Chapter 43
Colin
THE TEXT I send Scott is straightforward enough.
I know we need to talk. But right now I have a match to win.
My office first thing Monday morning.
I give it a thumbs up and turn the phone off.
I’ve had enough of it between Scott, my sister and mom, and my assistant coaches.
I’m sure Kari’s having a time of it with the sports media and whatever’s happening online.
I may hate the stuff, but I’m no fool. I know what this looks like on the outside.
The problem, if there even is one, is that I can’t find it in myself to care.
Ryan and Elliott stare at my and Sam’s clasped hands as we exit the casino’s doors and make our way to the bus waiting to take the team to the stadium.
“You’re really diving in here,” Sam murmurs as Ansel turns to us, his own gaze falling immediately on our hands.
“Ripping the bandage off,” I mutter back, thumbing at the metal band on my ring finger. I squeeze her hand and she looks at me, her teeth worrying her lower lip. “You made me put the ring on; you can’t back out now,” I tease.
She throws her shoulders back. “You’re right.”
“Can you say that again into a microphone?” I ask with a chuckle, taking her good-natured swat and releasing her hand as we reach my assistant coaches.
“So it’s true,” Ryan says.
“Did a whole press conference and everything,” I deadpan. “But it’s time to focus on the match.”
“Good luck with that,” Ansel says, nodding toward Ollie as his long strides eat up the distance.
I brace myself for a punch, figuring I might deserve it.
But then Ollie’s face splits into a wide smile, and he pulls me into a bear hug. “Welcome to the family, Coach!”
I struggle to breathe as he lifts me off the ground. “Ollie,” I gasp, legitimately worried at the lack of oxygen.
He drops me and clasps me on the shoulders as I take a breath. “Can’t wait to get you home to meet Mum – hope you don’t have plans after the season because we’re taking you to Melbourne.”
I look at him in confusion. “Ollie, what is happening right now?”
“You did the right thing is what’s happening,” he says, thwacking my back with far more enthusiasm than is strictly necessary.
“And if my sister is happy, I’m happy.” Then he puts his hand on my neck and pulls me to him as he leans forward, dropping his voice.
“And so help me if you hurt her again, I’ll feed you to crocodiles, yeah?
” He leans back and slaps my back again, definitely harder than needed, and definitely on purpose.
There’s a distinct, deadly serious gleam in his eye as he smiles at me. “Congratulations to the happy couple.”
“Thanks,” I tell him as I straighten, sincerely grateful for his protectiveness and only a little afraid for my life.
A few minutes later, we’re all loaded onto the bus and are en route to the stadium.
It’s a quiet ride, and I’m grateful for the lack of drama even though I half wonder if Ansel and Ollie might have sent a message to the team.
The majority of the guys wearing headphones or earbuds, listening to whatever music gets them most hyped and ready to play.
I sit by myself, needing the ritual of reviewing our roster versus their roster and going over the plays we’ve worked on this week.
This entire season, I’ve spent the hours leading up to the match in a state of controlled panic.
I’d never been like that with my college teams, and figured it was just a result of this being the pros.
But as I look over the names written in pen on the spiral-bound notebook, touching each one as I think about the player and their strengths, and how to leverage those as best as possible today, I realize that I’m calm.
My knees aren’t bouncing, my heart isn’t racing, and I haven’t reached for my ever-present lucky quarter, either.
Guess this is what happens when I stop trying to control everything.
Neesha and Sam peel away from the team as we walk into the stadium, the two of them heading for the pitch as the rest of us angle for the locker room.
Chatter starts up as soon as we’re through the doors, the men pulling off their music and starting to get ready.
Kit bags hit the floor, uniforms are pulled on, ears are taped up, knees are wrapped, socks are donned, boots are laced.
I stand off to the side with Ryan and Elliott as the guys toss the occasional glance my way, and I know they want me to say something about the press conference.
But now isn’t the time. Instead, I discuss last-minute strategy while we have time.
I’ll be up in the booth as always, and while I’ll talk to my assistant coaches through the headsets, my control is gone the second the game starts.
But this right here, the easy camaraderie of the team as they pull on their uniforms, tossing tape to each other to wrap up ears or knees or both, listening to the different accents as they all give each other shit, it might be my favorite part.
All our work comes to fruition here, in this room.
The smell of old sweat and cleats permeates the air, but we’re all so used to variations on it that no one notices.
Lennox approaches and jerks his head as he passes me. As much as I’d rather not, I feel like I owe it to him to follow.
“What’s up?” I ask when we’re in a corner away from the rest of the guys.
“Is it true?”
“Which part?”
“Kari. She’s head of PR now?”
I look thoughtfully at him. “That’s the goal. Why?”
He shrugs. “No reason.”
I’m confident his answer is bullshit. But there’s no need to press him.
“Ollie’s not being a prick,” Lennox observes, changing topics quickly.
“True,” I agree.
“It’s nice,” Lennox says.
“It is.”
“Saw the presser. That was good.”
“Thanks.” I suppress a laugh. “Are you – is everything okay?”
“Yeah!” He clears his throat. “Yes. Right. Well, thanks.” He nods and stalks back to the bench, picking up his boot and shoving his foot in with gusto.
Five minutes before we’re set to go onto the pitch, I step into the room and clap my hands for the guys’ attention.
“I hope your day has been less exciting than mine,” I begin, and a low laugh comes in response. “And I’ll give you the story later. But right now, we’re here to remind the Lights how we’ve already beaten them once this season. And we’re going to do it again. Right?”
A chorus of cheers answers me.
“Stay focused, remember the drills we’ve practiced, and keep possession of that ball.”
Ollie raises his hand.
Warily, I point at him. “Nash.”
He stands and looks at the team. “Just a reminder that the arsehole Coach punched last night is number twenty. Plays openside flanker when he’s on.” He pauses. “That was my sister.”
“My wife.” Every pair of eyes slide to me. Holding Ollie’s eyes, I repeat myself. “She’s Ollie’s sister, she’s my wife, and she’s the team’s new head of PT.”
“No mercy,” Ollie says.
I start a nod as I look from him to Ansel.
Ansel stands. “On three. One, two, three!”
“Granite!” The response is loud, low, and rattling.
The guys run past me, Ansel leading the charge. Lennox pulls up the rear and leans in as he goes. “Number twenty is mine if he steps on the pitch, Coach.”
I don’t bother telling him to hold back. I want that prick flattened.
I make my way to the box overlooking the pitch, noting how much more luxe it is than ours.
But it is Las Vegas, so it’s not that surprising.
I settle into my seat as the team heads to their end of the pitch to warm up, adjusting my binder and pulling out my different colored pens to arrange them to the right and top of it.
Pulling on the headset, I flip it on and give it a “Test test.”
Ryan’s voice comes back. “Go Granite.”
Elliott chimes in next. “Beat Lights.”
“Damn right,” I finish.
The announcer starts into his pre-game show, and I pull my quarter out to rub a thumb over the face.
“Hey, Coach.” Sullivan Adams appears in my profile as he takes a seat beside me.
I pocket the coin and nod a hello.
Half an hour later, the match is underway and the Lights have no chance.
I don’t know if it’s our practices paying off in spades, the guys’ irritation that one of our own was harassed, or something else, but it doesn’t matter: they are on fire.
By the half, we’re up by twenty-eight points and Las Vegas has scored only two tries.
I stay in the booth, not willing to break whatever magic is being woven down there.
Number twenty is on the pitch in the second half, and I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost. Every time he dives into a ruck, our guys absolutely brutalize him.
His position is made for stealing the ball and hauling toward the try line whenever possible, but inside a ruck is when an openside flanker is supposed to shine.
Only not this guy. Each time there’s a ruck, he’s there grabbing for the ball, but he’s got no chance.
Whether it’s one of our guys aiming right for his ribs or another guy “accidentally” nailing his nose with their boot, number twenty spends more time dodging hits than with his hand on the ball.
Serves the prick right. My phone pings and Sam’s name flashes across the screen.
SUNSHINE
Who told the guys it was #20?
I don’t hesitate, typing the answer out quickly.
Your brother and I have an understanding with the team.
Remind me to discuss your caveman tendencies later.
Pass
I grin and flip the phone over, needing to focus back on the match. But the warmth in my chest doesn’t leave.
We crush them, 53-32, and I take more than a little pleasure in watching my team ignore number 20 as they do the post-game walk across the pitch. All that is, but Ollie, who shoulder-checks him without breaking stride.
I grin. “Love that guy.”
Adams chuckles beside me. “Eh, he deserved it.”
I slide my eyes toward him. “No comment.”
He laughs as he tucks his pen and pad away. “Probably for the best.”
The locker room is electric when I enter, the guys’ energy through the roof as they shower and dress. It’s not until we’re on the bus and heading to the airport that I step into the aisle and hold my hands up to get the team’s attention.
“First of all, it’s safe to say that the number 20 jersey is never getting worn on this team again.”
The guys erupt in a series of yells and whistles, and even Sam and Neesha can’t hold back exasperated smiles. I wink at Sam.
Once everyone settles back down, I continue.
“That game was incredible. I’m proud of each of you.
There wasn’t one play that I’d change, one pass I’d re-do.
You were focused, you were ruthless, and you played without fear.
We keep doing that and we’ll have that championship trophy where it belongs in July: with us. ”
More cheers.
“Drinks on Coach!” Carter yells from the middle of the bus.
I point at him. “In the Vegas airport? Not a chance.”
Lennox leans over from his seat in the very back. “I got the first round, boys.”
I tip an imaginary hat at the Scot before turning back in my seat. Across the aisle, Sam smiles at me, then looks down to tap on her phone.
Too bad we’re heading to the airport…
***
You’re a snack over there, all flushed and cute from winning.
You think I’m cute?
Sam snorts and looks over at me as I flash her a cheesy grin.
I think you’re flawless.
After landing, we take a rideshare back to my house, Sam beside me, relaxed and gorgeous in her game-day gear. I grab her hand and bring it to my lips, and she graces me with a smile.
“You’re different,” she observes.
I rub my jaw, considering. “Different how?”
She hums. “Content. And not because you won, or what we did back at the hotel.”
I lean into her, nuzzling her neck and growling softly. “You sure? Because I’m never happier than when I’m deep inside you.”
A vibrant crimson stains her cheeks as she shoves at me. “That is not what I mean. Your entire aura is…I don’t know.”
I resist the urge to tease her about my aura, because she’s right. I’ve never been this happy, despite not knowing how Monday will go with Scott. “Because I’m not scared.”
She studies me, her ice-blue eyes roving over my face, down my polo and khakis and back up again. “You were scared?”
I laugh. “Absolutely. And I’m still kind of scared, if I’m being honest.”
“About what?”
“You, Sunshine.”
Her brow furrows.
“Loving you is terrifying. It’s like jumping out of a plane when no one’s checked the parachute.
But I’ve already flung myself into the air, Sam.
And all I can do is trust that the parachute is going to work.
That you’re going to keep loving me back.
Because the alternative is losing you. And I’d risk everything I am, everything I have, to not do that again. Once was more than enough.”
She reaches for my face, cupping it and stroking my beard with her thumb. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“This might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen,” the driver says, her smile broad as she glances at us in the rearview mirror.
Sam grins at her. “You should hear how we met.”