41. Chapter 41
Chapter 41
TEAGAN
The team is hanging in the locker room with our practice gear on, ready to take the field when our assistant coach, Mulvaney, asks us to stay. Apparently, Coach Turner wants a word with us prior to practice. Tomorrow is probably the biggest game we’ll have in the regular season so we’re all jittery with nerves, and the simple request only heightens the pressure we’re all already feeling.
“What do you think he wants that he can’t say on the field?” Tommy asks beside me, his voice low. “Since when does he hold pre-practice huddles in the locker room?”
I shrug, shaking off the ominous tone of Tommy’s voice. “It’s probably just about tomorrow,” I say, even though I’m not so sure.
Tommy’s right. Any pre-game strategizing, speeches, or peptalks happen once our feet hit the turf.
The door to the locker rooms opens with a bang. The heavy oak wood slams against the wall, reverberating throughout the tight confines of the locker room. Beside it, Coach Turner peers at us from the entryway, his gaze roaming the men standing before him, and if the pinched set of his mouth and tomato face are any indication, he’s pissed. Really pissed.
Everyone straightens, eyes forward. Every sound inside the room ceases almost instantly, a palpable tension taking its place.
Coach ambles forward until he’s front and center, all eyes on him.
The wrinkle in his brow deepens above hard, assessing eyes.
I suck in a breath and hold it, sensing that whatever he’s about to say will severely fuck up our day. “It’s come to my attention, by a source at Florida State, that someone gifted them a copy of our playbook.”
It’s like being in a vacuum; all the air is sucked from the room.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Whole minutes pass with Coach standing there, staring out at us as if waiting for Judas to show his face.
Eventually, a rumble of voices spreads, a low hum that builds around me. Words and phrases are tossed out. Stolen. Impossible. No fucking way.
When the tone starts to shift and rise, he raises a hand to silence us. “Like you, I didn’t believe it at first so I came to my office early. I’d just had the playbook last night, but when I checked this morning, it was gone.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath, stunned.
“Fuuuuck,” Tommy echoes.
“They’re lying,” someone shouts. “Ain’t no way.”
“How?” another demands.
“No way, Coach,” Greene says. “They’re fucking rats. They know we can beat them and they’re trying to shake us, turn on each other.”
“I wish that were the case.” The muscle in Coach’s jaw flickers. “But my source is a good friend, an old friend from college, actually. We’ve known each other for more than twenty years. Played football together. Helped each other at the start of our careers. He’s a confidant of mine and he works at the university, so I have every reason to believe what he’s telling me.”
“Who was it?” Chance demands across the room, arms crossed over his chest.
His stony gaze slides to mine where he holds it for a few beats before glancing away again.
“I don’t know,” Coach bites out. “I can only imagine it has to be someone who has access to the facilities.”
“Like a player?” Chance asks.
“Or a staff member, yes,” Coach says.
“No way. We’ve worked too damn hard to get here,” Tommy says beside me. “None of us would do that.”
Coach holds a hand up. “I have every intention at finding out who it was. In the meantime, practice is canceled for today.”
Protests rise around me, some calling for the turncoat’s head on a pike. Others insisting we need the practice now more than ever.
“Quiet!” Coach snaps, and the ruckus fades. “Quite frankly I don’t give a fuck what you think we should do. The damage is done. I’ve seen the copy of the playbook they have, and it is in fact, ours. So, I’m going to spend the next twenty-four fucking hours in my office trying to come up with a plan, new plays, whatever it takes to do some damage control while also trying to figure out how the fuck this happened and who the hell is responsible. I expect all of you”?he points at each of us, moving across the room?“to keep your ears to the fucking ground and if you hear so much as a peep about this or have an inkling of who it was, I expect you to come to me tomorrow before the game, and no sooner. I don’t want to be bothered until then because I’ll be working around the clock to do damage control. It might seem like this effects only one game, but the ramifications could be far reaching if someone from Florida got it in their head to pass the book along. You might as well kiss the championships goodbye. Is that understood?”
He pauses and a cacophonous “Yes, sir!” trickles through the room.
“Good.” He nods and backs toward the door. “You’re on your own for the day. Do whatever the fuck you want.”
Once he’s gone Greene slams his fist into a nearby locker and turns on us. “Whoever the fuck it was better turn themselves in right now, I swear.”
A rumbled ascent fills the room while I stand there shell-shocked. Any hope we had of pulling out a win tomorrow have all but vanished. All our hard work is for nothing.
Tommy sighs and slides two hands into his hair. “Well, there goes tomorrow.” He kicks the bench in front of us, then curses.
“It makes no sense,” I say with a shake of my head. “Why would someone do that?” And more importantly, who the hell would have access to Coach’s office to even snag his playbook in the first place?
“Maybe the mole got fucking paid?” Tommy throws out.
Maybe. I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time money exchanged hands to ensure a win. Or maybe the same person who managed to gain access to the locker combinations also has access to Coach’s office.
The thought detonates inside my brain like a hand grenade, and when my gaze lifts in the direction of Chance Lockhart, our eyes lock.
My heart pounds a frantic beat as I run laps around the track. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve done, but it doesn’t matter. Most of the guys hit the weight room and finished conditioning more than an hour ago but I, for one, couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not with my mind racing in a million different directions.
So, I run until my muscles burn and my lungs ache.
I run until the thoughts in my brain muddle and fizzle to nothing more than a blissful hum.
Slowing my pace, I come to a stop, bending at the waist to catch my breath before I do a few quick stretches, then head for the locker room.
I can’t imagine what Coach is thinking right now. Even if he can create a whole new fucking playbook, we don’t have time to learn them for the game tomorrow. Instead, we’ll be flying by the seat of our pants, with last-minute plays being hurled at us; it’s about the only thing we can do to try an earn a win other than pray like hell.
I shake my head as I enter the tunnel and head for the locker room, still unable to believe one of my teammates or a staff member sold us out.
Did someone offer them money?
For the life of me, I can’t come up with a reason good enough to hand our rival the blueprint for beating us, and monetary gain is the only thing that makes even remote sense.
Regardless of the reason, the betrayal cuts deep. Teammates are a band of brothers, and even though I’m nowhere near as close to these guys as I was with my teammates back in Riverside, if I’m feeling the sting of this, I can’t imagine what the veteran players on the team are feeling. The seniors must be shitting bricks right now.
And Coach . . . If I were him, I’d be beside myself.
It’s the best season he’s had in years and now, because of one selfish asshole, the team will take a massive hit.
It’s quiet as I duck under the archway into the hall that leads to the locker room. Hours have passed since Coach made the announcement about the playbook, and most of the guys have probably gone home by now.
I tug open the heavy metal door, my thoughts drifting to Lane. I hadn’t planned on hanging out with her tonight on account of how important tomorrow’s game is—or was—but I can’t help but wonder what she’ll think when she finds out what happened.
I lift my head as I round the corner and freeze.
My eyes widen, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Seconds pass, but my brain still won’t compute.
Chance stands at my locker, a gym bag at his feet as he pops the combination lock off my locker, then bends and removes an item I’d recognize anywhere. The one I’ve seen Coach clutch during practice every fucking day for the last four months.
His playbook.
The realization is a bucket of cold water to the face.
Ice chinks in my veins, a glacier in my chest.
“What the actual fuck?” My mouth hangs open as Chance’s head whips in my direction. Surprise flickers in his eyes as he straightens. The hand holding the playbook lowers.
I can see the panic in his stony gaze moments before he holds the playbook out, waving it in front of me like evidence. “It was you!” he exclaims.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I scoff, motioning to my locker. “I just fucking watched you open my locker and remove it from your bag, ready to stash it there.”
“No.” He shakes his head and turns fully toward me, squaring his shoulders. “I had a feeling you were the rat, so I figured I’d check it out. Sure enough, I was right.”
“Like hell you did.” My hands fist as I step forward, muscles coiled, ready for a fight.
The fucking audacity of this guy is mind boggling.
“If you saw anything different,” he says with a smirk, “you need to get your fucking eyes checked.”
I take another step closer, my mouth a tight line as I try and determine his angle. To get me off the team? To fuck with me because of Lane?
It’s hard to be one step ahead of your enemies when you don’t know they’re fucking motives.
Fury blazes through my veins. “What’s your endgame, Lockhart? What are you trying to pull?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He scoffs.
“Ever since you saw me with Lane that first night, I’ve had a target on my back. The liquor bottle in my locker. Then showing up at her place and bad-mouthing me. The impromptu mandatory Sunday meetings when you knew damn well we were together. Your threats when I saw you the other day with Sophie, and now this?”
He huffs out a laugh. “You’re fucking paranoid, Nichols.”
My gaze sharpens on his face. “Am I?”
I’d love nothing more than to punch his fucking lights out, imprint my knuckles on his face, but something tells me that’s what he wants. One more reason for Coach to kick me off his team.
Another step closer, and Chance slaps the playbook into my chest, leaning in so I can smell the cloying scent of his cologne. “Good luck explaining to Coach why you have the playbook,” he says. Then he removes his hand as he backs up, and the playbook nearly falls to the ground before I fumble for it, catching it before it has the chance. And by the time I lift my gaze, he’s gone.