15. Chapter 15
P ulling open the door to the indoor facility, I’m met with a blast of cold air as the AC pumps overtime to keep it cool in this Texas heat.
The temperature is probably colder than it needs to be, but the guys aren’t complaining.
Not with the way they’re dripping sweat.
Strength conditioning is over—which was my turn to run—and they’re in the middle of drills before we practice plays and game scenarios.
I can’t believe I’m walking in nearly two hours late. No coffee in hand, no excuses for my tardiness. Only a cheesy grin tugging at my mouth as if I won the damn lottery.
And in some ways…I did.
“Daaaaamn, Coach,” Williams, the freshman wide receiver, draws out as he jogs backward toward the line. “Who snuck marshmallows into your protein shake this morning? You’re smiling like it’s your damn birthday.”
I snort, shaking my head, my smile never faltering. “I’m just happy to see you busting your ass for once, Williams.”
A chorus of ‘ooohs’ sounds from the guys.
“Don’t get soft on us now,” someone else calls from the line. “We like Grumpy Coach.”
“Grumpy Coach? Is that what you fuckers call me?” I ask, taken aback and feigning hurt.
Tyler Harris, our starting quarterback and one of my closest friends, jogs next to me before bumping his shoulder into mine. “Seriously, Campbell. Were you abducted by aliens? Blink twice if you’ve been taken hostage.”
I push him away with a chuckle. “Shut up.”
The rest of the small group laughs, shoving each other’s shoulders as if they’re at a comedy club. I blame my mood, but I let them have their moment. But only for a second. Clapping my hands together, I get their attention.
“Alright, alright,” I call out. “Glad everyone’s in a good mood. But this isn’t happy hour with the boys. Let’s get to work.”
The shift is immediate, like a drill sergeant commanding his soldiers. Backs straight, shoulders square, heads at attention, waiting for their duties. A rap song plays from the speakers overhead, sharpening the energy.
Coach Hawk tosses me a look as I move to the sideline. “Thought maybe you got hit by a bus.”
“Close,” I mutter, catching the clipboard he tosses in my direction. “How’ve they looked?”
I scan over the schedule for today’s practice as Hawk catches me up. “Took them a minute to loosen up, but by the third rotation, they were looking locked in. Williams is starting to get a little too cocky. Quade’s dragging ass.”
“Copy that. I’ll make sure Quade’s not partying too much after practice.”
“We need him sharp. He’s still our starting wide receiver.”
The plays are clean for the most part. We run slants, screens, sprints—some sloppy pivots and bobbles in between. I fold my arms on the sideline, watching the line during a pass-heavy rep. When Williams nails the play, I clap hard as he breaks free.
“Hell yeah, Williams! That’s how we get it done! Run it again!”
Crew jogs off the field, helmet in hand, before he places it on the metal bench beside me. Grabbing a water, he’s still catching his breath when he takes the place next to me.
“Arriving late, smiling, cheering on the guys…who the fuck are you?”
I shake my head. “Fuck off.”
He chuckles, nudging my shoulder. “You get laid or something?”
“This morning,” I fire back without thinking. Goddamnit.
He chokes on his water. “Daaaamn,” he draws out.
I wince. “That wasn’t supposed to slip out.”
“No take-backsies.” He laughs. “You said it; it’s out there.”
“No take-backsies? Seriously, tell my sister to give you your balls back.”
Crew rolls his eyes. “But seriously, everything good? Oh, shit, it was with Savannah, right?”
I shake my head. “Jesus, who else would it have been?”
He shrugs. “Just making sure. Sooo, how was it?”
“This isn’t girls' night out,” I grumble, biting back a smile. “It was really fucking good, though.”
“Attaboy!” Crew whoops. “You two back together?”
I inhale a deep breath. “I don’t know, man. We didn’t have time to talk about it. This morning wasn’t exactly planned, but…I think I made it clear we aren’t not together.”
Crew nods slowly, like he gets it. Hell, with his history with my sister, he probably gets it better than anyone. “Well, whatever it is, you look happy, man. Don’t fuck it up.”
I snort. “Gee, thanks, Captain Obvious.”
“I’m just saying…be smart. You both have a lot on the line.”
I nod again, but the weight of those words lingers.
Turning my attention back to the field, I jog out onto the turf as we rotate into another group of seven-on-seven drills.
I keep my voice steady, my posture loose, but stay alert as I run up and down the sidelines, calling out adjustments and making notes on the players' performance.
I slap helmets as guys hit their marks and bark orders when they slack off.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, taking my attention away from the field.
I pull it out quickly and swipe the calendar notification away. It’s the fifteen-minute reminder of the offensive coaches meeting we have this afternoon to discuss week one’s game plan.
“Hawk,” I shout across the field. His attention snaps my way. “Fifteen minutes.”
He tosses me a thumbs-up. “Last one!” he calls back. “Make it clean, or we run.”
Before I slide my phone back into my pocket, I find Savannah’s name and type out a message to her.
I can still taste you on my lips. Hope you haven’t moved from my bed.
As the play ends and they slap helmets, my mind can’t help but drift.
An uneasiness settles in the back of my mind, and I can’t shake it.
Something’s coming.
I can feel it.
The conference room smells like lemon antibacterial cleaner, and I can’t help but smile as I inhale the fragrance. It’s nothing like the baked goods Savannah has been scarfing down around the apartment, but the lemony scent makes me think of her.
For so long, peaches have been the smell that reminds me of her—her perfume a mixture of peach and vanilla, and the peach gummy rings she eats while studying. But now with her cravings being anything lemon, she’s turned into my citrus girl.
Or should I say, my citrus girls , since baby Jellybean, Sav’s nickname for her daughter, is sparking the lemon craving?
Moving through the room, I find an empty seat at one end of the table.
The room is packed tighter than usual as offensive staff, positional coaches, and a couple of interns crowd the back wall.
Everyone’s gearing up for our first game of the season, which is right around the corner.
I slide into my seat, giving nods and distracted greetings.
Even after this morning’s practice, I can’t get Savannah out of my head.
The way she blurted that she needed to be fucked, the way her body moved against mine, and the sounds she made…
Fuck, the sounds she made. I feel my cock twitch at the reminder, and I shift awkwardly in my chair. I don’t need to sport a boner in the middle of this meeting. Shaking my head, I focus on the whiteboard where a slide is projected—our first opponent’s breakdown in sharp black-and-white.
Coach Reeves, our quarterback coach, is mid-sentence, discussing his quarterbacks. “Harris is looking the best he’s ever looked. His footwork has improved tremendously, and his arm is even more of a cannon. I don’t know what’s gotten into the boy over the off-season, but he’s going to be lethal.”
I smile inwardly as I hear the praise about my friend.
It’s still weird to be coaching some of my past teammates, but I love hearing the behind-the-scenes comments on how well they’re doing.
Tyler Harris is no doubt going to be in the running for the Heisman and a first-round contender in the NFL draft.
Coach Hawk, our head wide receiver coach and technically my boss, chimes in. “We’ve been watching past game film of the Trinity Knights. Their secondary is weak. I say we plan a lot of deep shots, especially if Harris’s arm is even stronger than last year.”
Everyone’s throwing out suggestions, comparing conditioning levels, injury statuses, and opinions on the game plan.
I try to focus—really, I do—but my knee’s bouncing and my mind keeps drifting to Sav. Her sleepy smile and how good she looked, naked, wrapped in my sheets. I hope she was able to fall back to sleep.
I glance around the table, at all the faces, and realize my dad isn’t in the room, which is odd. He’s always involved in these types of meetings.
Coach Martinez, the offensive coordinator, stands from his seat. “Now this is my least favorite topic of conversation, but are there any players I should have on my radar for potential misconduct?”
My stomach dips as my heart starts to race. As discreetly as possible, I wipe the growing sweat on my palms onto my shorts. Murmurs and whispers fill the room as heads turn in all directions.
But it’s the voices from the back wall that have everyone’s attention.
Coach Martinez looks at the interns. “You guys have something to say?”
The tension in the room is stifling.
All eyes dart to the back of the room as we watch the three interns nudge each other.
“You say it,” one of them says.
“Nah, man, you heard it, you say it,” says another.
“Will one of you fucking say it?” Martinez snaps.
I keep my face still, but my jaw tenses.
AJ Danners, one of the interns I had a class with last year, finds my eyes before quickly darting them away. Clearing his throat, he straightens his shoulders. “There’s a rumor making the rounds about one of our assistant coaches living with a student.”
Chaos breaks out around the room.
“Could be nothing,” Hawk adds. “There’s always gossip at the beginning of the season.”
“The athletic director will be sniffing around,” Reeves says.
“They should,” Martinez says. “Derek Campbell runs a tight ship. Policies. Procedures. Structure. This is a winning program, the kind players across the country fight to join. No drama, no distractions. The spotlight belongs on the team.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.