Chapter 8 Luca
Luca
CHELSEA HASN’T LOOKED at me.
Not once.
Not even when I put myself in her direct line of sight earlier.
Not even when she walked past me to stand at the back of the players to listen to her father’s opening remarks.
True, she was walking with some other staffers and I was standing in a packed crowd of players.
But still. Given our history, the way she kept averting her eyes felt unnatural and intentional.
At the very least, her eyes should have grazed over my face at some point, which then by all rights should have made her stop and stare at me in complete shock.
Although … hold up. As Coach Parker’s daughter, Chelsea must have already known about me coming to camp today, even before she walked onto the field!
Which means Chelsea’s most definitely been avoiding eye contact with me on purpose this whole time.
I know we met in Bloomington years ago, but there’s no way she doesn’t remember me.
I’m a memorable guy! Plus, she knew my name was Luca Maguire back then, and I was a football player, so there’s no chance my presence here now wouldn’t ring any bells for her.
“And that’s how we’re going to build a winning team this season,” Coach Parker says with enthusiasm, as my wandering thoughts about Chelsea loosen their chokehold on me. “With heart, grit, discipline, and teamwork,” he adds. “And most importantly, with preparation, preparation, preparation.”
I zone out again. Opening remarks by coaches are always the same thing, basically.
Man, I still can’t believe Chelsea the Mathlete is here.
For seven long years, I’ve thought about her and felt a torrent of conflicting emotions every time.
Tingles about the amazing conversations we had, a major boner about our hot make-out session, and shame and embarrassment about the way things ended, thanks to me pushing too hard and scaring her off.
Why’d I do that? Chelsea told me to take it super slow, and then I barreled right ahead and offered to give her an orgasm.
The memory haunts me to this day. In fact, barely a week has gone by that I haven’t thought about that awful moment.
Although right now, I must admit, I’m wondering if I can even trust my memories and feelings about that night, given that it turns out Chelsea the Mathlete is actually Chelsea Parker.
Why the fuck did Chelsea make it seem like she didn’t know the first thing about football, when her father is a legendary coach?
I don’t get. And if she lied to me about that major thing, then what else did she lie about as well?
Was anything out of her mouth the truth?
“And now, let me introduce my coaching staff,” Coach Parker says. And off he goes, introducing each person down the line.
While he’s introducing the receivers coach, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Is that Cameron, telling me he’s found me a new team? Unfortunately, I can’t look at my screen to find out, since we were supposed to stow our phones in our lockers.
Everyone around me hoots and applauds at something, causing me to return to Coach Parker’s introductions; but soon, my mind loses interest and wanders again.
If only I’d known the truth about Chelsea and her family back then, I bet I could’ve found her after Bloomington. Man, I tried after that, to no avail. But if I’d had her last name, then I bet it would have been a different story.
Why did she think I’d care about her being Coach Parker’s daughter?
Was it because he’s the coach my brother destroyed so badly, twice, that he left the entrails of Buckeyes all over the playing field both times?
Surely that can’t be it. Surely she had to have known I’d have been even more excited to talk to her if I’d known she came from football royalty.
The reason I sat down at Chelsea’s table in the first place had to do with her looks.
She was a stunner, plain and simple, and I felt a massive spark when our eyes met, even from across the room.
But if I’d known the truth, I would have sat down at her table that much faster, maybe even before I’d grabbed my breakfast, because I would have been excited to engage in some friendly ribbing and razzing of a Buckeye.
Her father is King of the Buckeyes, after all.
So, that makes her Princess Buckeye in my book, even if she personally went to the University of Chicago.
“And this is our linebacker coach,” Coach Parker says, jerking me from my thoughts yet again. “Give it up for Raul Martinez!”
I clap and cheer and try to give the proceedings my full attention now, since the man of the moment is my specific position’s coach.
With a wide smile, Coach Martinez waves to the crowd and says a few words into the microphone so the fans in attendance can hear them, too.
And then, when he’s finished with his brief remarks, Coach Martinez proceeds to introduce the small staff that will be working with him, as all previous position coaches have done.
“And last but not least, the linebackers are going to be getting some help from the highly talented Chelsea Parker. Where are you, Chelsea? Ah, there you are. Will you help me out during training camp?”
The entire crowd turns around, following the trajectory of Coach Martinez’s gaze. And that’s when we see Chelsea, her blue eyes wide and her mouth the shape of an O, looking deeply surprised and thoroughly elated.
“Great idea, Coach Martinez. The linebackers are lucky to have her around,” Coach Parker says. “And now, let me introduce you to some of our key operations staff.”
Holy shit. Now that I know Chelsea the Mathlete will be assigned to the linebackers, I’m honestly kind of conflicted about that earlier buzz in my pocket.
If that was indeed Cameron calling to say he’s found me another team, like I suspect, it’d be awfully hard to tear myself away from the opportunity to hang out with Chelsea the Mathlete again, even if it turns out she totally punked me with her fake cluelessness about football, way back when.
Man, I’ve got to know why she did that to me. And frankly, I don’t think I can wait for Coach Parker to finish his opening remarks to find out.
After looking around to make sure nobody’s paying attention to me, I take a step backward. And then another one, and so on. Until finally, I’m standing between Chelsea and another staffer—a guy wearing a Mastodons polo shirt who has to step to his right to make room for my broad shoulders.
Not surprisingly, Chelsea doesn’t look at me when I get settled next to her, even though my arm is grazing her shoulder, so I maintain steady eye contact with her profile, waiting her out.
She doesn’t turn her head, though. On the contrary, despite the fact that my body heat is now mingling with hers, Chelsea Parker continues staring straight ahead at her father in the distance while pretending I don’t exist.
I clear my throat. Loudly. Still no reaction from Chelsea. I shift my weight, but still, she gives me nothing. I wave my palm in front of her eyes about three inches from her face. And that finally does it: With blazing blue eyes, Chelsea turns to look at me, ever so slowly.
Damn. Those eyes of hers are incredible. If I hadn’t been sure this was the same mathlete from years ago, those blue eyes staring at me from mere inches away, the same way they did in that hotel room when we were tangled up and dry humping each other, would have confirmed it.
“Hey, Chelsea the Mathlete,” I whisper. “Or should I call you Coach Parker’s daughter? Either way, fancy meeting you here.”
Her nostrils flare. “You have me confused with someone else.”
“Nope. You’re the mathlete from the hotel in Bloomington.”
Her chest rises sharply. “Listen to your head coach.”
“Why are you acting like you don’t know me?”
She’s got fire in her eyes as she hisses, “Now isn’t the time, Luca. Please.” She juts her chin at her father, commanding me nonverbally this time to listen to him.
“If not now, when’s the right time to talk about this?” I whisper.
“Later. When nobody’s around.”
“You’ll tell me why you lied to me?”
“Yes, Luca. Later. Please.” She looks away, color flooding her cheeks, so I return my gaze to Coach. I don’t know what’s going on here, but the tortured look Chelsea flashed me just now was so genuinely panicky, it convinced me to back off. For now.
“And finally,” Coach Parker says. “Let me introduce you to the woman in charge of it all, the owner of the Mastodons, Ms. Ginny Williams!”
As the crowd applauds, Coach Parker hands the microphone to the nice white-haired lady who smiled at me earlier.
“Oh my goodness, hello, everyone,” Ginny says brightly with a cute little wave to the fans in attendance in the distance.
“I won’t be speaking very much this season.
Not here or at press conferences, either, because it’s my plan to remain in the background and learn everything I can while letting these talented people run the show.
” She smiles ruefully. “My husband, Rupert, loved this team more than anything in the world, other than his family. So, I’m thrilled to breathe new life into it, in his honor.
” She blows a kiss to the heavens and then raises her manicured fist to the sky and shouts, “Go Mastodons!”
“Go Mastodons!” the entire crowd, players, personnel, and fans shout in unison. But surely the players in attendance are only shouting out of respect and politeness. Ginny seems like a nice lady, but she’s delusional if she thinks anyone, even Coach Parker, can right this wonky ship.
“Thank you, Ginny,” Coach Parker says, after taking the mic from her. “Okay, training camp has officially begun. Players, go get your assigned iPads and equipment before grabbing breakfast and fueling up. We’ve got a long day ahead of us, and lots of long, grueling days after that. Go Mastodons!”