CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lucas
Team meetings are where reputations quietly live or die.
Not the loud kind. Not the viral clips or Sunday highlights. The subtle kind. The moments when a coach pauses, when a room of fifty-three players lean in, and when the other thirty eager to make the roster for at least one game hope to prove they’re more than just a body filling a chair.
The meetings are held in an auditorium. Extra-large seats are on a sloped floor, so each row is angled for optimal visibility of the giant screen at the front of the room.
I take my seat near the front—close enough to show I’m paying attention but far enough away that I don’t look like a kiss-ass.
I set my coffee on the collapsible desk and open my playbook.
Cole is already there, sprawled out like he owns the place, but his desk looks much like mine—ready to take notes, to talk about the game, despite the arrogance oozing off him.
A couple of guys greet me with nods. One mutters playfully, “Morning, old man,” under his breath.
I smirk. “Careful. I bruise easy.”
Laughter ripples quietly from those who hear the exchange.
Coach walks to the front of the room, remote in hand, and jaw set like it seems it always is when he’s in business mode—which over the past few days, I’ve come to find is basically all the time.
“Morning,” he says and receives a room full of responses back.
“Week one is going well by all standards. I’ve seen a lot of effort put forth.
Good teamwork—in play and pulling for one another.
” I tune out the rinse and repeat speech I’ve probably heard a dozen times and wait for the real reason we’re all in here because it sure as shit isn’t the kumbaya session.
It’s to study the film from our scrimmage yesterday. Play review.
The first few clips are basic plays, and Coach walks through the what was and wasn’t done properly. Heads nod. A few jokes are made to ease the atmosphere of the room.
And then Coach readies the next one, the screen displaying a clip from yesterday’s install—third and medium, trips right, slant-flat concept.
The play runs. The linebacker jumps the slant. And Cole gets sacked.
Cole clears his throat. “Protection broke down,” he says quickly.
Coach doesn’t respond right away. He rewinds the clip. Slows it down.
I don’t plan to speak up, I really don’t, but the words sit on my tongue anyway. “The problem wasn’t with the protection,” I say.
The room goes silent. A few heads turn my way, but I keep my attention focused on Coach and the play repeating on the screen in front of us.
Coach’s brows rise as his eyes meet mine. “No?”
I shake my head once. “The read’s late. Number 48 is shading inside pre-snap. He’s telegraphing the jump. If you fake the slant and hit the flat off a half-second delay, in most instances the linebacker will overcommit giving the QB broad daylight.”
Cole turns from where he sits a few rows below me and to my left. His eyes narrow. “That’s not how the play’s drawn up.”
“True,” I say evenly. “But that’s how it plays out against a fast linebacker with good film study.”
Coach folds his arms. “And why wouldn’t that delay result in your receiver being lit up?”
I point to the screen like someone can tell where I’m aiming. “Because the safety is already cheating deep. He’s worried about the seam,” I say, referring to the gap between zones of coverage. “The window is there to throw if you trust the timing.”
The room is silent. I know I’m right, but for some reason my pulse thunders in my ears.
My comment can either be taken as a know-it-all try to prove that point or a team player trying to help out.
Coach studies the screen. Rewinds. Watches it again. Then very slowly, his mouth curves.
“And that,” he says, tapping the remote against his palm, “is why experience matters.”
Pride washes over me, subtle, but real and welcome. It’s amazing how good it feels being recognized by Coach in a room where I’m trying to prove my worth.
A couple other players murmur. One of the linemen nods like I just confirmed something he already suspected. Cole doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t argue either.
The meeting continues on. More plays reviewed. More feedback given and coaching received, and while I listen, I feel validated—as if my record and my thirteen years in the league aren’t enough—in this new place where some players still question why I’ve been signed.
The meeting wraps up. Chairs scrape. Conversations spark. As I stand, Mason claps me on the shoulder.
“Good call in there,” he says.
“Yeah,” another guy says whose name I don’t remember quite yet. “You see shit different. I like that.”
I shrug it off with a smile and a thanks. His words mean more to me than I’d like to admit.
As I head down the hallway toward the medical wing, my thoughts drift somewhere they probably shouldn’t.
Doc.
To our morning runs that have become a thing. Not on purpose—or maybe a little on purpose. She leaves at the same time, and I’ve decided to start later so that when she heads out the front door, I’m there stretching. Waiting. Acting like it’s a fluke to be standing there when we both know it isn’t.
I’ve begun to look forward to our runs.
Most of the time they’re done in silence with little talking. Other times there are small snippets of conversation, and I’ve been amused by her keen sense of humor.
And that sense of humor is way better than the doubt she had in her eyes on that first run where I felt like she was expecting me to criticize or call her on something.
The electrostimulation room hums softly when I step inside. Machines beep. Low voices murmur.
“Hale. I’ve got you set up over here,” Brian, one of the techs says, and waves me over to a table beside one of our wide receivers, Lamar Weston. His quad’s been giving him trouble, so no doubt he’s here to have some work done to it like I am.
Within minutes, I’m hooked up to the machine with leads and wires and sitting back to let the current do its work on my shoulder.
“This is like torture before practice.”
“Torture?” I ask Lamar, as I open my eyes and look over at him.
“Yeah, man. It makes you sleepy. Relaxed,” Lamar says. “But you know you have hours of impending torture waiting for you out there.”
I bark out a laugh. “Never thought of it that way.”
“It’s like having sex and then the foreplay.”
“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” I say and shake my head. “I’d say . . .” But my words drift off when I catch sight of Emery walking into the room. She has her hair down, a pair of sexy-as-hell glasses perched on her nose, and black slacks paired with a red Rebels short-sleeved sweater.
“Never had a doctor work on me before who looked like that,” Lamar murmurs.
“No shit,” I say, more out of reflex than anything.
“No fair you got her as your doc when I have him.” Lamar lifts his chin toward a hulking figure of a man whose biceps stretch the natural limits of the cuffs of his T-shirt. “Nice and all but not exactly great to look at.”
I chuckle as Lamar closes his eyes and settles in.
I should do the same, but I find my eyes wandering back to Emery.
To that tight sweater. To the hot teacher look.
To her confidence as she stands near one of the tables, focused on a tight end’s knee.
Her hands move with an easy certainty as she presses and pushes and flexes his leg.
She’s all business right now with her brow furrowed, her lips twisted, and her attention razor sharp. Just the doctor doing her job. Exactly how she wants it.
“You know she’s out of your league, right?” Lamar says.
“Good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion.” I snort. “There’s always hope, right?”
He grins and his chuckle floats out and into the noise of the room. “Just saying. Smart. Hot. Clearly doesn’t put up with bullshit.”
“Sounds exhausting,” I deadpan.
“Sounds like exactly the perfect type.”
“Whatever, dude.” I push his shoulder. “I assure you the only thing I’m looking for in anyone right now is a good time. If that. My focus is here and doing my job.”
Emery glances up, catches us looking, and moves toward us. “Should I be concerned what those looks mean?” she asks.
“Only if Lamar keeps talking,” I say as she checks the dials on Lamar’s machine.
“Since I started here, I don’t think there’s been a time when he’s not talking,” she teases to which she gets a raucous response from the guys around us.
The receiver groans as she readjusts the settings. “Doc’s brutal, Hale.”
“More like efficient,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
Her eyes flick to mine for a split second, and something unspoken passes between us. It’s professional but charged.
I clock it and file it away as quickly as she turns to assess another player.
My eyes stay on her as she works though.
Not only is she attractive, but she’s smart, confident, and clearly knows her shit. No one who’s listened to her assess a player can deny that.
Plenty of women are attractive, Hale. That doesn’t mean shit and especially doesn’t give you the a-okay to act on it. Talk about blurring lines you can’t afford to cross.
Besides, I’ve crossed enough lines in my life to know exactly how fast that shit can backfire. I’m here to play football, not make bad decisions.
Clueless of my thoughts, Emery turns back to her work, all focus and precision. I do the same—staring at the ceiling, as the machine hums, my shoulder tightening and releasing with the current.
“All right, men. Let’s finish up in here and get out on the field,” Coach bellows into the room, sharp and final.
Groans ring out as guys hop off the tables and assistant athletic trainers start disconnecting wires so the others can. Ribbing is given and taken as bodies funnel toward the locker room to grab their gear.
I’m peeling the leads off my shoulder when Coach stops mid-stride.
“Hale?”
The room pauses for a beat. So does my pulse.
“Yes?”
“Not you,” he says, already turning back toward the door as my heart fucking stops. “I want you to stay in here with the doc.” He finds Emery and nods. “Put him through the paces. I want a renewed assessment.”
The protest on my tongue is there instinctively. Immediately. A rebuke I don’t voice. I’m still new in this organization, still feeling him and his methods out.
I swallow the protest. “Sure thing,” I say instead.
My tone is easy—cooperative and professional—but my jaw is clenched.
I have a feeling that this might be a permanent state moving forward.