Chapter 22 #2
He opened the door, all six four of him looking down on me, an eyebrow raised. “Never been accused of being decent before.” He leaned against the doorway. “Why are you knocking?”
“It’s polite.”
His eyebrows were in his hairline. “You’re never polite. Why are you being polite now?”
“You’re rude.” I took a step back. “I didn’t want to barge in if, you know . . . you were . . . indisposed.”
Noah studied me for a moment longer, then laughed. “You thought I was jerking off?” he asked me with a wide grin. He went back to his desk. “If I was, I’d lock the door.”
“I did not think you were jerking off. You and your dick and you touching your dick has never entered my mind.” His grin was wider. “You’re a dick.” I grinned at him. “I’m here for that.” I pointed at his books. “I wondered if you needed any help?”
Noah looked at his textbooks and then at me. “You don’t mind?”
I walked into his room. “Nah, man, I wouldn’t offer if I did. What class is it?” I asked him, taking a seat on his bed.
“Leadership in High-Performance Teams.”
“Cool.” I got comfortable.
“It’s not cool, not at all,” he grumbled.
“Look at it this way, it’s basically what you do already: you’re a strong voice on the defensive line, you’re already leading, so we just take what you do and then explain that in words that other non-sports people understand.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned like the pages personally offended him. “How do I do that?”
“We use our words,” I said, getting up and picking up his textbook. “Who’s your professor?”
“Professor Staff.”
I grinned. “Ah, the professor who hates people who try to bench-press their way through assignments.”
“Which is me.” He pointed his pen at me. “So, how do I learn this?”
“Your solution to everything is tackling it.”
“It works,” he muttered.
I nudged his notebook toward him with my knuckle. “Okay, big man. Tell me what transformational leadership means in football terms.”
He stared at me, confused. “Like when Coach screams loud enough that we change formations?”
I bit back a laugh. “Close. But no. Think less yelling, more inspiring.”
He frowned harder. Inspiration was not a language Noah spoke on the field. He was more ‘follow me or get flattened.’
“Try it like this,” I said. “Who’s the guy on the field everyone plays harder for — not out of fear, but respect?”
Noah looked down, and his voice dropped into something quieter, unarmored. “The middle linebacker.”
I didn’t miss the way he didn’t say ‘me.’ He was too humble. Too unsure. Under too much pressure for a guy who carried the defense on his back every damn game.
“There you go,” I murmured. “That’s transformational leadership. Leading because people believe in you.”
He finally looked up — and for once, he wasn’t joking, or frustrated, or cocky. He just looked . . . grateful. “Thanks,” he said, throat tight. “I . . . really don’t want to fuck this up.”
“You won’t,” I said. “Not while I’ve got your back.”
His gaze flickered to mine for a moment before he nodded.
“Okay,” he muttered, clearing his throat and flipping the page. “Let’s keep going before I lose the will to live.”
I grinned and tapped the heading of the chapter. “Leadership in Crisis Situations.”
I snorted. He glared. “Fantastic.”
“Dude, that’s easy,” I said. “Think about third down, second quarter against Kentucky — when Mac intercepted the ball and then dropped the damn thing, and Bowson recovered it, and our chance at taking the lead went straight out the window . . . until you got the sack. And instead of going for it on fourth, they panicked and blew it.”
He sat up a little straighter, eyebrows rising. “Well, I didn’t do it alone. If Hernandez hadn’t wiped out their running back, I’d never have gotten to the QB.”
“But you still did,” I shot back. “That’s the point. Crisis hits, you reset the team. That’s leadership.”
“And it’s okay to make football references?” he asked, still unsure.
“It’s leadership in crisis,” I said, shrugging. “You do that every week. Pretending that experience doesn’t count is just dumb.”
He twirled his pen between his fingers, thinking that over, brows drawn tight. “Yeah, but that’s different. On the field, you don’t have time to analyze it.”
“That’s what makes it legit,” I countered. “Some business guys panic when the printer jams. You’re out there making split-second decisions with an entire stadium watching.”
He huffed a laugh under his breath. “You’re giving me way too much credit.”
“No,” I said simply. “I’m not.”
He didn’t respond right away. Not because he was emotional — just . . . processing. “So,” he said eventually, clearing his throat. “Crisis leadership. What’s next?”
I flipped to the next slide on his laptop. “Team communication. Also known as the time when Horn isn’t allowed to celebrate before he’s actually completed the damn play.”
That got a proper laugh — full volume, no apology.
“Alright,” he said, rolling his shoulders like he was gearing up for kickoff. “Let’s knock this out before I pull a muscle in my brain, and they get back.”
The reminder that Savvy and Hadley would be coming soon soured my mood, but Noah nudged me, and I spent the next fifteen minutes helping him before we both heard the front door open.
“Come on,” Noah said, getting up with a sigh. “Let’s go find out what the next chapter in the book of Why Do We Keep Getting Dragged into Shit? is.”
“I know you’re not enjoying this,” I said to him. “We can still stay clear of it.”
“Can we? And Dust? The only person enjoying this is your girl,” he said seriously.
“Not my girl,” I muttered, but I followed him out, feeling slightly better that I wasn’t the only one who resented being part of this shitshow.
Savvy and Dante were whispering in the kitchen, and Hadley was hovering near the door like she was ready to bolt.
“How was Nashville?” Noah asked casually.
Hadley turned to look at us, her eyes flicking to mine before quickly looking away. She hadn’t responded to the text, but that look was one of guilt. Why?
“We’re getting drinks,” Savvy said brightly. “Who wants what? We’ve got lots of electrolyte water, soda, or . . . Why is there no beer?”
“Spring training,” all three of us answered.
Savvy looked at us, wide-eyed, before she nodded. “Water it is.”
Dante helped her carry the drinks over. Hadley had asked for soda, and Savvy squeezed onto the couch between Dante and Noah, which was either a tactical choice or just Savvy. I took the armrest of the only other chair. I looked at Hadley. She looked back.
I sighed. “I’ve left you the seat.”
She looked between it and me. “I’m okay to stand,” she said coolly.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t even comment. I slid my ass from the armrest to the seat and took the water from Dante.
“So . . . what did you find?” I asked Savvy.
I was done trying to figure out the woman to my left. I was pretty close to being done with all of it.
Get through, get drafted, get out. That was still the plan.
Except she was right there, not looking at me, and I was aware of exactly where she was in the room without trying.
That wasn’t done. That wasn’t even close.