Chapter 29 Luca
Luca
“HI, LUCA. TAKE a seat.”
I slide into the chair across from Coach Parker’s big, mahogany desk, forcing myself not to wring my hands or fidget. I feel sick to my stomach. Sleep deprived. Ashamed.
It’s morning on Final Cuts Day across the league, not only here at the Mastodons—which is also known as Roster Day for those lucky enough to celebrate the holiday.
All morning long, as a bunch of us players on the bubble have been working out together in the Mastodons’ gym while awaiting our fate, guys have been called up here to the big guy’s office to find out if they’ll live or die. And now finally, it’s my turn.
After all the ways I screwed up during last night’s game, it’s a no-brainer I’m about to get the axe, even though my family on FaceTime insisted there’s still a sliver of hope for me.
I’ve never shared their optimism, really, but sitting here now and staring into Coach Parker’s stern face feels like a gut punch all the same.
It’s real now. I’m a goner. And worst of all, I did this to myself.
Coach Parker sighs from the depths of his soul and leans back in his plush chair. “You threw me for a loop last night, Luca.”
I hang my head. “I know. Sorry.”
“You tossed a wrench into all my big plans, son. I hated to see it.”
So there it is. Confirmation that I’m getting cut. Would the result have been different if only I’d performed last night like I did in my prior two preseason games? It sure sounds like it, based on that comment. It only makes the situation all the more heartbreaking.
“What happened to set you off like that? Explain it to me.”
When I look up, Coach Parker looks deeply sympathetic.
Like this moment is as painful for him as for me.
Although that can’t be true, obviously. Tomorrow, he’ll continue working at his dream job, while I’ll most likely be out of the league for good and forced to figure out a game plan for the rest of my life at age twenty-six.
“I just let the pressure get to me,” I murmur. “If you give me another chance, I won’t let it happen again.”
To my surprise, Coach Parker doesn’t roll his eyes or scoff at my last-ditch plea.
Instead, while maintaining intense eye contact, he clasps his hands on his desk and asks, “What’s the beef between you and Moriarty about?
” When I don’t reply, he pushes. “Is it something personal, or just the usual dick-swinging contest that happens when two talented alphas are forced to rub shoulder pads one too many times?”
Weirdly, my first thought is to feel complimented that he’s called me a talented alpha.
But almost as fast as my ego inflates at that miniscule victory, my brain remembers the big picture.
Despite how people compared us in college, Moriarty is now the biggest star on his team, and I’m a big fat nobody who publicly went after him.
If I tell Coach the real reason I did that—if I reveal what his highly paid star said to rile me up to the point of losing control—Coach will probably think I’m fabricating the worst possible offense, one involving Coach’s beloved daughter, as a last-ditch ploy to cast my rival in the worst possible light and save myself.
“It was just a dick-swinging contest,” I croak out. “He talked some playground smack about me, you know, about the Defective Maguire thing, and I lost my cool like a rookie idiot.”
It’s a death blow to Coach. It’s written all over his face. He was hoping for something more understandable. Something he could forgive. But what he got only makes me look like an even bigger loose-cannon idiot than before.
With a sigh, Coach bows his head and keeps it there while speaking his next words.
“You’re not defective, Luca. If they taunted you for having pink hair, would you have snapped?
No. Because you don’t have pink hair. Reacting like that only proves you believe you’re defective, too.
You realize that, right? It was a fucking admission. ”
My heart squeezes. “Yes, sir.” When he’s right, he’s right. There’s no point in denying it.
“Goddammit, Luca,” he huffs out. “You acted like a newborn calf out there! I didn’t even recognize you.”
I take a deep breath to stuff down the emotion his pained look is provoking inside me.
No matter how out of line Moriarty was, the fact that he could so easily get me off my game like that is the real issue.
At the end of the day, no matter what Moriarty said, the only person I’ve got to blame for my actions is myself.
And so that’s what I tell Coach Parker, in no uncertain terms, and he agrees with my assessment completely.
“It was the worst fuckup of my career,” I mumble, feeling like my heart is physically cracking against my sternum.
“But I promise I won’t do anything like that ever again if you give me another chance, because I never want to feel this kind of shame again.
I vow to use this horrible feeling as fuel, Coach, if you give me one more chance to prove myself to you. ”
Coach presses his lips together, making it clear that’s not going to happen. “If we’d made our final roster after last week’s game,” he says soberly, “your name would have been on it. But now …” He shakes his head ruefully. “I can’t do it.”
My lungs expel every ounce of air they’ve been holding. “I understand.”
“I could have overlooked you getting duped on the fake-out. It happens. You’re human.
But the stunt you pulled with Moriarty is a deal-breaker, because it showed me you’re still a loose cannon without impulse control, every bit as much as you were when you scaled those fucking uprights on day fucking one. ”
I shake my head. “That’s not true, Coach.”
“Yes, it is. You’ve managed to bottle up your wild ways for a while, mostly thanks to Chelsea and Raul keeping you in line.
But last night made it clear all those same impulses are still alive and well inside you.
When you could no longer get the attention and adrenaline rush you needed so much from performing dangerous stunts, you switched to getting those things another way, even if it cost you everything. ”
“That’s not it, Coach. I didn’t do anything for attention last night.”
“You do everything for attention, Luca. Don’t you see?
” He exhales. “Look, I’m sympathetic to the heavy weight you’ve always had to carry around, okay?
I’m sure it’s a mindfuck being Roman Maguire’s little brother who doesn’t measure up.
That’s a lot of pressure to deal with. But sympathy aside, your actions have consequences. ”
“I know they do.”
Coach stares me down. “Let me guess: You figured out early on you didn’t have anything close to Roman’s cannon of an arm, so you decided not to play at the quarterback position like him so that nobody could ever compare you directly and figure out you weren’t up to snuff. Am I warm?”
Holy shit. Is he psychic?
“In fact, I’m betting you wanted to get yourself so far removed from any conceivable comparisons to your big brother, you decided to play on the other side of the damned ball, even though you had Roman Maguire right there in your own goddamned home to coach and guide you.
But even so, those comparisons kept coming, so you turned yourself into a clown, since Roman’s known for being focused and serious.
” He leans forward toward my stunned face.
“Does any of this ring a bell for you, son?”
I can’t respond. Can’t even breathe. It doesn’t ring a bell for me. It’s ringing a sled’s worth of jingle bells.
“Well, Luca, I’m sorry to inform you there’s only one way to outrun the baggage of your big name and shut the haters up, once and for all: You put your nose down, work that much harder, and prove you’re worthy of your damned name through what you do on the playing field. Period, end of story.”
It’s a watershed moment for me. Not only in relation to football, but in relation to life.
Suddenly, every choice I’ve ever made, from all the bizarre haircuts I always wanted as a kid to my switch to a defensive position to my ultimate choice to attend Nebraska instead of Michigan, even though Roman said he could pull some strings and get them to change their minds about me and my suck-ass grades, flash through my head like a ticker tape.
Coach is right. About all of it.
Rendered speechless and emotional by my epiphany, I hang my head and inhale deeply to keep my eyes from tearing up.
“You’ve tied my hands, Luca. Moriarty’s not going anywhere. At least for the duration of his new contract. And last night, you made it very clear to me and everyone else you can’t be his teammate.”
I can’t believe I’ve messed up this badly.
I look up and meet his blue eyes, and it’s clear this is the end of the road for me.
His mind is made up, even though he’s sad about it.
And you know what? He’s making the right call.
Actions have consequences, and this is mine.
After all the time I’ve spent in this great man’s presence, it’s no wonder his daughter turned out to be the badass she is.
This man is a towering figure to me, and he always will be, despite how badly I’ve screwed up and lost his respect.
“I understand, Coach. Thank you for turning on the light bulb inside my head before showing me the door. You didn’t have to do that, and I’m grateful for it.
” I stand, feeling genuinely grateful to him, even though I’m gutted.
“It’s been an honor and a privilege to play for the legendary Coach Parker, if only briefly.
You’re one of the greats, Coach, and I’ll always be rooting for you and your team from afar. ”
I extend my hand, but Coach doesn’t take it.
“‘Your team?’” he echoes. “‘From afar’? Luca, it’s your team, too.”
I stare at him blankly. Is he being metaphorical? As in, he’ll always consider me an honorary Mastodon?
Coach grins. “You’ve made the practice squad, Luca. By the hairs on your chinny-chin-chin.”
I reflexively grab my chin as it hangs in shock. He’s not cutting me? I mean, yes, he is, in that I didn’t make the active roster. But he’s keeping me alive, albeit on life support.
I can’t believe it. Six weeks ago, I would have rather died than play on a practice squad, especially for this perennial loser of a team.
But I’m a different person now. A deeply humbled one.
And this version of me is supremely grateful to get one more chance to snatch victory out of the gaping jaws of defeat.
“I didn’t tell you about the practice squad when you first sat down?”
“No, sir. You most certainly didn’t.”
“Huh. I thought I did. Guess it slipped my mind.”
Coach’s wicked smirk tells me he withheld that rather large detail from me until the last second on purpose.
Almost certainly to maximize my pain and anguish.
Or hell, for all I know, he wasn’t completely certain what to do with me till the very last second, till he became convinced I was genuinely contrite and capable of change.
Suddenly, he reminds me so much of Chelsea, I want to hurtle myself across the man’s large desk and bear-hug him.
I refrain, of course. But only because I’m determined to get better at impulse control.
Coach waggles his finger up at me. “Now don’t make me look like a fool for giving you this last chance, Luca, or I swear to God, I’ll personally wring your neck with my bare hands.”
“You won’t regret this, Coach. I promise.”
“There’s a certain person in operations who lobbied hard for me to cut your ass last night,” he says. “Please, Luca, prove him wrong for both of us, son, because I don’t want to be the one eating crow between the two of us.”
Walker Bellamy.
That’s the identity of my would-be assassin, no doubt about it. And it only makes me hate the blowhard asshole even more. I already hated him for dangling an operations job in Chelsea’s face that was wholly dependent on something she couldn’t control. But now, I have reason to hate him even more.
“I won’t let you down,” I grit out. “You can count on me, Coach.”
Coach looks deeply skeptical. “Sit back down, Luca.”
I do as I’m told.
“You need to get your demons under control, son. To do that, you’re going to make a month’s worth of appointments with the team psychologist. That’s not a suggestion. That’s an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re also going to study film and the playbook like your life depends on it, every fucking day, and you’re going to bust your ass in every practice and scrimmage like never before, without getting sidetracked by Moriarty or anyone or anything else.”
“Yes, sir. I promise, Coach.”
“Focus, focus, focus, Luca! Prove yourself a changed man for as long as it takes. And maybe, just maybe, if something happens and we need someone with your skill set during the season, your name will be the one that gets called.”
My chest expands sharply. “Thank you for the chance.”
“It’s your very last one, Luca.”
“Yes, sir.”
Coach stands and extends his hand to me across the large desk, so I rise and shake it, feeling a mixture of relief and resolve. Gratitude and embarrassment. But mostly, determination.
As I turn toward the door, my thoughts immediately turn to Chelsea.
Obviously, the plan I’d concocted weeks ago to confess my love to her on Roster Day is dead in the water now.
If she couldn’t openly date a guy on the bubble during training camp and preseason, she sure as shit can’t date a practice squad player.
If you love someone, set them free.
The thought pops into my head, unbidden.
It’s something my mother says now and again. And right now, her words are hitting me like a ton of bricks.
Shit.
As much as it’s going to destroy me to set Chelsea Parker free, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
The poor girl bet on the wrong horse, unfortunately, and she’s paid dearly for it.
So now, I’m going to make sure she ditches my ass and flies free, like she should have done a very long time ago if only, through no fault of her own, her wagon hadn’t gotten hitched to a loser like me.