Love's Sporting Chance: Volume 1: 6 Romantic sporting novellas

by Janice Thompson

  “What’s with this treat today, Sam?” Trey, my assistant crew leader, asks.

  Throwing in the towel after wiping my smeared-up face with it, I say, “Cooper just signed Wiley Black as head coach for the Bobcats.”

  The break room is muted instantly in shocked awe—food is being held frozen in mid-bite and faces slack with wonder. Oh yeah. Hermes is that legendary.

  Leave it to my one and only non-football fan in the room to break the silence. “Who’s that?” Zane asks, and is rewarded with every other member in the room throwing trash at him. Flinging his hands up defensively, he shouts, “Chill!”

  “Black was considered the quarterback of the century until an injury ended all of our dreams for him.” Trey shares this reverently and everyone minus Zane shudders at the memory.

  Flashes of bone grossly protruding through the skin of his lower right leg assault my mind—triggering the tamales to churn uncomfortably in my puny gut.

  Zane still looks unperturbed until Colton, my other assistant, pulls up what I’m guessing is the image of Wiley’s well photographed injury and shows it to him.

  The guy’s face pales before us. “Dude.”

  This is all he has to say. Zane is sort of out of place here, with no interest in the sport we all idolize. This hippie-looking guy, with his long blond hair and tanned skin, wandered into the stadium one day and has never left. I eventually put him on the payroll after discovering he has a spectacular knack for painting fields. He is a unique one with an artistic flair that follows him wherever he drifts, and I’ve grown right attached to him.

  Scanning this crowd, I could say the same for each one of my crew members. We make a pretty good team.

  “All right, girls. Lunchtime is over.” I push away from the table and commence to handing out afternoon assignments. There’s a lot to do before training day arrives in only one week.

  The day comes to a close at three. That’s one of the perks of this job—early start to the day equals early dismissal. The crew is gone, but my day only ends after a walkthrough. Leaving the intense sun out by the entrance, I’m peacefully enveloped by the cool dimness of the tunnel that leads to the home locker room. I’ve seen no more sign of Hermes, but I head through to be sure he’s made his way out before locking up.

  The gold tunnel has the Bobcats black and white emblem blazing along the wall to my right. It’s some impressive artwork, but the tunnel instinctively beckons me to the left wall. My fingers reach out and dust along the words of Hebrews 12:1 as I pass by.

  Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.

  I repeat the verse as my fingers play over them. This is a ritual all players and coaches perform not just before each game, but any time they enter the field through this tunnel. The stadium owners never want the team to forget who granted them with the extravagant gift of being allowed to play professional football—God.

  Repeating the verse once more, after I find the place as empty of life as a ghost town, I call it a day.

  Chapter Two

  Hermes has been at it every blame morning for the past week, and I’m reaching my boiling point. He’s totally upending my routine and it’s just not sitting well. I’m also worried I’m going to have to have the goal posts repainted soon if he keeps up his abuse of them. I’ve already voiced my concerns with the boss, but all he offered up in response was a toothy grin. Cooper has taken up a cushiony seat in his box suite to watch the show now ever since. Whatever. Training camp kicks off tomorrow, and so the list for field prep is a mile long. The press will be allowed for the first hour, and I want nothing less than an impeccable stadium backdrop to represent the Texas Bobcats.

  Standing in position, I shove on my Ray-Bans and readjust my wide-brimmed bucket hat, pushing a few black strands back under that have wiggled their way free. Checking my watch, I see I’ve given him thirty minutes with no plans on giving him another second. He walks off towards the buckets, so I take my opportunity to sprint out and gather his mess off my fifty yard line.

  As I’m dumping it close to the tunnel, I hear the raspy timbre of his voice call out to me. “Hey! Hey you, kid!”

  My body reacts as though a chill just skated across it, but I ignore it, as well as Wiley, and keep booking it towards my mower.

  I’m about to shove my earbuds in to drown him out, when a heavy hand lands on my shoulder and then commences to turning me forcefully in his direction. This guy is definitely used to having his authority respected. I keep my social standings intact and allow him to be boss.

  His mossy-green eyes seek out the photo ID dangling around my neck. “Sam, look man…” Wiley stumbles over his last word so I’m guessing my boobs have just registered as his confused gaze stops in that vicinity. “You’re a girl.”

  I know I shouldn’t bring any more attention to this certain area, but my sarcasm overrules my better judgement. Gasping, I pat my chest dramatically. “Dang it! I think you might be right!”

  A few beats tick by before he snaps out of his shock, and a look of annoyance registers along his handsome features.

  “Look, kid. Smart-mouthing me is not very wise.” He’s towering at least a foot above me in a threatening stance, but he doesn’t know I’m not the type to be intimidated so easily.

  I could go two ways with this—show the man some respect or sass him some more. Sass is calling out to me in a high-pitched whine, but I tell her to hush up. No need in getting into trouble with the head coach this early on. So I pull out my manners like the good ole southern gal my momma and daddy raised me to be—not an easy task for this here tomboy to keep on point.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

  “Why’d you move my stuff?” He motions towards his pile of belongings.

  “I’ve got to get this field mowed and prepped. You’re putting me behind schedule.”

  Now that giant hand gestures towards me. “You?” Looking around the stadium in disbelief, he continues, “You have to mow all of this by your scrawny self?”

  Well now, that just doesn’t go over too well with me. At. All. I hold steady with not giving him any more lip, but my stubborn hands find their way to my hips.

  “Yes, sir. Been doing it for the past two years.” I release a hand and wave towards the vibrant green turf. “And I haven’t killed it yet.”

  Yes, I know that last part might be interpreted as giving lip, but it slipped out without my permission.

  With a skeptically raised eyebrow, he says, “Well, I’ll let you get to it. Sorry I got in your way, kid.”

  Hermes abandons our confrontation and goes to gather his stuff before my lips conjure anything polite to say. I think some more as I watch on. Nope. Still can’t think of anything. Looking down, I guess my baggy clothes can be a bit concealing with the fact I’m nowhere near being a kid. I’m actually knocking on thirty’s door.

  Shrugging my frustration off, I set out to do my job so the arrogant pig can do his.

  *****

  Five arrives early this morning with lots of anticipation crackling the air. Today, I get to see the goods along with the army of press, and my stomach won’t stop squeezing in eagerness. I’m glad to have the field to myself for the first time in forever. With stadium lights up, I’m able to mow as easily as in the middle of the day. The rest of the crew is scurrying around watering the freshly planted flowerbeds. And those babies are spectacular. All of the beds are blanketed in a thick array of black, gold, and white perennials, but the pièce de résistance is the main entrance bed that rests on the grand hill where fans pass before they reach the gates. Benji drew the outline of the bobcat with Viola ‘Black Magic’ and then filled it in with Basket of Gold. White perennials box the entire piece in and boy does it make a statement. Benji is a planting genius. I’m hoping to have a photographer out here later in the week to capture it for promos. The guy’s nam
e is JP Thorton and he comes highly recommended. I’ve seen some of his work, so I know he’ll see the stadium properly.

  At seven sharp, the gates open and a caravan of shiny cars—hot off the high-dollar dealership lots—file into the team parking lot. I’ve picked a spot inside on the second floor to watch the show.

  In the midst of blinged-out sports cars and souped-up trucks sits my rusty 1954 Chevy pickup. The only paint existing on the truck is on the hubcaps, which are a bright blue. My favorite characteristic is by far the exterior cargo light. It is an actual porch light fixture with a hand-pull. The back side rails are pretty unique as well. It looks like someone just chopped down four thin trees, stripped them of their bark, and mounted two on each side. It’s awesome and definitely one of a kind.

  Each polished vehicle gives my Delilah plenty of room. Not a soul parks beside her or in front. It’s quite comical to see these real-life giants try climbing out of those tight cars. Laughing privately with myself, I head back outside to the main entrance and watch on as media vans take up their spots in guest parking. My skin prickles with expectancy for the new season.

  I know this stadium like the back of my hand—I’m privy in knowing all of the shortcuts and some secret tunnels—so I maneuver to the field before the first cameraman has time to set up his tripod. No grounds crew member is allowed in here today, but me. I take my spot near the back bay and prepare to take in what can only be described as a well-orchestrated circus. This morning is strictly for show and not even ten minutes pass before it gets underway with whistles blowing and cameras clicking.

  My eyes betray me as they seek out Wiley Black. The man’s presence is demanding, so I can’t help myself. He is professionally dressed for the cameras—in khaki pants and a gold-colored polo. The Bobcats logo is neatly stitched on the left chest of the shirt as with the other coaches. Everyone looks polished and photo ready. All the Bobcat giants stand at attention in their gold Tshirts and black shorts, fresh and eager.

  My crew set up obstacle courses and drill sets this morning, and I watch now as the players descend to their designated posts. This stuff makes good photo and video ops. As they get to it, my focus goes back to Black, who is observing it all by the sideline as reporter after reporter gets their five minutes with him. Sometime during this hoopla, he looks my way and actually gives me a head nod in acknowledgement. Well. Don’t I feel special now?

  This part of the business bores me, so I leave them and get on with my day. I’m more anxious to get to see the real practices.

  Chapter Three

  Wiley Black goes from taking over my field to now kicking me off it altogether during practices, except for emergencies. I guess that head nod the other day wasn’t a gesture of welcome, but a warning. Don’t ask how much that ticks me off. Jerk.

  A leaking sprinkler head has granted me a pass for the day. I bring Trey for backup since Buck is hip deep in a hole near section C of the parking lot. We have a picnic area over there and a main valve isn’t playing pretty.

  The needed tools for the leaky job are obvious, but I decide to leave them behind in order to buy me some more time on the field. Trey has already called me out on it, but after explaining to him we are about to perform some major dilly-dallying he’s game.

  Before walking onto the field, we both pull on our shades. The guy even has a black bucket hat exactly like mine. A chuckle slips out as I look him over.

  “What?”

  Motioning between us, I say, “Twins.”

  “Nah-ah. I’m a good three inches taller than you.”

  I scoff. “Please. You’re not that much taller. But you are older.” By only a month, but it still counts.

  We bicker about this until we reach the sprinkler head. Luck would have it, the leak is right by the sideline benches where everyone is congregated. Coach Jerk seems to have just wrapped up a pep talk and is ordering the first string to the line of scrimmage. I angle myself just so, with hopes of catching a few plays while I fix the minor problem.

  “You gonna be long, kid?” That gruff voice sounds against my back, riling me up.

  “I have a name. It’s Sam or Shaw. And if you want me to acknowledge you from now on, I suggest you pick one.” I keep my voice low so none of his players hear me sassing him. Trey is crouched down in front of me and he’s so close, I can see his eyes bugging out in disbelief from behind his shades.

  I stay in my place and start unscrewing the busted head.

  Wiley must have decided to just ignore the comment altogether and asks again, “How long?”

  “Thirty minutes tops and I’ll be off your field.” I firmly clamp my lips shut after this slip. Seems I’m on a roll today. Trey wiggles uncomfortably as though he’s gonna pee his pants. Wiley Black is nothing shy of intimidating.

  Wiley says nothing else, but his shadow leers over me as I inspect the problem. I hear him sigh deeply in impatience, but it doesn’t hurry me up in the slightest. I’m not in a compliant mood today.

  “Trey, would you go grab a coupling, shovel, channel locks, tape, and some glue?”

  “Sure, boss.” I know he throws that last word in there for effect.

  “And a new sprinkler head,” I add as he hurries off. He recognizes the request with a hand wave over his shoulder.

  I sit on my haunches and wait. As soon as Wiley’s shadow leaves me alone, I text Trey to take his time. I want to see some field action. I catch one play and am not pleased by what I witness. The offensive line is sloppy. Another play goes down and the head quarterback Grant is not being covered well at all.

  Glancing at Wiley, I notice him honed in on that line as well. He only lets it go for another play before he barks at them to clean it up. The snap of the ball and then the bodies crashing rings out and again the QB is tackled. I’ve had enough at this point and am ready to holler at them to wake up. Thank goodness, I hold it in and let the coach do his job.

  Calling the entire team in, they gather around Wiley. All are red-faced, breathless, and sweating like pigs. I get it though. I’m only sitting on my backside in this Texas heat and have sweat trickling down my back. That’s not an excuse for their sluggishness. Most of them get paid seven plus figures to be able to handle it.

  Grant tosses Wiley the ball before the fuming coach sets out to serving the linemen a decent butt chewing. It’s obvious they are the focus and all of the other players keep a slight distance from them. Not Grant. He shares the blame and stands stoically with his linemen.

  Brows furrowed, Wiley says, “The ink isn’t even dry on your contracts yet. Do you realize how replaceable you are? You’re being paid to do a certain job and I’ve not seen you earn one cent on this field since you strutted your egos out here. So do your job or face the consequences.” He pauses to pace in front of the group for a few beats. It’s as though he’s trying to tamp down his anger.

  My phone pings a new message, but I’m too enthralled to check it. It’s probably Trey and he can wait. The radio on my side will go off next if it’s urgent.

  Waving the ball in front of them, he continues, “I don’t see an individual here. I see one unit with the sole purpose of moving this ball to the end zone. If a part of this unit doesn’t perform correctly, something breaks and will need to be replaced.” He has shorts on today and although he sports a very nice set of legs, the mean thick scar is on full display. I notice all eyes have dropped to it. “Get the ego-chip off your shoulder and do your job!” He yells this and I follow his eyes over to Jones, whose stats say he has football magic coursing through his veins—the six-foot-two-hundred-pound tackle was drafted his freshman year of college. I guess all that magic comes with a hefty arrogance.

  Wiley shouts for them to get back on the field and Mr. Magic saunters over to his position without a care in the world. I’ve studied the roster and have observed this inside-look enough over the years to call this one pretty clear—too young and too naïve to be allowed in, but too blame talented not to. Sadly, the team has to pay unti
l these kinds of bigheaded punks grow up.

  The other linemen are letting him take the attitude-lead, and I’m willing to bet all eight idiots are about to pay dearly for this poor choice.

  Trey tosses the supplies beside the head, startling the mess out of me. “What did I miss?”

  Grabbing the shovel, I start poking around the head distractedly. “Nothing, but I got a feeling it’s about to get a lot more interesting.” We both halfheartedly work on repairing the leaking adapter as we try to inconspicuously watch the show.

  Sure enough, after one play, Wiley has reached his limit and calls the offensive linemen and Grant back. The other coaches take over the rest of the group and carry on.

  “What’s your job, Jones?”

  Wiping his brow, Jones says, “Protect the quarterback’s a—”

  “No profanity on my field or you’ll be forking out that fine stated in your contract. There are enough words in the English language, and I won’t be having my team sounding like vulgar illiterates.” Wiley is all but in this punk’s face.

  I expect a respectable sorry sir, but Jones only offers a grunt instead. Idiot. I tsk before I can stop myself, but no one acknowledges me.

  “Sam,” Trey warns quietly. I refocus on fitting the new coupling in place and leave the coach to do his job, but I can’t help listening.

  “The quarterback is your job. You get paid to protect him and the ball. Let your guard down and what happens?”

  “He botches the play,” Clark, a three-hundred-plus-pound guard, mutters.

  Trey and I roll our eyes at the same time, as I hear a derisive huff escape Wiley. Shaking my head, I goof with the tape to look like I’m making progress as Trey fiddles with the adapter. Neither one of us is making a lick of headway.

  “He?” Wiley asks this with enough coolness to send a chill through this ninety-eight-degree day. “We is the only term acceptable on this field. Something you should have learned way back on those high school fields you grew up on.”