Austin
EIGHT
“Alright,” I say, tapping the back of my clipboard against my open palm.
“Registration should be closing in about five minutes, then the children will begin funneling onto the field. We’ve set up signs for each age group, and we’ll rotate clockwise from one station to the next.
Make sure they’re stretched and warmed up thoroughly, please.
I don’t want any preventable injuries happening, okay?
” The coaches—all men and women who work directly with the Renegades—nod in understanding, letting me know that we’re ready to get the ball rolling.
Dismissing them to their respective areas, I head toward mine, where I’ll be coaching a group of six-to eight-year-olds for the duration of our season, which goes from now until right before the NFL preseason starts in August. It’s twelve weeks long and only happens on Saturdays during hours when the practice field isn’t in use by the Renegades.
The offseason usually consists of a workouts and such, so the guys may be here sometimes, but they’ll likely be in one of the weight rooms or watching tape.
They promised to drop in when they can, showing the kids how far they could go if they put their minds to it.
It certainly doesn’t hinder me to have friends in high places.
Moving to my little section of the field, I look up just in time to see the doors open, a crowd of kids running through like a stampede.
Their screams and laughter echo through the air, and they head toward their respective areas, which are marked by big, bright signs.
I look around, excitement building in my chest with the idea that some of these children will leave here with a newfound love for football.
I get to be a part of that, and it feels amazing.
In the distance, I see a little boy—maybe six or seven years old—sprinting in my direction at full speed.
His arms are pumping wildly at his sides, what looks to be brand-new cleats pounding against the turf as he crosses the field.
He’s pretty fast for being so small, causing my brain to go into coach mode while I consider what positions he may excel at.
“Hi!” he says, his chest heaving as he stops in front of me, an ear-to-ear grin stretched across his face. He cranes his neck upward, his big brown eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as he thrusts a hand out between us. “I’m Rhys. It’s nice to meet you!”
I take the offering, chuckling at his outgoing introduction.
I can already tell he’s the goofball type, but if I had to guess, I’d say that he knows how to focus when it’s time to do so.
Theo is the same way. The dude doesn’t take anything in life too seriously, unless he’s on the football field.
There, he’s completely locked in, returning to his normal, silly self.
Every team needs at least one guy like him—someone who’s ready to lighten the heavier moments and losses, so nobody dwells on them for too long.
“Hey there, Rhys,” I answer, shaking his hand. “I’m your coach. My name is Aus—”
“Austin Baker!” He cuts me off. “Ten-time Pro Bowler! You hold the record for most passing yards by a quarterback in their rookie year!” My chest puffs up with pride but deflates immediately with his next words.
“And the record for most sacks taken in a single season, with seventy-six!” He scrunches his nose. “That’s a lot.”
I clear my throat, shoving my tongue into my cheek. “That’s me.”
“Awesome!” he shouts, his fist pumping into the air before he levels me with a serious expression. “Do you know Maddox Dane?”
“Oh my gosh, Rhys! I told you not to ask that on the first day!” a feminine voice says, and I look up to find Paris walking toward me with an adorable toddler in all pink on her hip.
Beside her is another little boy, who’s older than Rhys, but not by much.
Her dark hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head, and I try not to notice how cute she looks in her tank top and denim shorts.
It’s a feat, since every other time I’ve seen her, she’s been dressed for the office.
I like that, but there’s something about her in casual clothing that has butterflies flapping around in my stomach.
Off-limits, bro. She’s too young. She works with you. She’s Memphis’ sister, for fuck’s sake.
“Paris,” I greet her. “It’s nice to see you again.
” She pushes a rogue strand of windblown hair out of her face, her cheeks pink and warm from the summer sun.
It’s just a shade darker than the flush she’s gotten every day this week when I delivered her coffee—something I’ve tried like hell not to read into.
It doesn’t mean anything. For all I know, she could hate the caramel cappuccinos from Brew-La-La but is too embarrassed to say so.
Or maybe she doesn’t receive gifts often, and it makes her bashful.
Somebody dropped the bag on that, big time. Whoever he is, I’m judging.
Tipping my chin toward the little girl in her arms, who’s got a stuffed brown bunny rabbit tucked into her elbow.
“This must be Lennon.” She gives me a big smile, shyly leaning inward toward her mother.
I look down to the older boy, noticing the not-too-glad-to-be-here expression on his face and the way his arms are crossed over his chest. “And that would make you Rowan, right?”
He doesn’t say a word, just gives a barely-there nod to let me know I’m right. Either he’s the exact opposite of his brother, or he’s just a tougher nut to crack, but that’s okay. I’m patient and willing to earn whatever he wants to give me.
Paris sighs. “Sorry.”
“For what?” I ask. “First day at a new place, surrounded by a bunch of strangers. It’s totally understandable to be a little unsure, but we’ll get there.
” Rowan’s tight expression slackens a bit, but I can tell he’d still rather be almost anywhere else.
I’ll have to ask Memphis for some insider info, since I’m sure he knows his nephew pretty well.
Maybe if I can figure out what his interests are, I can find a way to relate them to football and get him more excited about being here.
I don’t think I’ll have a problem with Rhys, since he seems to be a bit of a numbers fanatic.
I bet he and Livvy would get along great.
They’re both obsessed with player stats and Maddox Dane, even though I’m way cooler than he is, but whatever.
Paris smiles softly, licking her pillowy lips before looking down at her boys. “I’ll be right on the bleachers with Lenny. Make sure to listen carefully to everything Coach Baker says.”
“You got it, Mom!” Rhys shouts with an enthusiastic thumbs up while Rowan gives another noncommittal nod. She exhales quietly, looking up to me for what I think is reassurance as she bites her bottom lip.
“They’ll do great,” I tell her. “Go relax for a bit. They’ve got snacks inside, and if she gets tired and needs some quiet, you can head up to the offices. Paul might be up there, since the man never takes a day off, but he won’t mind.”
“Okay.” The way she hesitates for a moment tells me that she’s struggling with the idea of leaving them.
I swear, I see a hint of guilt behind her eyes, but she shakes it off, taking one last look at the duo before finally walking away.
I can’t help but wonder if she ever gets time to herself, or if she grapples with taking it in the event that it’s offered.
It’s none of my business, and I have absolutely no right to ask, but still, I’m curious.
I turn my attention to the boys, who have now been joined by several other kids around their ages.
Rhys is talking animatedly to a little girl who’s already wearing a pair of brand-new receiving gloves.
I make a mental note to try her in that position first, and to see if Emmett can offer any tips when he drops in later.
As much as I want to win games, the most important thing is that these children have a good time.
Because if everyone is enjoying themselves, it’ll show on the field.
“Alright, Rhys,” I say, and he looks up at me like he’s ready to hang onto my every word. “I know you’re a big fan of Maddox Dane, but have you ever heard of my friend, Emmett Hayes?”
“Mhmm,” he replies, perking up. “He holds the record for most yards after a catch in a single season with over a thousand! Also, did you know they call that YAC?” A high-pitched giggle bursts from his lips. “That’s a funny word.”
I chuckle. “You’re right. It is funny. I bet you could get a lot of YAC. I saw how fast you ran over here.”
His eyes go wide, sparkling with excitement. “I play catch with my Uncle Memphis. He’s not very good, though. I guess it’s a good thing he plays baseball, and not football.”
This kid is a trip.
“I think we should give it a try. Maybe your brother could help out and throw you a few passes?” I look down at Rowan. “What do you say, champ?”
His indifferent, bored expression falls, and for a moment, I think I’ve pissed him off.
But a second later, the corner of his mouth twitches, growing into something that resembles the smallest hint of a smile.
It’s almost unnoticeable, yet I feel like I just won the goddamn Super Bowl because progress.
Hopefully, someday soon, he’ll feel comfortable enough here to open up and have some fun.
“Yeah. Okay,” he replies, his curious gaze following me as I lean down to the bag of balls at my feet, pull one out, and extend it in his direction.
He takes it, and as though I’m not even there, lifts his chin toward Rhys as if to say Get ready.
The smaller boy does, preparing for the signal as Rowan yells out. “Set, hut!”
Like a sugared-up cartoon character, Rhys takes off, his little arms pumping as his cleats pound against the turf.
He goes about fifteen yards, comes to a stop, and holds his hands in front of him, ready for the pass.
Rowan sends the ball his way, a perfect spiral that’s not too hard for his brother to grab onto as it hits him directly in his waiting palms. I can’t help but notice Rowan’s form when he throws.
It’s not the kind of motion that’s learned with years of practice.
It’s a raw talent—one that coaches salivate over during the scouting process.
And the fact that he doesn’t seem to have ever played organized football before makes it even more amazing because it means that his brain just knows what to do.
“Great job,” I say, smirking down at him. “I think we might’ve just found ourselves a quarterback.”