“How’d you do the next day? I’ve always wondered that.”
“We came in second.”
“Right on.”
“No, it was a massive disappointment. I cried the whole way back to school.”
He laughs. “Aw, poor little Chelsea. So competitive.”
“And you’re not? Because if that’s the case, you should hang up your cleats right now.”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m competitive. Why do you think I’m still here letting three-hundred-thirty-pound offensive linemen beat me up year after year?”
Football is war, baby.
Remembering that’s what Luca said to me years ago sends a shiver coursing through me. At the time, it was the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to me. Hands down. It still is,actually. But looking at Luca now, I can tell the teenager who initially made that cocky, flippant proclamation has been worn down, slowly but surely, through some soul-crushing, bloody battles that have left him robbed of quite a bit of that early, uncontained self-confidence.
I lay my forearm on the table. “So, Luca. I’ve been watching film on you, and I’ve already started a spreadsheet on you that’s going help me maximize your chances here, if you’ll only give me a chance to prove myself to you as your personal coach.”
Luca takes a bite of bacon and shakes his head while chewing it. “You can babysit me all you like. In fact, please do. Sounds like fun, come to think of it. But that’s it.”
“Listen, I understand it’s going to take a leap of faith for you to put your trust in me. But I promise I know the linebacker position backward and forward. Add to that skill set my math and statistics background, and I know I can offer you—”
“Is a kid who’s taken a chemistry class but never worked in a lab a professional chemist?”
I sigh. “I can see why you’d make that comparison, but it’s not applicable here. I assure you, I’m far more qualified than most professional assistant coaches, even though it doesn’t look like it on paper. Please, give me one chance to prove myself to you, and—”
“Even if all that was true, which I highly doubt, it wouldn’t matter anyway.”
“Why?”
“Because trust is crucial to the player–coach relationship, Chelsea, and the stark fact remains that I don’t trust you.”
“Because I didn’t tell you I’m Coach Parker’s daughter?”
“Because every word out of your mouth was a lie.”
I scoff. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Not at all. You acted like you didn’t know jack shit aboutfootball, and yet you come from a hugely famous football family. You’re football royalty, Chelsea, with two NFL linebackers for brothers—and one of them is even an edge rusher, like me! And yet, you pretended you’d never even heard of any position except quarterback.”
I snicker. “Yeah, that part was actually kind of fun to act out.”
“Glad making a fool out of me amused you so damned much.”
“Oh, come on, Luca. I’m from a diehard Buckeye family, and your big brother is the poster child for the Wolverines. You’re a Hatfield and I’m a McCoy, and I didn’t want it getting back to my father or brothers or anyone else I’d flirted with a Hatfield.”
“You’re saying you lied like a rug to me because of a stupid football rivalry?”
“Of course. But putting that aside, why on earth would I bother telling you my whole life’s story when I knew I’d never see you again? I knew you went to Nebraska and I went to Northwestern, so—”
“Northwestern?” Luca whisper-shouts with a slap of his big palm onto the slick, laminate table. “You said you went to U of Chicago!”
Crap. I forgot about that. With heat in my cheeks, I look around the noisy cafeteria to make sure nobody is paying us any mind. When it’s obvious the coast is clear, I lean into Luca and whisper-shout, “Yes, because I didn’t want you somehow tracking me down and/or bragging to someone you’d made out with Coach Parker’s daughter!”
“Nice try, but you told me that lie before we made out.”
“Okay, but I told you that lie when I’d already started flirting with you, which only proves the point. Obviously, I thought merely flirting with a Maguire was a mortal sin. Something to keep under wraps.”
