“I had fun, too.” I feel totally deflated. Like I’d do anything to rewind the clock and keep my big mouth shut. “Good luck tomorrow. I’d love to know how it goes for you.”
She smiles thinly, letting me know that’s not going to happen. That this is it. A permanent goodbye. “Good luck with football. I hope all your dreams come true. Thank you for the ice cream and the rose. That was really sweet of you.”
Fuck me, I blew it. Chelsea told me to go slow, and I took things too fast, and now the coolest, hottest, smartest, funniest girl I’ve ever met can’t get away from me fast enough. “Thanks for the medal.”
With a little twist of her lips, which are now pink and swollen from our voracious kissing, Chelsea steps out the door and then practically sprints down the hallway without looking back—a fact I know because I watch her retreating frame the whole way with an ache in my chest until she turns the corner and disappears from sight.
Chelsea the Mathlete from the University of Chicago is gone now. Forever. She’s simply heading for the elevators, as far as she knows. But to me, she just ran away and straight into my own personal hall of fame.
CHAPTER 3
Chelsea
Present day
The Mastodons training facility
An hour outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
THE BIGWIGS ATthe conference table just finished the third of eight agenda topics, and they’re currently having a side conversation about something casual before launching into the next official item, so I’ve got a break from my note-taking that allows me to briefly stretch my fingers and look out the far windows of the large room at the early-morning blue skies and tops of leafy trees filling the panes.
I’m on the third floor of the Mastodons complex, sitting in the corner of the largest conference room in the building. The one with a long table big enough for key members of both sides of the Mastodons organization—the top coaching staff and operations executives—to sit comfortably in plush leather chairs without bumping elbows.
I’m not officially part of this meeting, given that I’m sitting here as the “head coach’s assistant,” which isn’t even a real job and nobody, including me, knows my actual job description. I’m here merely to take notes for the new head coach—myfather—and also to get a read on the operations people in attendance, if possible.
Are they in Dad’s camp or firmly aligned with their old-school boss, the Mastodons’ general manager, Walker Bellamy, even though the Mastodons have been the worst team in the league for six seasons running? It’s too soon to say, but I’ve been studying body language throughout the meeting so far to try to figure everyone out.
As the men around the large table launch into the next agenda item, I place my fingers on my keyboard, poised and ready to dutifully take notes, as requested. But when a group text from my family chat pops up on the top corner of my screen, it’s too cute not to quickly respond. It’s my oldest brother sending positive vibes to Dad and me on our first day of training camp in the NFL. Given that Lincoln’s a busy veteran player with his own first day of training camp a thousand miles away, it’s incredibly thoughtful of him to send such a sweet note.
Lincoln: Hey, Pop and Pop-Tart, bust some Mastodon ass today.
Me: Whoop!
My reply has no sooner landed in the chat than the middle child of the Parker clan, my brother Nate, sends some positive vibes of his own.
Nate: Parkers represent!
Me: Hell yeah!
I’m supposed to be paying close attention to the meeting, but they’re talking about some new equipment that’s expected in three days—in plenty of time before the players at camp begin wearing full pads at practices—and I can’t imagine Dad needs notes about that. Also, it’s already clear none of the heavy hitters at the conference table even remembers I’m here, so I’m positive nobody will notice that I’m no longer banging continuously on my keyboard.
Mom pipes up in the chat to send well-wishes to everyone next, all of it punctuated with a totally on-brand roller coaster emoji. Mom always says we all make her life a thrill ride, and she’s just along for the ride, so we all get her meaning—and, of course, the chat explodes with GIFs and emojis in response to Mom that occupy me for several entertaining minutes.
“Okay, sounds good,” Dad says to everyone at the table. “Moving on.”
Me: Gotta go, fam. I’m taking notes for Dad in an important meeting. Love to all. PARKERS REPRESENT TODAY!
Dad looks at his general manager at the other end of the table. “Walker? You wanted to talk about something this morning?”
Mr. Bellamy nods. “Given that this is your first NFL training camp, I thought it would be helpful if we discussed the bullet points of your planned opening remarks to the players before you head down to the practice field to greet them,” he replies smoothly. “That way, the group can provide any necessary last-minute feedback.”
How condescending! I quickly look down at my hands, since my brow feels decidedly tight and furrowed right now, and I don’t want the general manager or anyone else on the operations side of things to notice their new head coach’s daughter scowling in the corner. For fuck’s sake, this may be my father’s first NFL gig, but he’s been a top college head coach for two decades now, so he’s clearly capable of welcoming his players to training camp without being micromanaged by his boss, who’s never coached a day in his life. Is this why my father asked me to keep an eagle eye on Walker Bellamy and his key staffers—because he had a hunch his new boss would pull offensive, stupid shit like this?
“Sure thing, Walker,” my father says smoothly, with far more professionalism and calm than he’s surely feeling. When Dad called me three months ago to tell me the exciting newsthat he’d landed his first NFL gig, and a head coaching one at that, he confided the worst part of his dream job was probably going to be working for that man sitting across from him. “He’s a dinosaur,” Dad told me back then. “He thinks ‘real’ football can only be won with old-fashioned grit and heart, and all the modern tech and data analysis is ‘hogwash.’”
As Dad launches into an overview of his upcoming planned remarks, I survey the faces of the operations guys around the table to see if I can detect a hint of disdain for their boss’s question, but so far, all I see is a bunch of men listening attentively on both sides of the organization. Thankfully, Dad got to handpick his entire coaching staff as part of his deal, so we know all his guys are firmly Team Parker. But on the operations side—Bellamy’s domain—I’m guessing at least some of them aren’t aligned with their boss’s old-school way of thinking and quite possibly itching to bring some much-needed change to their perennial loser of an organization.
I’d love to get a read on the new owner of the team, Virginia “Ginny” Williams, but she isn’t here. I’ve only met her a few times, but each time she’s come across as whip-smart and friendly, exactly as Dad has described her to me. But then again, she hasn’t fired her nephew, Mr. Bellamy, which seems like the first thing to do when taking over a last-place team from her late husband, so who knows how “whip-smart” she truly is.
