Chapter 10 Luca
Luca
WHEN I ENTER the practice field in the predawn light, it’s a few minutes past five thirty. I’ve got my cleats dangling by their laces in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, and a scowl on my face whenever I’m not yawning.
I meant it yesterday when I said I’d give Chelsea one chance to convince me of her coaching prowess, but after sleeping on it—and especially when my alarm went off a full hour earlier than necessary this morning—I’ve realized it was my stupid physical attraction to Chelsea that foolishly inspired me to say yes to this doomed audition.
“You’re late,” Chelsea snaps as I approach her at the fifty-yard line. She’s got a stopwatch around her neck, her arms folded, and her toe tapping in a classic sign of impatience. Behind her, she’s already got a cone grid and two sleds set up.
As I come to a stop in front of her, I take a languid sip of coffee. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Every minute counts. That’s true, regardless, but especially when you’re a player on the bubble.”
I sigh. “If you think berating me will motivate me, think again. I only respond to positive reinforcement and praise.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You might even say I’ve got a praise kink.”
“Luca, Jesus Christ.”
“I’m joking, Chelsea. Obviously.” I side-eye her. “Or am I?”
“Save the jokes. We’ve got important work to do here and time’s at a premium.” She jerks her chin toward my cleats. “Did you bring some tape?”
“Of course.”
“Then stop standing there like a dummy with arms and tape up. We’ll start with footwork.”
She’s merciless.
After only twenty minutes, I’m already dripping with sweat and breathing hard.
Score one, Chelsea the Mathlete.
The woman ran me through a four-phase mirror drill like her life depended on it, testing my agility, reaction time, and redirect burst, thereby laying bare some weaknesses I didn’t know I had in embarrassingly stark fashion.
Not only that, she impressively ran every drill alongside me, all the while barking orders and corrections at me like she was trying to save me from swerving off a steep cliff in a go-kart.
I think it’s fair to say that, in less than half an hour, Chelsea’s spotted some things no other coach has noticed about me. Or at least, things no other coach has bothered to tell me about.
Chelsea throws me a towel and I wipe the sweat from my face and neck.
“That’s barely scratching the surface of what we need to work on,” she says. “But it’s a fair introduction.”
As I inhale deeply, trying to catch my breath, she hands me a bottle of water, and I take a long guzzle, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and mutter, “Putting me through some footwork drills doesn’t prove much. This drill could have been your specialty. Your one talent.”
“I guess we’ll find out.” She jerks her chin toward the sleds. “Sled push with edge control is next.”
It’s another basic drill. But this time, unlike last time, I’m not inclined to scoff as I walk over to where she’s indicated.
“The fundamentals are where most journeymen fail,” Chelsea says, as she trails behind me. “Especially when it comes to holding ground and disengaging.”
I turn to face her. “You know how people always say vague, universally applicable things when they’re trying to convince you that astrology is real? What you just said is the same thing as that, Chelsea.”
“So you deny you’re sloppy as shit when it comes to holding ground and disengaging?”
“Absolutely. My coaches at Nebraska always used to compliment me on those very things.”
“That was a lifetime ago. You were a young buck back then—one who could rely on speed and strength in ways you can’t anymore.”
I shift my weight, letting that sink in. If she’s right about that, it’d be a tough pill to swallow.
“Look, I’m not saying that to get a rise out of you,” she says. “I stayed up late last night watching film of you, and it’s very obvious you need me, or you’re not going to be here for the first preseason game in three weeks.”
“Ouch.”
“Please, Luca, put your ego aside and let me help you. If you don’t plug the many, many holes in your leaky boat, your time in the NFL will be over in a matter of days.”
Every word feels like a gut punch. I shift my weight again and swallow hard.
“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings or embarrass you, Luca. I hope you know that. We just don’t have time for me to sugarcoat anything.”
I can’t formulate words yet, so I run a hand through my sweaty hair and stare off into space, trying to wrap my brain around what she’s telling me. Am I really that far gone? Is it really that dire for me?
“You need more explosiveness in your get-offs,” she says, filling the silence.
Apparently, she’s incorrectly interpreted my silence and averted gaze as defiance.
“Also, your footwork gets lazy from the third quarter on, so we’ll need to work on sustaining mental focus, along with physical stamina, too. ”
She’s crushing my spirit and blowing my mind in equal measure. But, still, what if she’s wrong or otherwise totally unqualified for this? We’ve only been here for thirty minutes, after all. That’s not nearly enough time to know for sure if I should take such a gigantic leap of faith.
“Will you at least let me lead you through a few more drills?” she asks, motioning to the sleds. “If not, that’s fine. I’ll go find Jeremy.”
When I flash her an eye roll, she bites back a wicked smile that lets me know she’s joking. Man, she’s damned good at motivating me, though. I’ll give her that.
“I’m game to work on the sleds,” I say slowly. “But on one condition: You don’t mention Jeremy Calhoun or any other player for the rest of this fucking practice.”
It’s official.
Chelsea the Mathlete is some kind of a linebacker guru. A miracle worker. A unicorn. Or maybe she’s just so damned hot, I can’t stop killing myself in her presence to try to impress her. Either way, the past hour with her has been a revelation.
It’s too early to know if the Chelsea Parker magic I witnessed this morning will have any kind of longevity, but if it does, then I think it’s fair to say she’s in the running to be the most brilliantly effective position coach I’ve ever worked with.
If I agree to work with her throughout camp, that is.
One hour of drills, even amazing ones, isn’t enough to convince me to sign my entire football life away in blood.
“So, what’s the verdict, Montague?” she asks with a hand on her hip. She’s breathing hard, just like me. “Will you let me coach you while I’m officially babysitting you anyway?”
“It was a damned good session,” I concede slowly.
She lights up. “Thank you.”
“But even so, I’m not ready to sign on the dotted line just yet. If you’re willing to agree to a middle ground here—”
“Nope. It’s all or nothing, Luca. Either you swear to do everything I tell you as your coach, big or small, or I’ll find another player to work with.”
“What’d I say about that?”
She throws up a hand. “What else can I do? I’ve got to try to prove myself and earn my keep around here somehow. You’re either going to have to trust me and my process, completely, or I’m going to have to find another way to show everyone I’m a lot more than Coach Parker’s daughter.”
I exhale with frustration. “I can’t give you total and complete power over me. That’s too much to ask.”
“Okay. Best of luck to you. I’m off to find Calhoun or someone else who’s far less stubborn and stupid.” And off she goes with an exaggerated flick of her dark ponytail.
“Chelsea, goddammit. Chelsea Parker, stop.”
When she finally turns around in a huff, I take four bounding steps toward her till we’re standing toe to toe and I’m looking down into her fiery blue eyes from mere inches away.
“You know I’d burn this place down before I’d let you work with Jeremy Calhoun or anyone else.
You know that, so don’t talk like that again. I mean it this time, Chelsea.”
She physically shivers but doesn’t break eye contact. “You don’t want my help, so you’re not in the position to tell me what to do.”
If I were to lean down, and if Chelsea were to go up onto her tippy-toes, we’d be perfectly aligned to crush our lips together and pick up where we left off in Bloomington. But of course, that’s not at all what I should be thinking about right now, when my very football life is at stake.
“Let’s not forget your father commanded you to babysit me,” I remind her. “That means you’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not, so stop pretending you’d have any spare time to coach anyone else.”
“You’ve just proven my point. Given that we’re stuck together, why not use our time together as effectively as possible?” She takes a step forward so that she’s so close, I feel her body heat. “Please trust me, Luca,” she purrs softly. “I promise I won’t let you down.”
I feel every word of that in my balls. “Why do you even care what happens to me?” I rasp out.
“Is this only about you proving yourself here, or do you actually give the slightest shit about me specifically?” Fuck.
The second the words escape my mouth, I feel exposed, which causes my heart to begin hammering in anticipation of her response.
Worried her reply might crush me, I quickly add, “Do you pick up stray dogs on the street and try to save them, too?” God help me, if Chelsea says she’s fighting like hell for me now because she couldn’t shake what happened between us in Bloomington, the same as me, I won’t be able to stop myself from leaning down and kissing the hell out of her, the whole situation be damned.
She clears her throat and her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t break eye contact. “I care because this is the perfect opportunity for me to show my father and everyone else here what I can do, which is exactly why you can trust me. We’re in this together.”
Well, fuck. That wasn’t the answer my heart and dick were hoping for. But in a football sense, it was a good answer. Chelsea’s right. She’s definitely got some skin in the game here.
I take a deep breath and stuff down my raging attraction to her. “I tell you what. I’ll give you three days to coach me, and I’ll listen to you without pushing back. But after that trial period, you’ll hear me out and we’ll make modifications as a team.”
Chelsea sighs.
“It’s my final offer, Chelsea.”
“You’d have to agree this is a completely professional relationship, though. No more flirting with me, Luca.”
I furrow my brow. “I haven’t been flirting with you.”
She scoffs. “You haven’t stopped flirting with me since yesterday.”
“You’re clearly confusing my extroverted personality and general zest for life for flirting.”
She shakes her head. “You’ve been flirting with me shamelessly.”
“I flirt with everyone. It’s nothing personal.” That’s a baldfaced lie. It’s so fucking personal when it comes to Chelsea Parker, my balls physically ache every time she’s within fifty yards of me.
Chelsea side-eyes me. “So you deny all those smiles, eye-twinkles, and eyebrow waggles were flirting?”
“I’m a twitchy motherfucker. Always have been.”
She giggles. “And all the bicep flexing?”
“What bicep flexing?”
“The kind you’re doing right now.”
I hold out my arm and pointedly flex my bicep.
“Baby, my body is my job. Literally. So, yeah, occasionally my muscles might flex. That’s not me flirting, though.
That’s just me existing in the body I’ve worked hard to chisel out of sheer grit, sweat, and marble.
” When she rolls her eyes at that last thing, I flash her a wicked smile.
“It’s nice to know you can’t resist ogling my muscles, though. Thank you.”
“This isn’t going to work.”
“What?”
“You’re not going to get a rise out of me, so don’t bother trying.” She motions between herself and me and adds, “This isn’t going to happen, okay? So give it up.”
“It’s not going to happen because the situation prevents it, or …?”
“Yes, the situation prevents it! In fact, it makes it totally impossible. I’m a professional—one of your position coach’s assistants. Plus, like I keep telling you, my father, the head coach, will cut your ass if he ever notices you looking at me the way you’re doing right now.”
Shit. That little speech wipes the flirtatious smile off my face.
She’s right, unfortunately. I’d have to be a real asshole to make a move on a member of the coaching staff, especially a newbie woman who’s working her ass off to gain some respect.
And even worse, I’d have to have a goddamned death wish to make a move on my head coach’s daughter.
My shoulders droop in defeat. “Okay. I’ll clean up my act.”
“Thank you. If you were some random, hot guy in a bar, I’d probably have fun flirting with you. But I don’t have that luxury in this situation, and neither do you.”
I nod. “Because of the situation.”
“Exactly.”
“But not because you’re not feeling the same blazing, insane, out-of-this-world chemistry I’m feeling with you. Is that a fair statement?”
Chelsea opens her mouth to speak but wordlessly closes it again.
“That’s what I thought.” I nudge her arm, laughing at her visible agitation.
“I really am flirty by nature, by the way. But only when I’m highly attracted to someone, like I am with you.
So, please, cut me some slack if I slip up occasionally on the professionalism thing and smile at you a little too big or something.
I’ll do my best, I promise, but I can’t suddenly get myself a whole new personality overnight. ”
She’s flushing scarlet by now. “Just do your best,” she chokes out.
“You’ve got it.” I raise my fist and she bumps it with her own, and that brief, simple touch sends an electrical current blasting through me—one that ends with a flicker of tingles that tickle my dick and balls.
Shit. My promise not to flirt with Chelsea was an earnest one, but it’s suddenly clear it’s going to be tough to keep.
In fact, if those tingles zinging through me like lightning are any indication, it’s going to be next to impossible.
But hey, given the situation, I guess I’ve got no choice but to give it the old college try.