9. Chapter 9
T he truck door slams shut, rattling through the air as I drop onto the passenger seat of Crew’s pickup. The damn thing smells like stale Taco Bell and a locker room, but I’d sacrifice my sense of smell any time to make sure Savannah didn’t take the bus to work tonight.
As we go by my building, I can’t help but look up at the second story and wonder what Savannah is doing now that I’ve left. Hopefully, she’s curling up on the couch with her coffee, making herself at home.
Crew breaks the silence first with his annoyingly coy voice. “So…” he draws out, voice thick with suggestion. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going,” I say flatly, keeping my focus on the drive to campus.
Crew chuckles, and I glance at him. “What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing,” he muses. “Just that you found yourself in a roommate predicament, like I did last year. Think yours will end like mine?”
“With a fist to the face?” I ask, his eyes narrowing in my direction, both of us remembering the same thing.
“C’mon, man.” Crew flicks on his blinker and navigates us onto the road that leads to the practice center. “She’s pregnant…with someone else’s kid. Why’d you ask her to move in if it’s not because you’re in love with her?”
Gritting my teeth, I huff, tired of my sister, and now, him, assuming I’m in love with her. Which I’m not…I think. “She needs a place to live—a safe place. That’s it.”
“Bullshit,” Crew mutters. “Enough with the hero complex, Campbell. Why can’t you admit your feelings out loud?”
I start to answer, but Crew casts a look in my direction that has me pausing while he rests one hand across the top of the steering wheel. “What happens when she has the baby and you fall in love with her kid? Are you going to let her walk away?”
Shit. That’s something I haven’t thought about. What happens when she does have her baby?
“So, what’s the plan, Grant? You're going to pine for her quietly until she moves out—until she finds someone else to love her and her kid? Or are you going to do something about it?”
My hands grip into fists without realizing it, but the idea of someone else swooping in to be there for her and her baby has anger coursing through my veins. I’ve loved her from afar and lost her. Am I going to risk it a second time?
Running my hands across my face, my beard scratching my palms, I finally look at him. “I don’t want to push her too soon. She’s been through a lot.”
Navigating the truck into an empty spot, Crew shifts the gear into park.
“Look, man, I don’t know Sav’s history, but if her past is as rough as you’ve alleged, she’s probably looking for stability.
I don’t think you’re pushing her by letting her know how you feel—letting her know you’re still in it for her and that includes her baby. ”
“I don’t know, man.”
“Then figure it out, bro. Your past with her isn’t in the past anymore—it’s your present. Decide if you want it to be your future.” Crew turns off the ignition, reaching into the backseat for his gym bag, before hopping out.
Well, fuck me. His parting words land heavier than I expected, and I’m frozen in my seat. Crew gives me a minute before tapping on the side of the truck, gesturing that it’s time to get going. Reaching down, I grab my coach’s bag before shuffling out the door.
Humid air blankets my skin as we walk across the parking lot.
I stare at the massive red-brick exterior of the football facility.
My mind spins with Crew’s words, but I shove them aside as I switch into my coaching role, which is still weird to me since I played with most of these guys for years.
Now I’m expected to be their coach when I’m in the building and not their friend. It’s a weird dynamic.
Crew and I step in line behind a few other players, everyone giving nods in greeting. One of the guys presses the automatic door button, holding it open for everyone to enter the building.
“Morning, fellas,” Gary, the security guard, greets us. He’s been the early-morning attendant since I started my freshman year.
“Morning,” we respond in unison, moving through the lobby toward the hallway. The guys shuffle into the locker room while I make my way to my office. To say it’s my office is a bit of a stretch, more like an oversized coat closet, but I don’t mind.
As an assistant wide receiver coach, I’m not the focal point—I stay in the background.
My job balances development, discipline, and anything the head coaches need.
I work closely with the guys—especially second and third strings—to keep them improving between seasons.
Part of that is overseeing morning weight sessions: tracking reps, weights, routines, and recoveries.
It also means noticing when someone half-asses a set or pushes too hard.
After dropping my bag and grabbing a to-go coffee from the cafeteria, I push open the weight room door. State-of-the-art equipment lines the space, with recovery pools off to the side. Loud rock music blares. Clanks of plates and shouts of encouragement fill the air.
I glance around, scanning the roster on my clipboard. Attendance checked, I move toward the lower body machines where the new freshman receiver, Jeremiah Williams, is working out. He’s good—everyone knows—but with skill comes a media spotlight.
“Looking good, Williams,” I say while stepping next to Jeremiah’s machine.
“Thanks, Coach,” he says, grunting as he pushes against the leg press.
Standing off to the side, I observe each press, making sure he’s doing it correctly. He finishes his set, weights clanging back into place. Jeremiah grabs a towel, wiping the sweat from his face.
“Nice work.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Finish your set and make sure to get a good lower body stretch in. If you’re feeling any discomfort, let me know, and I’ll get you an extra session of recovery.”
He nods, breathing heavily, and I step back, continuing my rounds through the room.
Coaching in July is strange, but summer as an athlete is stranger—a limbo between break and the grind. A battle between off-season recovery and the mental preparation for the war zone of August. Necessary for a great college football career, but it cramps a student’s summer plans.
By noon, we’ve completed strength and conditioning, and we’re out on the temperature-controlled field.
I thank God Central Texas has an air-conditioned field, so we aren’t spending hours in the blazing summer heat.
And while the receivers are running zigzags through cones and doing sprint and catch drills, I’m on the sideline, shouting out feedback, running through game footage in my head, all while keeping track of footwork and timing.
As I try to stay focused on the players in front of me, my mind keeps drifting to the woman living in my apartment.
Memories flash of the way she stumbled into the kitchen and took a seat at the island with her early morning glow.
Nerves radiated off her until I caught her staring at my shirtless body.
Her face shifted to surprise when I placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of her, made exactly how she likes it.
And then she had to go and say we needed to set ground rules. Well, the joke's on her. I’ll follow her rules, but I’m adding some of my own. Ones that force her to relax around me.
She also required a code word if I wanted to bring a woman back to the apartment. As if anyone else matters. Doesn’t she know all I’ve ever wanted is her? Still, if it makes her feel better, I’ll play along.
Glancing around the field and seeing everyone performing the way they should, I slip my phone out of my pocket and open our message thread.
Are you settling in?
A minute doesn’t pass before my phone buzzes with a new message.
Sav: [1 photo attachment of a coffee mug pointed at an episode of Criminal Minds .]
“Campbell, my office!” The announcement comes from the speakers inside the field, interrupting practice.
Heads whip in my direction, and I can feel my balls shrivel up.
Instantly, I’m hit with a wave of panic, like a kid who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
Snapping my head away from my phone, I pocket the device before moving to the exit.
Shit, am I in trouble? Does he know about Savannah?
I can coach grown men, call out bullshit from thirty yards away, stand against sketchy bikers, but something about facing my dad when I’m harboring a secret terrifies the shit out of me.
Stepping into the open door of his office, I rap my knuckles against the doorframe. Dad glances from his laptop, nodding. “Come in.”
Mondays suck.
They always have, even back when I played, but now, they’re worse as a coach.
If it were only strength and conditioning sessions and position drills, it wouldn’t be so bad.
But no, my afternoon is spent in back-to-back meetings and overseeing any media obligations.
The meetings drag on until my focus shuts down, and it sounds like the humming at the end of a record.
Today was brutal. Instead of overseeing media interviews, I was the target of one. A blogger from an up-and-coming sports site called me in for a one-on-one. Total douche. His questions grated on my nerves.
He wanted a deep dive on “legendary Coach Campbell’s son” and how I planned to live up to my father’s legacy.
Polished, polite, canned responses—I delivered them all, exactly as the PR team trained me.
But he kept pushing, testing my patience.
When he asked if I was coaching only because I couldn’t hack it in the NFL, I ripped off my mic and cut him off. “We’re done.”
Luckily, a PR team member was in the room and completely agreed that the interview was over.