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“Hey.”I snap my fingers and try to get the guys in the huddle to pay attention to the play I’m drawing up. They turned their backs on me thirty seconds ago, and it feels like I’m talking to a brick wall. “Why is no one listening to me?”
C.J. Miles, star running back and former Heisman trophy winner, laughs. He switches his helmet from his left hand to his right and pops his hip out to the side. “This guy still won’t kiss her. Why won’t he kiss her? I would. She’s so hot.”
“Dude’s an idiot,” Peter Bellamy chimes in, and there’s a rousing murmur of agreement.
“I don’t give a shit about who’s not getting kissed or who’s hot,” I say.
“Are you sure about that, Coach? It’s—”
“I don’t care who it is. We’re down by a field goal with four minutes to go until halftime. We haven’t trailed in a game all season, and we’re lucky to only be down three. Can we remember why we’re here, please? It’s not to watch an episode ofThe Bachelor. It’s to win a Super Bowl, right?”
“Yes, Coach,” eleven men say, and I nod.
“Good.”
I draw out the next series of plays I hope we can execute well enough to get us into field goal range before we head to the locker room for halftime. Twelve minutes away from the crowd to regroup will do us some good.
We’re playing like shit today, with sluggish legs and soft tackles. An interception, a missed extra point, and more penalties than we’ve had all season haven’t given us a great half. Nothing is going our way, and if we don’t fix our mistakes after the break, we’ll be walking out of the stadium with our first loss of the year.
I cap the red marker and stand. A chant starts to run through the stadium, and it vaguely sounds likeasshole, asshole. I’ve never heard it so animated in here during a timeout; I can barely think.
“What the hell is going on now?” I ask, having to yell over the crowd.
“It’s the kiss cam,” Kristen, one of my assistant coaches, says.
She gestures to the jumbotron that should be showing our guys hustling back to the line of scrimmage. I don’t see jerseys butLacey, her face as red as fire and her hands trembling at her sides. The guy next to her shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest, refusing to look her way.
“What the fuck?” I grumble. I push a water cooler out of the way, and it topples to the ground. Yellow sports drink soaks into the grass, and plastic water bottles roll to the left and right.
“This is the eighth time they’ve shown them,” Dallas Lansfield, my kicker, says. He claps his hands together and practically skips in place. “Fuck, I kind of hope she punches him.”
“I hope she kicks him in the balls,” Odell Sinclair says from the stationary bike he’s riding to keep his hamstrings warm. He pedals in place and wipes his face with a towel. “Dude deserves it. Lacey is hot as hell. Have you seen her ass? I want to bend her over and—”
“Odell,” I snap. “Shut the hell up. One more word out of your mouth, and I’m benching you for the rest of the game. Aaron.” I point to another assistant coach who springs to life. “Come here.”
He fumbles with his headset and pulls the microphone off his ear. “Yes, Coach?”
“Tell whoever’s in charge of that shit to knock it off. No more kiss cam. If they give you pushback, you say it’s a direct order from me. Got it?” I bark out.
“Got it,” he says, hurrying away and leaving his clipboard behind.
I put my hands on my hips. Anger burns in my chest and works its way up to my shoulders and neck. Annoyance and irritation prick my vision, and I don’t remember the last time I was this pissed off. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to block out the image of Lacey’s mortification broadcast for all to see. For all tolaughat, making a mockery out of something she was so excited about.
She sent me a text this morning thanking me again for the extra ticket. She followed it up with a long voice memo, an emphatic and passionate but sleep-fogged rant that told me she wouldn’t hesitate to have security escort her date out of UPS Field if he evendaredto cheer for the other team.
Titans forever,she said through a yawn. I listened to it four times while I sipped my coffee, smiling at the way she trailed off halfway through, clearly dozing back to sleep for a minute or two. I think she was snoring at one point.
I kept it for prosperity.
And blackmail.
“Coach.”
An elbow nudges my ribs, and I snap my eyes open, lost in the last few minutes.
“What?” I say.
“It’s fourth and one. What do you want to do? Go for it or kick?” Kristen asks. She’s staring at me, and I rub my jaw, uneasy under her unyielding gaze.
