Chapter 13 Chelsea
Chelsea
CLAPS AND CHEERS ring out across the auditorium. That’s not a surprise. Dad’s always been exceptionally talented at inspiring his players and coaching staff. Here with the Mastodons, as he stands onstage down below the crowd, is no exception.
I look at Luca sitting next to me, and I’m thrilled to discover he’s clapping along with everyone else, and just as effusively.
I’m not sure if Luca’s actually buying the motivational words my father’s selling or if he’s simply joining in to avoid looking like an asshole.
But either way, I’m happy to see he’s not zoned out and daydreaming like earlier today during our film review session.
“Okay, let’s move on to some team bonding to wrap things up on a high note,” Dad says with a glint in his blue eyes. “I’m in the mood for a song or two. How about you?”
A huge round of applause erupts, since everyone knows what he’s alluding to.
Thanks to my brothers, not to mention my all-time favorite TV show about the behind-the-scenes inner workings of the NFL, I’m well aware it’s a longstanding tradition in this league, no matter the team, for rookies to be called upon during training camp to sing an acapella song for the amusement of their teammates and coaching staff.
If a rookie bombs, the whole room will loudly let him know that in no uncertain terms. Heckling is encouraged, in fact.
But if the guy manages to impress or at least thoroughly entertain, irrespective of singing talent, the audience will also let him know that in spades, too.
Either way, there’s not a rookie alive who finishes singing at training camp and doesn’t know exactly how his performance went down, which in turn gives him an idea of where he stands socially, too.
“I know it’s typically only rookies who sing at training camp,” Dad says into the podium microphone, his low grumble of a voice cutting through the excited din in the auditorium.
“But since I’m the guy who gets to make the rules, I’ve decided to kick things off with a non-rookie—a fourth-year journeyman who’s a newbie to the Mastodons organization. ”
Every eyeball in the joint instantly shifts to Luca. Who else could Coach be talking about after that stunt Luca pulled on the uprights yesterday?
With a laugh, Dad continues, “The player I’ve got in mind has made it abundantly clear he loves being in the spotlight. A little too much, if you ask me. So, I’m thinking this is the perfect opportunity for him to show off not only his big personality, but some leadership skills, too.”
Realizing everyone in the entire place is now looking at him, Luca comically points a finger at himself, and with a faux-innocent expression on his face, he mouths, “Me?”
Dad chuckles. “Yes, you. Come on up here, Mr. Personality. Anyone reckless enough to do whirligigs on the uprights, thereby risking life and limb for no other reason than to get a fleeting laugh, is still a rookie in my book.”
Everyone explodes with laughter at that, even Luca.
And once again, I’m impressed with my father’s coaching savvy.
It’s a genius move, really. A fitting punishment for Luca’s heinous crime but also a chance for Luca to redeem himself.
Dad generally believes in second chances.
I know that for a fact. Maybe even for a Maguire who pulled a reckless stunt like Luca’s.
Having arrived at the stage area, Luca shakes his head coach’s hand vigorously and then waves to the ascending rows of unruly players and coaching staffers like he’s been called up to receive an Academy Award.
After enjoying a begrudging chuckle at Luca’s bravado despite himself, Dad raises a palm and signals for everyone to pipe down and give Luca the floor, at which point an expectant hush falls over the tittering crowd.
Vocal talent isn’t the point of this highly anticipated ritual, and everyone here knows that.
It’s about having fun in a way that gives everyone else permission to have fun, too, thereby giving everyone a much-needed break from the grueling brutality that lies at the very core of training camp.
For that reason, the exercise tends to put leadership skills on full display.
Confidence, yes, but some much-needed humility, too.
If a guy has the balls to sing with full abandon in front of a tough and rowdy crowd like this—and without backing music, at that!
—it means he’s willing to do anything for the men he’ll be going into battle with when it counts.
If the guy is one of the lucky ones to get onto the roster, that is.
“Thanks for the honor of kicking things off today, Coach,” Luca says earnestly, and my father comically rolls his eyes at his characterization of what was meant to be a punitive measure.
Luca returns to the crowd with a bright smile—one that’s surely making his dimples easily visible to even the back row.
“Today, I’ll be performing one of my all-time favorite songs.
It’s iconic. A true classic. I consider it my own personal soundtrack.
” Luca’s face hardens with mock seriousness.
“Pay close attention to the lyrics because …” Now he adopts somewhat of an ominous expression.
“There are no coincidences, my friends.”
An anticipatory chuckle ripples through the crowd as Luca soberly bows his head in preparation for whatever tour-de-force performance he’s planning to deliver.
A long, dramatic moment ensues, and when Luca finally raises his head, his dark, smoldering gaze locks directly onto me and remains fixed there as he starts singing the first line of his selection, which he performs with the wanton enthusiasm of a wrongfully convicted man begging for a death-row pardon.
“Say My Name” by Destiny’s Child. To everyone’s extreme delight, that’s the song Luca’s chosen to perform for us—and it’s a fact everyone instantly surmises due to the song’s first lyrics repeatedly mirroring its title: “Say my name, say my name.”
Of course, given Luca’s famous last name, everyone in the audience is in on the obvious joke, and they react accordingly, with wild laughter and applause.
But for me, the lyrics chosen by Luca take on an even bigger meaning, one Luca’s plainly intending to convey, given the way he’s staring at me.
As Luca knows, his unfortunate last name is a horrible slur to me and my entire hometown—not to mention, it’s the reason Luca didn’t take my virginity years ago.
So hearing him demand, repeatedly, that I “say” it, and doing so while his dark eyes remain fixed on mine, feels deeply personal. Not to mention hilarious. Touché, Luca.
Only a few seconds into Luca’s performance, the entire auditorium collectively rises to their feet in support while raucously cheering, clapping, and loudly singing along.
But it’s when Luca gets to the second chorus that it feels like the roof of the auditorium has blown off.
And of course, the increased excitement in the room then inspires the man at the eye of the storm to perform his song with even more endearing fervor and abandon.
Is Luca a natural-born singer? Hell no. He’s on key, though, which is helpful.
But no, the most alluring thing about Luca’s performance is the way this muscular Adonis of a man is giving a girl-group anthem about female empowerment everything he’s got.
Indeed, he’s performing so energetically, and with such eye-popping, gyrating, pelvic-thrusting choreography, the entire crowd has started clapping out a thumping beat for him to follow as a show of their approval.
Suddenly, a disorienting swoon overtakes me.
One that makes me feel almost physically dizzy.
And shortly after that, my entire body feels flushed and tingly.
The way Luca is thrusting and gyrating has me remembering him moving that same glorious pelvis against me during our intoxicating, impossible-to-duplicate (and trust me, I’ve tried) make-out session.
And it seems those memories are causing physical sensations to blast through me against my will.
When Luca sings his last words, thundering applause explodes throughout the large room, and in response, our fearless first singer takes a dramatic, deep bow.
Everyone loves Luca.
That’s what someone said yesterday during the meeting in the conference room. And now, I know it was a true statement. The man’s obviously a superstar to everyone he encounters, and not only to virginal, horny teenage math majors eager to get some sexy new experiences under their chastity belts.
Maybe Walker Bellamy isn’t as stupid and clueless as I’ve been thinking.
He’s the one who mentioned Luca’s vast marketing potential at yesterday’s meeting.
Well, maybe he’s onto something there. I find Bellamy in the crowd, and when I see that he’s applauding as raucously as everyone else, I can’t help wondering if he’s currently got little dollar signs in his eyes as he looks at Luca.
As Luca bounds back up the aisle to his seat, he’s practically floating on air.
“That was dedicated to you, little Buckeye,” he says with a wink, before flopping down next to me with a whoop.
“Yeah, I cleverly picked up on that,” I say dryly.
“You’re so smart.”
“You did a great job, Luca. You brought down the house.”
He cackles. “Fun is fuel, baby!”
“Well, if that’s true, then you’re going to perform like a Pro Bowler at the all-team practice tomorrow.”
Luca raises his fist for a bump, and I oblige him. Good lord, his smile is so infectious, I’m grinning back at him like an idiot without meaning to do it.
When the applause for Luca finally dies down, Dad introduces the next victim of today’s singing ritual—a rookie who’s competing for the recently vacated starting QB job.
Rinse and repeat. And by the end of several more songs, not a single performer has come close to whipping up the crowd the way Mr. Personality did.