Chapter 11 Luca #2
“Oh!” Chelsea blurts, her excitement practically bouncing off the walls of the small room as she pops out of her chair.
“Coming, Coach!” She’s practically panting with glee, but before she heads off, she pauses long enough to point at me sternly and then at my notebook as if to say, “Study while I’m gone.
” And then, with her message firmly conveyed, she skips away like a middle schooler who’s stampeding into a boyband concert.
Once the adults are gone and we kids are left alone to run amok, it’s instantly clear none of us wants to study or otherwise “use our time wisely.” On the contrary, the minute we’re left to our own devices, it’s plain to see we’re all relieved to have a break from the grind.
Not surprisingly, it’s gregarious Calhoun who leads the revolt.
“Hey, Maguire,” he says. “I noticed you and the big guy’s daughter looking awfully cozy over there, player.”
I roll my eyes. I haven’t been called that nickname since my college days.
“Yeah, I noticed that, too,” a veteran middle linebacker says with a suggestive arch of his eyebrow.
Calhoun clucks his tongue. “Are you the lucky guy who got picked to get personal coaching from her?”
Shit. The precariousness of the situation suddenly dawns on me. “‘Lucky’ isn’t the word I’d use,” I reply with a scoff. “It’s more like she’s my punishment for yesterday’s stunt on the uprights. Coach Parker decided to slap me with a babysitter to teach me a lesson.”
That gets a laugh. Or maybe they’re all just reliving the hilarity of my gymnastics routine.
Calhoun leans back in his seat, looking a bit skeptical. “Chelsea made it sound like whoever got picked would get extra coaching. She made it sound like a huge advantage, not a punishment.”
Shit, shit, shit. “That’s because her daddy made it sound like that to her so she wouldn’t feel humiliated. Trust me, man, Coach Parker made it abundantly clear to me he’s punishing me with Chelsea.”
Everyone chuckles in commiseration at my sorry plight, exactly as I’m wanting them to do.
“She’s eager, I’ll give her that,” I add, feeling like I’m on a roll.
“She’s got some real pie-in-the-sky pipe dreams about her future career in the NFL.
Apparently, she’s hoping to use me as proof of concept that she’s got some coaching chops, so she can work her way up to something bigger, whatever that might be. ”
“Does she have the chops, you think?” Calhoun asks, looking genuinely curious.
I shrug. “The jury’s still out, I’d say. But from what I’ve seen so far, I get the feeling she’s in over her head, so there’s no reason to feel jealous about me getting saddled with her. Feel pity for me.”
Again, everyone chuckles, even more heartily this time, and I know my dart has hit its intended bullseye.
Looking at his iPad, one of the rookies says, “The staff contacts sheet lists her as one of the player liaisons.” He looks up with a suggestive expression on his face. “Pretty sure that means she’s at the players’ hotel with us, instead of the one down the road where the coaches are staying.”
A third-year guy, Garrity, replies, “Yeah, I saw her last night at the ice machine right before curfew. She was wearing Buckeye pajamas and slippers, so she’s definitely staying at the hotel.”
Holy fuck. Chelsea’s staying at my hotel? Why didn’t she tell me that when we parted ways last night at the training facility?
“Good to know,” the rookie says with a smirk. “As my player liaison, she can certainly come to my room anytime she wants to show me her Buckeye pajamas.” He wiggles his brow. “She can liaise with this player anytime she wants.”
Anger flashes through me. Protectiveness.
Jealousy. But even so, I bite my tongue.
If I don’t play my cards extremely close to my chest when it comes to Chelsea, every single guy in this room will quickly sniff me out.
And once that happens, it’ll only be a matter of time before one of them will snitch to someone who very well might say something to Coach Parker.
“Careful, rook,” one of the seasoned veterans, Henley Bradshaw, growls out. He’s actually the perfect guy to say something. As the starting middle linebacker, he’s basically the quarterback of the defense.
“Aw, come on,” the rookie says with a laugh. “Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed how hot she is. That girl’s eyes are so damned blue and pretty, I can see my future babies in ’em.”
A few young guys chuckle at that, but not as many as the first time the rookie made a dumb joke. Surely that’s thanks to the way Henley Bradshaw is now folding his massive arms over his chest and glaring at the rookie with unmistakable reproach.
“Are you stupid?” Bradshaw asks. “She’s the head coach’s daughter, dumbass. Messing with her would be like strapping a ticking bomb to your chest and hoping it won’t go boom.”
Well, fuck. As everyone else in the room nods their agreement with ease, I suddenly feel stressed out.
Like my big plans have now been blown to bits.
Logically, my brain has known all along that Chelsea’s status as my head coach’s daughter makes her off-limits to me.
But I guess other parts of my anatomy had somehow convinced me our prior history created some kind of a loophole, only applicable to me.
But now, thanks to Bradshaw’s colorful metaphor, I’m realizing if I were to make a move on Chelsea like I’ve been fantasizing about doing, it wouldn’t end well for me, as surely as if I’d strapped a ticking bomb to my chest.
The veteran addresses the rookie once again. “If you’re smart, you’ll channel all that misplaced horniness for the coach’s daughter into putting your head down, studying hard, and shutting the fuck up.”
The rookie laughs, apparently thinking the veteran is being playful with him. “That’s a tall order, given that the rest of her is even hotter than her eyes. Even when she’s wearing an oversized polo shirt—”
Without my brain consciously directing me to do it, I slam both palms loudly onto the desk in front of me while simultaneously shooting out of my chair to standing. “If you want to keep all the teeth in your head, don’t finish that sentence.”
As the rookie and everyone else stare at me with wide eyes and raised eyebrows, I realize my volume and intensity would have been better suited for a large auditorium than a small classroom.
Shit. I’d better to do some quick damage control or someone’s going to figure out I’ve got a massive boner for my new babysitter.
“I feel for her,” I explain, sitting back down and trying to look casual.
“She’s got a big name to live up to, and that’s something I can relate to.
” When that last comment catches nods, I exhale and forge ahead.
“Do I think she’s got what it takes to make her big dreams come true?
Not from what I’ve seen so far. But who knows?
And either way, I respect the hell out of her for chasing her dreams, the same way we’re all doing here.
That’s a tough thing for anyone to do in this league, but it’s especially tough for a woman. ”
Murmurs rise up in the small classroom, all of them expressing agreement with me.
Feeling emboldened, I say, “My mother knows more about football than anyone. I kid you not, she could have been a head coach, or at least a position coach, thanks to all the games she’s attended and all drills she’s put my brothers and me through.
But guess who has to put up with endless disrespect and underestimation from random dudes in bars and on airplanes?
That’s why I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting Chelsea now, because I’ve seen the exact same kind of bullshit playing out with my own mother my whole life.
” I glare at the rookie. “Talk about Chelsea or a single hair on her head again, and you’ll need to answer to me. ”