’s focus up!” Cameron yelled, jogging toward us with his usual calming air, like a human mediation app. “We’ve got plays to run. Marcus, dial it down. Dylan, you good?”
I gave him a thumbs-up with my non-injured hand, which earned me a skeptical raised eyebrow. Cameron had a knack for seeing through BS, especially mine.
Meanwhile, Franklin shifted back and forth on his feet, anxious to run. Every muscle in his body vibrated with energy, making his movements jerky. I could already see a multitude of false starts in his future. He might have gotten away with some of that in college, but it wouldn’t fly in a real NFL game.
“Franklin, do you have to pee?” Marcus asked, standing to his full height. “Or are you just excited to give Callahan a friendship bracelet for the concert later?”
Apparently, Marcus had noticed Franklin’s movements as well.
Franklin blinked. “Uh, no, sir?”
“Then stop moving and get your ass on the line!” Marcus growled, daring anyone else to breathe wrong. I wished the offensive coach wasn’t busy talking with the defensive coach and letting us run the plays. I could have used a little grownup intervention today.
I leaned over to Cameron. “Marcus seems fun this morning.”
Cameron sighed. “He’s stressed. Something about a girl.”
I rolled my eyes. “He needs to figure it out then. I’m not letting my love life ruin the game.”
Cameron raised an eyebrow. “Nah, you’re just dying of a broken wrist.”
“Ouch, man.” But he was right. For a moment, I wondered if he suspected something more, but he didn’t give any indication he knew about my daughter or my nanny. I needed to make sure I didn’t give him any reason to suspect the bags under my eyes were from my daughter waking me every two hours. Let them all believe it was my wrist and only my wrist.
We lined up for the next drill, Marcus becoming more annoyed with every second. I was supposed to run a quick out route. Easy. I jogged to the line, gave Franklin a wink to loosen him up and set my stance. Cameron snapped the ball.
The thing about having a bum wrist is you don’t realize how much you rely on it until you’re trying to catch a rocket pass from a quarterback who throws like he’s mad at the world. The ball hit my hands and ricocheted off like I was wearing oven mitts.
“CALLAHAN!” Marcus exploded, throwing his helmet on the ground. “Are you even trying?!”
“Not sure if you noticed,” I shot back, shaking my wrist, “but I’ve got this little thing called an injury. Maybe try throwing it less like a bazooka?”
James, the left tackle snickered.
“Maybe try catching it like a professional athlete!” Marcus snapped, glaring at James.
Before I could fire off a witty retort, and I had a really good one queued up, Cameron stepped between us.
“Hey!” he barked. “Both of you, cut it out! We’re supposed to be a team, not an episode of Housewives.”
Marcus glared at me. I glared back. The coaches didn’t notice a damn thing. Franklin looked like he wanted to crawl under a tackling dummy. He needed to work on going to the outside. He was faster than most of the guys on the D-line and could get past them as long as he didn’t get stuck. The kid was good, he was just used to college ball.
“Can we just run it again?” Franklin piped up, voice small. “I think I can get it this time.”
Marcus let out a long-suffering sigh but nodded. “Fine. But if you screw it up—”
“Enough threats,” Cameron interrupted. “Run the play.”
We lined up again. I flexed my wrist, gritting my teeth against the dull ache. Cameron snapped the ball, and Marcus dropped back, scanning the field. Franklin took off like his cleats were on fire. This time, I got caught up in the defensive line. Franklin was open, but instead of running into the end zone, he tripped over his own feet and face-planted at the five-yard line.
The field was silent for half a second. Then Marcus groaned, Cameron shook his head, and Franklin rolled over, arms outstretched like a tragic Shakespearean hero.
“Did I at least get the first down?” Franklin asked, his voice muffled by the turf.
“First down?” Marcus snapped. “You got a face full of dirt.”
Cameron helped Franklin up while I jogged over, patting the kid on the shoulder. “Hey, rookie. Next time, catch the ball, then face plant. It hurts the same, but at least you get the score.”
Franklin gave me a sheepish smile. “I’ll work on it.”
Marcus stomped off, muttering something about retirement. Cameron clapped his hands. “Alright, huddle up. We’re running it again until we get it right.”
I groaned but jogged to the huddle. My wrist was killing me, I couldn’t catch the ball, my quarterback was perpetually annoyed, and our rookie running back might’ve been allergic to success.
But at least I had kissed her.