9 | Henry
MEET ME IN my office in ten minutes.
The text from Coach Bryer lights up my phone as I hurriedly check my email. I’m running, sweat dripping down my cheeks, to yet another class that football practice has caused me to be late for.
I groan. A text from Coach Bryer is never good – let alone one that requests that I meet him alone, off the field.
I knock on the door to Coach’s office, clearing my throat as I do so. To my irritation, my palms and forehead are sweaty with nerves.
“Who is it?” His gruff, southern accent filters through the door.
“It’s Anderson, sir. You wanted to see me.”
“It’s open.”
Coach Bryer is sitting at his desk, dressed conservatively in a TU Football polo shirt and khaki slacks. His snow-white hair is neatly styled, a stark change to his usual baseball cap. His eyes, framed by deep purple bags and wrinkles from years on the field, look up at me. His scowl softens slightly.
“Sit down, Anderson.” He gestures towards the chair in front of him.
Coach sighs as I sit, the grit of his voice clear even without speaking. It suddenly occurs to me how much more fragile he appears compared to when I was younger.
40 years ago, Lindsey Bryer was the number one football player for Texas University, my family’s legacy school. My dad, a former TU University football player himself, idolized Coach Bryer and taught me to do the same. In those days, he was an incredibly fast, strong, and handsome football star with a rigid jaw and arms of steel. When he became Texas University’s head coach during my high school years, I knew there was nobody else I could play for. Nowadays, though, his once rigid jaw has been softened by aging skin. His arms of steel now appear frail next to my own; his handsome features have grown sunken with time.
“Now,” Coach begins, sitting forward in his worn leather chair. “You and I both know you’ve been slacking as captain of TU football. Showing up late, missing drills, stealing my shit. Not to mention the partying… regardless, it’s time for you to step up and take some initiative to help this team.”
I swallow, not sure where he’s going with this.
“Yes, sir,” I murmur, nervously.
“I spoke recently with a,” he checks a note written sloppily on a scrap of paper in front of him, “Dr. Randie. She’s a professor in the Liberal Arts building and oversees our school newspaper. I worked out a deal with her. She’ll have her top writer promote our games on our way to the NCAA championship, and you will be the one assisting her. As part of your duties as captain.”
I look at him, my eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Assisting her how?” My tone is pointed, more so than I intended.
“Well, Anderson, I imagine a girl who writes for the newspaper may not be a football expert. You’ll be meeting with her throughout the week, explaining the game to her, introducing her to the team. Answering any questions she has–”
“Coach, I’m busy enough as it is with class, practice, my life. I don’t have time to help some English major learn what a football is.”
“You’ll do this for the team, Anderson—”
He’s interrupted by a knock on the office door.
“—or you can say goodbye to being captain.”
I have no time to process his threat before a gentle voice fills the office, the door slowly creaking open.
“Coach Bryer?”
Coach smiles at me, the same hauntingly white smile he flaunts to the media on game days. He gestures for me to stand out of respect.
“Come on in!” he calls, his voice much softer than earlier. “You must be Georgia.”
My head turns so fast it practically snaps off my neck.
Georgia Campbell.
Her deep green eyes immediately lock with mine, and her brows crease. She shoots me a quick glare—of confusion? Anger? I can’t tell—before dissipating all signs of frustration as Coach reaches out to shake her hand.
She is just as pretty as I remember, her hair flowing in soft curls down her back. Chestnut tendrils frame her delicate face, softening her hardened gaze. Her lips are the perfect shade of rosy pink, the gloss over them sparkling as she speaks. She smiles, showing a row of flawless straight, white teeth that perfectly balance her features.
I notice she’s wearing a Texas University tank top, the neckline just low enough to tease her perky breasts. Her waist is slim, contrasted against the gentle curve of her hips. She turns, grabbing something out of her bookbag, and I can’t help but notice how perfect her ass is. Just as perky as her tits and framed effortlessly by her tight workout leggings. I feel a twitch in my jeans and look away immediately.
God damn, she’s like a wet dream. And she hates me.
“Anderson,” Coach begins in his grating voice, interrupting my thoughts. “This is Ms. Campbell. She’s going to be writing the articles about us in the Tribune. Dr. Randall says she is their best writer.”
“Dr. Randie,” Georgia corrects, before shooting me an irritated look and sitting in the seat beside me.
‘Right, Dr. Randie.” Coach Bryer smiles at her before continuing.
“Georgia, Henry here is the team captain of our fightin’ Texas University football team. He’s thrilled to be of service for the school newspaper.”
She scoffs lightly, unimpressed. I shoot her a confident smirk in return – the one that normally works on every sorority girl and jersey chaser at our parties.
“Yeah,” I say, turning towards her. “Absolutely thrilled.”
This is your chance, Anderson. She has to work with you – get her on your good side.
She glances at me with a look of disgust before turning her attention towards Coach.
“Coach Bryer.” She pauses, clearing her throat. “I imagine, as captain, Henry must have plenty on his plate already. Are there any other players I could meet with to complete the articles?”
She flashes him a sickeningly sweet smile.
God, she’s gorgeous – even when she’s trying to get rid of me.
Even Coach seems a bit entranced by her. He coughs a bit, his breath caught, before responding to her question.
“Uh–hmph–no, Georgia, I’m sorry. Henry is all you got. As the captain of the team, he knows it better than anybody. Plus, you’re doing him a favor. He needs this just as much as you do.”
He gives me a knowing glare, a smirk forming at the corners of his lips.