Chapter 10
Fin
Smiles and salutations greeted one another as the team came back together on Friday.
The last time we’d assembled was at Reid Hubbard’s funeral.
The happy faces weren’t a sign that the Coopers had forgotten the CEO and owner and had moved on.
They meant we were genuinely pleased to be back at Maker’s Mark with a common adversary on the horizon.
The preparation for a game and an opposing team was both physical and mental.
The win against the Raiders was in the past.
Our focus was on the next game against the Tennessee Titans.
It would be our second meeting of the season.
Unlike the first time, a week from Sunday we’d play in Nashville on their turf.
Our first game against the Titans still lived loudly in our heads.
It wasn’t a secret that it was the Titans’ linebacker Pickard who took Dennison out of the game with the calls: roughing the passer and unnecessary roughness.
That stunt put Dennison on the injury reserve for four weeks.
While Pickard was ejected and penalized with three-game ineligibility, to hear our teammates talk, that hadn’t been enough.
Pickard would have a target on his jersey.
“And there’s no way in hell he’s getting near Dennison,” James, our offensive tackle, said. The rest of the O-line cheered. James was now our starting offensive tackle since Corden Young tore his meniscus in the game against the Raiders.
That’s the way the game of football worked. One day you were a star. The next you were sitting the bench, or worse, laid up with possible career-changing injuries.
Jordon James wasn’t the only new name added to the starting roster.
Marcel Pickett, the kid who told me about my tells, was listed as starting defensive end, taking the place of Xavien Martin who suffered an MCL sprain.
Martin wouldn’t be out for the season, but it was good to see Pickett recognized for his hard work.
Eric Rhodes, another defensive end, was listed as “limited.” Whether he saw playing time against the Titans on Sunday would be a call made by the athletic trainers and medical staff.
The same could be said about Ramel Patel, wide receiver, and about me. We were both listed as ‘questionable.’
Coach Tilson stood in the front of the film room as the cheers died. “We want a clean game. The officiating crew will know the history between the two teams. They’ll be watching for possible penalties. It won’t help the Coopers if any of you are ejected or penalized.”
“We’re talking clean,” our starting center, Spencer, said. “We won’t let them play dirty.”
Tilson smiled. “I like your determination.”
“It won’t matter, Coach,” Dennison said. “I’m not going down.”
Troy was seated to my side. I bumped his shoulder with mine. “You’ve got this.”
“As you should know, the Titans,” Coach Tilson said, “are 5 and 2. They’ll be gunning for us just like we’re gunning for them. We’re in the same division. Only one team from each division gets first seed in postseason. And the team for the AFC South is going to be who?”
“Coopers,” the entire team answered.
“Who?”
“Coopers,” we said louder.
“We’ll kick their ass,” Dennison spoke softly. “If they make the wild card, we’ll kick it again.”
A smile curled my lips. “Fucking A.”
“We’re going to review the Titans’ playbook,” Coach Tilson said. “Pratt, run the tape.”
Coach Pratt ran multiple tapes of the Titans during their last seven games, highlighting their offensive plays. Coach Brown did the same for their defensive plays. Watching their plays and breaking them down reminded me of the afternoon I spent in Vee’s office with her checker setup.
Vee had the playbook; she just needed to figure out how to run them. With the film, we didn’t know the Titans’ play calls, but we could break down each play in our own language. In next week’s practices, the practice squad would run the plays as the Titans would.
It was after noon by the time Coach Tilson told us to eat lunch and come back tomorrow ready for light practice, beginning with spider sessions and ending the day with walkthroughs.
That meant we’d focus on mental reps, technique, and more film.
There wouldn’t be any pads or full-speed contact.
Our bye week gave us until next Monday for that.
“Rhodes, Graham, and Patel,” Coach called, “head over to the trainers. Let them take a look at your injuries and see how you’re healing.”
I wanted to hear that I was cleared for play the following Sunday. However, if I was open about the way I felt, there was still a twinge in my side when I moved a certain way. For the most part, I’d followed Lacy Reynolds’s orders. She’d told me to take it easy and rest.
Minus my extracurricular activities with Vee, I’d done as Lacy said.
Without disclosing too much information, I started our activities Wednesday night with Vee on top for that reason.
As excruciatingly satisfying as it was to watch her boobs bounce in my face and feel the friction of her tight pussy while she was on my lap, my drive and need overrode any thoughts about my rib.
In short, Vee was just too damn sexy to take it slow.
My lips curled at the memory of us finally making it to bed. The final time was sensual and calming, taking us from the high out by the fireplace to slumber, both of us too worn out to do anything but close our eyes and fall fast asleep.
Lacy was waiting for me when I arrived at the wing of Maker’s Mark that held the training facility.
I gave her a wink. For a woman in her mid-fifties, she was attractive. For a certified athletic trainer and PA, she was thorough. “We need to stop meeting like this.”
She grinned. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m actually seeing many football players. Sorry, Fin, you’re just one of the bunch.”
Laying my fist over my chest, I feigned disappointment. “And I thought I was someone special.”
“You are. You’re part of the Coopers, and it’s my job to make sure you’re healthy enough to play.”
“Honestly, Troy Dennison is healed. I won’t be seeing play time.”
“Let’s get a new CT scan. I’m still concerned with your sternum. The last images came back inconclusive. Have you experienced any of the symptoms I mentioned before? Shortness of breath? Increased chest pain? Or pain that required medications even over the counter?”
“No.” I answered quickly. When she waited for more, I went on, “Once in a while when I move just right—or wrong—there’s a twinge in my side. You said I should judge my own pain, and I’d say it’s at zero most of the time.”
“When it’s above zero,” she asked, “what would you rate it?”
“Maybe a two.”
“My experience with you football players, a severed limb is only rated a four. So we should pay attention to a two.”
“Then, after reconsidering, it’s a one.”
She shook her head. “Are you done for the day?”
My cocky smile was back. “Are you asking me out?”
Lacy Reynolds rolled her eyes. “I was going to tell you to come back tomorrow morning before the light practice to get the results if you’re heading out.”
“Dennison is working out in the weight room.” Before she could tell me that weights were still off-limits, I added, “I’m only going to be there to spot for him. The kid’s excited to get back out on the field. Four games can seem like a lifetime. I want to make sure his head is in the game.”
“Okay. No lifting. Now let’s get the CT scan. Come back in the morning. I’ll call you if I need to speak to you sooner.”
Less than half an hour later, I was in the lunchroom sitting at a table with other members of the offense.
Since I wouldn’t be practicing until Coach Pratt got the go-ahead, I forewent the five-thousand-calorie high-performance menu and instead, filled my plate from the massive salad bar.
Most of my protein came in the form of a specialized protein smoothie.
“What are your chances of seeing field time?” Dijon, one of our running backs, asked me.
He caught me as I was stuffing my mouth with salad complete with raspberries and pecans; I chewed and swallowed. My gaze went over to Dennison. “I’d say zero. Troy’s going to be putting on the show for all of us. I’m going to have the best view from the sideline.”
“So, you’ll be standing next to Ms. Maeve?” Kylon Lewis, one of our wide receivers, asked with his eyebrows raised.
“Not during the game.”
Grins prevailed as elbows bumped elbows around the table.
“You know,” Treshawn Morgan, our fullback, said, “I think it’s cool that she appointed Mrs. Marsh as temporary CEO. Mrs. Marsh is a Hubbard and well, Darin Marsh can be an ass. Besides, she’s been around for a long time. It was a good move.”
Other players nodded.
“Darin ain’t as bad as Grant,” Jordan James chimed in.
Most of the players around the table laughed.
“Smug.”
“Assholes.”
“Condescending.”
“Cheap asses.”
The opinions were less than favorable.
“Who’s been here the longest?” I asked, looking around the table. “I mean, which one of you. I’ve only been here since preseason. This is Troy’s second year.”
“Fourth year,” Dijon said.
“Fifth for me,” Jamir said.
Kylon Lewis, our starting wide receiver, lifted his hand. “This is my eighth season with the Coopers.”
“You were here when Vee, Ms. Maeve, started working for the franchise.”
Kylon shrugged. “I didn’t know much about the execs.
I signed my contract and did whatever Coach Everington told me to do.
Tilson took over for Everington three years ago.
” Kylon forked fish from his plate and stopped, fork still in the air.
“I forgot about it, but when Everington was coach, Ms. Maeve would sometimes be around. Not like she has been this season, but she’d be around, listening to game recap on Mondays or sitting in with Wednesday film. Hmm. I’d forgotten that.”
I wanted to ask more questions, trying to verify the bizarre story Clark told me. These guys made it sound like Darin and Grant Marsh were assholes. Assholes didn’t mean they would murder or have someone murdered.
Besides, Bre Stanton was in custody for the attempted murder, not either of the Marshes.
“Graham.”
I snapped out of my trance and turned to Dennison. “Yeah, sorry. My mind was wandering.”
“I’m headed to the weight room after I change clothes. Are you changing?”
Looking down, I saw the pale-blue button-down shirt I’d picked out this morning and my blue jeans. “Nah. Trainers said I can’t lift yet. I can spot in what I’m wearing.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
Others were leaving the table.
“Ten,” I repeated.
My phone in my pocket vibrated. Pulling it out, I saw a text message from my brother, Zane.
“HEY BIG brOTHER, I’M PLAYING IN CHICAGO THIS SUNDAY. GAME’S AT NOON. I HAVE TWO TICKETS 50-YARD LINE IF YOU AND VEE CAN MAKE THE TRIP.”
It had been too long since I’d watched Zane play live. The thought of Vee and me sitting in the stands at Soldier Field brought a smile to my face.
Could we pull off the anonymity of sitting in the crowd?
I checked my phone for Chicago’s Sunday weather report.
It would be sunny and fifty-two degrees at the start of the game.
I texted back.
“YOU MIGHT ACTUALLY BEAT THE BEARS. Laughing emoji.”
The Vikings had a 3–3 record. There was always a chance. I sent another text message.
“I’LL CHECK VEE’S SCHEDULE AND GET BACK TO YOU.”