5. Chapter 5
M y dad is halfway through his coffee by the time I slide into the booth across from him.
His CTU hat is pulled low over his brow, hiding his face from too much attention.
It’s barely eight o’clock, and he looks like he’s already had a full day.
He has the same early-morning energy he always has.
It’s the type of energy that makes him a damn good coach, but a terrible person to share a house with during summer break.
For most people, summer means slowing down, but for Dad, it’s more time to prep and plan for the upcoming season.
His bright eyes find mine while I look like I just rolled out of bed and stumbled into this diner.
Last night’s storm had me awake for most of the night, and every time I started to drift off, a loud clap of thunder startled me awake.
It doesn’t help that the diner is twenty minutes from campus.
It’s his secret hideaway, one where he can relax without too many prying eyes.
Even though he’s one of the biggest coaches in college football, he can find serenity in this tiny diner.
“Morning,” I mutter, sliding into the bench seat across from him.
“I thought we were meeting at eight?” There’s no bite in his voice, just amusement.
Glancing down at my watch, I shake my head before answering. “It’s eight-oh-four.”
“And I’ve been here for thirty minutes.” He sips his coffee, a soft smile tugging on the corner of his lips as he assesses me. “You look like hell.”
“I didn’t sleep much last night.”
Dad quirks his eyebrow, the insinuation in his expression as he folds the sports section and pushes it to the empty seat next to him.
I reach for the menu, even though I already know what I’m ordering: a large stack of pancakes and a black coffee. I jerk my head toward the folded newspaper. “You know you can read everything digitally on that fancy iPad we got you for Christmas.”
He grunts around his coffee mug. “I still like the feel of the paper in my hands.”
I’m shaking my head with a chuckle as our waitress approaches. She pours a steaming mug of coffee before heading to the kitchen to put our orders in.
“You sure you’re alright?”
I pause, holding the mug in mid-air. “Yeah, a lot on my mind.”
He gives a short nod, and for a minute, we sit in silence, the clatter of plates and low hum of conversation filling the space around us.
“I wanted to check in,” he says as he sets his cup down. “Not just about the new receivers, but about you. You’re three weeks into the new role. How’s it feeling?”
Pressure sits heavy on my chest, the same way it has since the day I signed my contract.
I always knew coaching was my path. As much as I loved playing, the NFL was never my passion.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to teach the game I love.
Maybe it’s because I grew up with a superstar coach.
“It’s…different, but good.”
“Different how?” Dad asks, watching me closely.
I’m grateful when the waitress arrives with our food. She places a stack of pancakes and sausage in front of me, and a three-egg, bacon, and hash brown platter in front of Dad. As she tops off our coffee, I drown my pancakes in syrup until they’re nearly swimming.
After swallowing down a large bite, I glance over at my dad.
His eyebrow quirks once more, and I know he hasn’t forgotten about our conversation, even with the distraction.
“I guess I didn’t expect the transition to be such a big adjustment.
I don’t know how to explain it. Being a player felt like breathing.
This… It’s like I’m watching the game through different lenses. ”
He nods. “You lost your guys. They’re all moving on to different things, and you’re still here.”
Swallowing hard, I nod, hating myself for feeling so much.
“They’ll always be your boys, Grant.” He pauses. “But this part, coaching…it’s lonelier.”
He’s not wrong.
“But it’s worth it,” he adds, voice low.
“You’ve done it your whole life. How do you battle the loneliness?”
“You find yourself a good woman, a strong support system,” he responds without hesitation.
Images of Savannah flash through my mind.
Her blinding smile as I stare at the box seats from the side of the field, watching as she blows a good-luck kiss in my direction.
My mind plays a movie of the two of us sitting in our living room, discussing that week’s game plan.
She might not know all the details of coaching, but her sitting beside me, listening to every word, is all I need.
“I hope I’m half the coach you are, Dad,” I admit softly.
That earns a rare smile from him. “You will be. But don’t think it’s going to be easy, Son.”
I nod, taking another large bite as Dad leans forward. “We’ve got a freshman coming in—Jeremiah Williams. Quick feet, solid hands. He reminds me of you at that age.”
“That a compliment?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Don’t get cocky.”
I chuckle, but it fades as I watch his expression sober.
“You’re the youngest coach on staff, Grant. That’s not a secret. Everyone knows who your dad is, and that’s going to put a target on your back. The media are going to be watching, waiting for you to screw up.”
I release a heavy breath. “I know.”
“You’re going to have to work twice as hard to prove you’re not on this staff because of me.”
Jaw tight, I nod. “I didn’t take this job to ride coattails. I believe in this program.”
“I know that, but not everyone is going to buy it.” He sits back, bringing his mug to his lips. After a long gulp, he eyes me. “Nepotism is a thing, Grant. When they claim I hired my son, don’t let it define you. Earn your position every damn day, much like you did when you were playing for me.”
As much as I appreciate his bluntness, it still stings.
I could’ve played anywhere in the country, but I chose to play for my dad.
I was judged every single game because of that decision.
Now I find myself in a similar position; only this time, my dad is my boss.
Again, I could’ve gone anywhere. Hell, I could’ve landed a head coaching job at a few local high schools, but I believe in my dad’s method of coaching—The Campbell Effect.
And that’s why I chose to stay at Central Texas University.
Needing a reprieve from the intense conversation, I glance at one of the TVs mounted on the counter. A news reporter stands outside a building roped with caution tape.
And that’s when I see it.
The block capital letters scrolling at the bottom of the screen. It takes seconds to realize I know that building. Her building.
brEAKING NEWS: Armed Robbery Results in One Dead.
My blood runs cold. The reporter keeps talking, but I ignore the closed captioning.
“Grant.” Dad’s concerned voice doesn’t snap me out of where I’m staring.
I climb to my feet. “I-I’ve got to go, Dad.”
I start reaching into my back pocket for my wallet, but Dad shoos me off. “Go, Son.”
At his dismissal, I turn and run through the glass doors.
The drive blurs in flashes of traffic lights and barely remembered turns. By the time I pull onto her street, it’s blocked off with police tape and orange cones. My heart pounds viciously as I navigate around the block to find an empty parking space.
Making my way through the throngs of people, I notice the front entrance to the restaurant is taped off.
Glass still lays scattered on the sidewalk, glittering in the morning sunshine.
I push past the crowds, the cops, and the media frenzy, heading around the corner to the door I know leads to her apartment.
That’s when I see them—two guys by the door.
One leans against a matte-black motorcycle, arms crossed like it’s just another day.
The other’s head is down, typing something on his phone.
With his back toward me, I notice the t-shirt he’s wearing.
There’s a coiled serpent wound around the skull of a ram, its fangs bared, with a single flower blooming where one eye should be on the ram.
The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention as worry floods my veins.
Who are these men? And why are they outside Sav’s door?
As soon as the second guy hears my footsteps, his shoulders stiffen as he turns to face me. “Hey!” he shouts, taking a drag of his cigarette and tucking his phone in his pocket. “Closed scene. Move along.”
Even though every notion in my being is telling me to turn around, I stand straighter and keep walking closer to the door.
I nod toward the door. “I need to get inside.”
“Yeah,” he says, exhaling a plume of smoke. “And you are?”
“Grant Campbell.”
Recognition flickers across the guy’s face as his jaw shifts. He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives me a hard once-over. His shoulders loosen a fraction as he nods at me. No more introductions.
“She’s upstairs.”
He turns, and I follow him through the door, giving the second guy a terse nod.
We climb the steps in silence. My pulse quickens, and it’s not from the climb.
I don’t know who the guy is, but it sure felt like he knew me, at least by his reaction to my name.
He walks like he has authority, but based on the way he’s dressed, I think it’s safe to say he isn’t a cop.
He didn’t flash a badge either. And the way he was looking at me—like he was sizing me up for a coffin—makes me uneasy as hell.
Still, I follow.
We hit her floor and head farther down the hall. He stops at a dirty cream-colored door and pushes it open without knocking.
“Savvy,” his hoarse voice calls out, softer than it was outside. There’s a protective tone, though, and questions continue to swirl in my head. Who the hell is this guy?