“You ready for another week, Uncle Grady?” Drew asks, teasingly, clapping me on the back as he comes to stand next to me on the field.
I texted him an update the next morning after Mia’s dramatic exit on Friday night. He stayed and listened to the band finish up, sans Brandon, obviously.
I chuckle and grin, glad he’s keeping my mind on other things than the brunette goddess making her way across the field right now.
With her hair pulled up in a high pony tail, a short-sleeved gray dress that stops just above her knee with a green sweater wrapped around her waist and wearing bright green chucks on her feet, she looks like she should be attending school here.
Beautiful.
“You still have a lot of explaining to do there,” Drew murmurs, drawing my attention to him before he blows his whistle and stomps to the middle of the field where the team begins to gather.
They place their helmets on the ground and take a knee in a huddle as Drew begins to bark orders and informs the team of what they’re going to be working on today. When I watch his arm wave in Bri’s direction, I know he’s reminding them of the feature SI is doing on the team.
The closer Bri gets, the slower her strides become, nervousness clear in her movements as she fidgets with the strap of the bag hanging off her shoulder.
“Good morning,” she says shyly.
“Morning,” I say, voice gruffer than I intend.
We stare at each other for a few moments without saying anything more.
So awkward I want to groan.
“I’m sorry. I know this is horrible. I told Simon it was a conflict of interest, but he swore it would be okay. I’ll tell…”
“Simon?” I can’t help myself, even though I have no right to question who she’s talking about.
“My editor? And, friend, I guess, since I introduced him to his wife. Which made me question if that’s why I got the job. And then I assumed it was because of our… you know. Past,” she adds on a whisper. “But he swore it wasn’t. He only knew we went to high school together and I didn’t have the courage to correct him. It was because of how much I know about,” her hands do a weird circle thing gesturing toward the field. “You know, because I’m kind of obsessed. In fact, this is the first time I’ve really been on the field since… well, that night and it’s a little overwhelming because it’s,” she bounces on her toes and lets out a nervous giggle I’ve never heard from her before, but she won’t stop moving or talking. I’m kind of getting a kick out of her right now. It feels good to know I’m not the only one who wants to puke in this moment. Though, I could have done without her reminding me of the night we snuck onto the practice field. That night I had brought her there only because I wanted time alone with her. She had other plans and soon we were naked with only a blanket laid out under us.
She lifts her left hand to her forehead and rubs right above her eyebrow. Her mouth is still moving, but I’ve blocked out the word vomit that continues to come out of her mouth because my eyes have zoned in on the tattoo on her wrist.
Without thinking, my arm darts out and I take hold of her hand. She gasps at the contact, but I ignore it.
I gently twist so the bottom side of her wrist is facing me and read the series of numbers flanked by two Chinese symbols.
I stare unblinking, my thumb tracing a pattern over the black markings.
Back and forth while my mind catches up with my eyes.
It’s a tattoo we’d talked about getting together some day.
Love.
The date we first admitted we loved each other as more than just friends. Coincidentally, it was the night of our first date, too.
Eternity.
She went through with it anyway.
What does that even mean?
She slowly tugs her wrist back, wrapping her arms around her waist, rubbing her lips together.
I don’t say anything.
What could I even say?
“I told you the list was too long to text.” Her voice wavers, full of emotion.
I nod, shoving my hands into the pockets of my shorts. “I’m sorry, too. For Friday night,” I explain when her head tilts to the side in confusion. “I was shocked to see you, but that doesn’t give me an excuse to be rude to you.”
“You weren’t,” she says quietly.
“Yeah, I was.”
“Well, if that’s the case, it was warranted.”
“Maybe a little,” I smirk, and she laughs lightly. “Here’s the deal. I need to tell you, when I heard you got this story, I didn’t know how it would go. I still don’t, really. But it’s going to go to shit real fast if I behave like I did toward you on Friday night. Neither of us wants that.” I pause, noticing the look of hurt on her face and know exactly where her thoughts are going. I clench my fist around the phone in my pocket to stop me from reaching out to her. “Stop thinking for a second, okay? I’m not apologizing to you, so the story will be good. I’m not going to lie, I don’t want our feelings to get in the way of whatever you publish, but I also want both of us to get over the past. I don’t know about you, but I have to move forward.”
She blows out a breath and nods, pressing her lips together. “Yeah. Moving forward would be good.”
I swallow and look out to the field, a few of the players are looking at Bri, stupid hopeful expressions tugging their lips into a grin.
I want to punch the look straight off their faces and give them extra laps.
I blow my whistle three times and they jog in our direction.
“Gentlemen. You’ve no doubt seen we have a guest with us this morning. We told you last week Sports Illuminated is doing an article on the team this season. It starts today. I’d like you to meet Bri Jameson. She knows more about Warrior football than anyone I know, including you, and is to be treated with nothing but respect,” I bark out when I hear a few lude comments. My blood instantly boils, and I narrow my eyes at the little punks.
I point in the direction of where I heard the comments. “Enough! As I said, I expect you to treat women with respect and that means you don’t need to be making lewd comments about Bri or anyone else, you feel me? Trust me when I say this, you don’t want to test me. If I see a single one of you mistreating her, or hear any more of that shit I just heard, you’ll be working it off on this field until you can’t walk.”
Grumbles are heard from a few of the punks, but for the most part, they nod their heads and listen.
“Bri, meet the Warriors. Boys. Meet Bri. She’s my shadow for the next six weeks.”
I pause long enough to hear someone mutter coach is a lucky fucker.
“Tim!” I shout, and the little prick who thought he’d test me snaps to attention.
“Yeah, Coach?”
“You just earned yourself thirty minutes of suicides. Enjoy.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. When he sees I’m not joking, he angrily stands up and stomps over to the sidelines where one of my trainers meets him.
“Now. Anyone else want to test me on how serious I am about respecting Bri?”
A chorus of “No, Coach,” is heard from the group, so I press on. “She’ll be talking to a few of you. I’ve already got a list gathered, so there’s no need to try to impress anyone now, trying to get your moment of fame. This isn’t the time to show off or puff out your chests. Be honest with her. If she doesn’t get a real story from us, she’ll get it from somewhere else. She already knows your stats, probably all the way back to when you played on your town’s flag football teams. Bri’s here to observe and get an inside look at the program.”
I feel eyes on me and chance a look at Bri whose focus is, in fact, trained in on me.
Apparently, I’m still in tune with her.
“Now. Get your asses back on the field. We have four weeks until we have our first game, and you guys look like shit.”
They trudge off without arguing and immediately I’m bombarded with questions from trainers, the other coaches, even a
few players.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? We’ll have our time to talk. I’m with you for six weeks. For now, I’ll just observe, if that’s okay with you.”
Thirty minutes later I’ve addressed all the issues and I’m calling plays, standing next to Izaak. He’s an All-American linebacker with a heart of gold and is a strong leader on and off the field. Whether he wants the role or not, the rest of the team looks up to him. Looks to him for guidance on what their next steps should be.
He reminds me so much of myself, and while I don’t play favorites, he’s got what it takes to lead the team to a winning season.
He was a freshman on the team when I was an intern after my accident. Izaak was also the first player to reach out to me after it was announced I’d taken the head coach position.
“The new plays feel good?” I ask him.
“Yeah, Coach. I like it. I think the guys about have this one down,” he tells me.
I nod, happy he agrees, and that the other players are feeling it too.
When I began interning with the team, I started creating a playbook of my own, and now I get to incorporate the plays into my team. Hoping one day I’d be coaching, at the very least, a bunch of high school players. I could have never imagined I’d be standing on the same field I once thought was only a dream to play on, much less coach.
It’s surreal.
And I won’t take a single minute of it for granted.
Or let anyone distract me from my end goal.
Coach Bales had an amazing playbook—now I have the honor to add to it. And the play we’re working on now, perfecting as much as we can, it’s one I took from him and expanded on. Based on how this team is performing already, they’re going to take it and run with it.
The entire time I’ve been on the field, Bri’s been walking back and forth on the sidelines, taking it all in. A few times I’ve noticed her clap lightly when the boys had a good play.
Even my shirt is sticking to my back from sweat, so I know the boys are hot. I call for a water break after a few hours and the boys lumber to the sideline, heading to the water stations as the trainers and staff step up, making sure the boys who are playing through slight injuries have what they need. A few need ankles or shoulders looked at. Our backup quarterback already sprained a finger last week, which needs monitoring.
There’s always something, always an injury to watch for.
A kid who’s on the brink of self-destruction from the stress of competing at this level of college football, maintaining a good GPA, being constantly tempted to party or sleep with a different girl every night. As a young coach, I remember it all very well because it was my life not long ago. I saw it when I was coaching the freshman, but it’s not as intense as it is for upper classman. Coaching at the college level is systematic. There are expectations I must meet.
These guys aren’t freshman anymore, and I’m not their babysitter. It’s a hard thing, stepping down that way. Allowing the assistant coaches to take on that role so I can focus on what happens on the field.
I spent a lot of years much like Izaak. Leading the team, guiding their principles. Helping my friends make the right choices. When there were frat parties or whispers of hazing, I was the voice of reason. Not to say I was boring or a fun-hater, I participated plenty. But it was all about timing, knowing when to let loose and when to focus.
Now, I have to know what’s going on in their lives, but their performance on the field and in the classroom is my top priority. But as a young coach, I have a unique opportunity to continue to lead by example. What the players, do off the field is a direct reflection of the team and school, and it’s important they see that.
I’ll never forget the help my high school coach, Coach Mac, offered me when I was spiraling after I beat the shit out of Dawson. He took the lead, making sure the colleges that had been scouting me knew the whole story, all the while never missing a beat on making sure I fully understood what I did. I wouldn’t have changed a thing, of course. Dawson deserved every punch I hit him with, but he also taught me how to manage my temper and distinguish between, well… right and wrong.
“You’re kind of good at this, huh?” Bri says, coming to stand next to me.
Her compliment shouldn’t make my chest swell.
It does.
Still…
“Well, to be fair, after the accident I was offered an internship to coach under Bales, so I could stay with the team. I learned everything I know from him.”
She flinches at the mention of what brought me here.
If I hadn’t been injured, I have no idea what my life would be like today.
Maybe I’d still be standing on this field doing exactly this.
I’ll never know.
“I have some questions about the accident.”
This time it’s my turn to flinch.
She should know it all.
“We have a few more hours out here. You can keep watching, then we’ll talk.”
“Okay.” She offers up a small smile before turning her gaze back to the field.
I’ve noticed she’s been watching, dissecting each move I call. Especially the play we’re working on now. The one she knows is all my own rather than handed down to me from Coach Bales. Everything my Defensive Coordinator shouts to his guys. She’s probably itching to interfere.
“You’re dying to stick it in there, aren’t you?” I ask her, gesturing to the old school recorder in her hand but the second the words are out of my mouth I wish I could pull them back in.
To my sex-deprived brain, it sounded dirty, even though it was far from it.
She presses her lips together and looks away.
“Sorry, didn’t mean it to sound that way.”
“No worries,” she giggles then stops abruptly, looking embarrassed. “I’m sorry. This is so… strange.”
“It is, and it isn’t.”
She turns her head to the side in question. “It…” I scrub a hand down my face and look her in the eyes. “It feels right to have you on the field with me.”
Her lips part and a gust of wind causes a few strands of hair to escape from her pony tail. I have to shove my hands into the pockets of my shorts to stop myself from reaching out and tucking it behind her ear.
From tracing the side of her face with my fingertip.
All to hear the gasp of breath I’m sure would come; like it always did.
To watch the rise and fall of her chest, the pink tinge in her cheeks, her tongue to sneak out, tasting her lower lip. Almost prepping it for my lips.
It’s a dance I’m well versed in when it comes to her.
A dance we perfected in the too-short amount of time we weren’t just friends.
But we weren’t only lovers, either.
My soul called out to hers and it always answered.
And damn it all if it’s still calling.
Bri
I’m in way over my head.
Over the years, being away from Grady, I’ve been able to fool myself into thinking I wasn’t still in love with him.
One look at him the other night and I was proven wrong. He’s magnificent. The years only making him even more handsome. I watch as he moves across the field, stopping the players in the middle of a play to adjust something.
His hair has darkened a few shades from the dirty blond it was in high school. His chest thicker, shoulders broader. Biceps bulging, straining against the confines of the fabric of his fitted gray t-shirt with the Warrior logo over his heart.
The black shorts do nothing to hide his bulky thigh muscles, and when I’ve been blessed enough to have his back turned to me, my eyes have had the joy of focusing in on his ass, that even under the dark material looks tight and strong. You know, if ass muscles can be strong.
My eyes drift lower, noticing the two large scars on his left leg. They’re not as angry looking as I’m sure they once were, having had a few years to heal. But they’re noticeable, especially
for someone who used to spend hours memorizing every inch of his body.
But it’s not just the fact that he’s substantially more attractive than he was six years ago, something I wasn’t even sure was possible. Within the first ten minutes of watching him coach, to push his players to what he knows they’re capable of, remaining calm and cool, never raising his voice or shouting unnecessarily, I knew all the work I put in to training myself to not think of him as my future went out the window.
He doesn’t walk around the field, barking orders.
He’s in the middle of the action, probably wishing he was still playing.
When he wraps up for the day, I watch as his players come to him, asking him questions about a specific play, him asking a few of them if they have a certain situation sorted out, reminding them to come to him for more than just football.
He takes time with each person who demands his attention. Never seemingly put out by the extra time. His body language doesn’t scream anything but openness and willingness to be there for whatever everyone needs.
Not once has he focused on his phone or glanced as his watch.
Grady is nothing but present when he’s on the field, not simply calling plays but getting right in there with them, showing the boys how to play, not telling them.
He goes above and beyond, exactly how I expected him to coach and, quite honestly, live his life.
Grady’s always been a giver. Someone who would bend over backwards to make sure people are content.
He looks my direction and jerks his chin up, a sign to follow him.
I don’t tell him that despite my actions over the last six years, I’d still follow him anywhere.
The familiar pain hits my gut when I remember not being able to be there for him during one of his darkest moments. At least not in the way I wanted to.
I follow him, and his nice ass, into his office. I glance around—frames of pictures of his family all around him. It’s homier than I expected. But then again, Grady wouldn’t be Grady if he didn’t surround himself with the ones he loves.
I unapologetically examine each photo. Maggie beaming up at a smiling Grady on her college graduation day. Harper hanging on his back in another one, he’s looking to the side, up at her and she’s grinning at the camera like she knows she has him wrapped around her finger and is completely unapologetic about it. Cole with his arm around Grady’s neck, pulling him close, both of them wearing tuxedos. Their smiles are wide, you can almost feel the happiness emulating from the photo. Grady between his parents, his arms wrapped around both their shoulders, their smiles are wide. Nothing in the picture indicates what’s happening but it’s clear they’re happy.
Waiting for Her Page 6