1) I’ve warned you this is a Satan-free zone!;
2) as a QB, Satan can’t teach you to study film as an LB;
3) if you study film like you run basic drills, then, no, you don’t know how to do this;
4) you’re at your third team in four years, so it’s time to do something new; and
5) you promised to do everything I say for the next three days, so shut the fuck up and do what I say.
When I look up from Chelsea’s lengthy note, she offers me the pen with a scowl. Biting back a smirk, I take the pen and write my short reply.Yes, Coach.
“Now see, that’s how you blow up a screen, fellas,” Coach Martinez says at the front of the classroom. “But did that happen by chance? Nope. He did drill after drill in practices and studied film after film in a classroom much like this to make sure his body and brain were both ready to capitalize on that exact moment when it came.”
I pick up the pen to take notes, since that’s what I’ve been instructed to do by my extremely testy coach … but after only a few scribbles, I quickly zone out. Not intentionally, but because … Okay, the truth is I’ve never been all that great at concentrating on pretty much anything for too long. But that’s true in life itself, not only in film reviews. In all sorts of situations, like in my classes back in college, it’s always taken very little to distract me from the task at hand. I’m an adrenaline junkie, dude. A devotee of the next shiny thing. It’s who I am. Add in Chelsea the Mathlete, who’s turned out to be one badass of a linebacker coach sitting here next to me lookinghot as fuck and smelling like flowers, and it’s a wonder I can concentrate on anything at all.
Chelsea plucks the pen out of my hand.
PAY ATTENTION AND TAKE NOTES, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!
I grab the pen and write back:I’m trying!
Try harder!
I take the pen again, and this time, as I do, my fingers brush Chelsea’s in the process, which prompts my entire body to surge with electricity again. Suddenly, I’m right back in that hotel room with Chelsea the Mathlete, kissing the hell out of her, grinding my hard-on furiously against her till I’m on the cusp of coming in my sweatpants, and she’s moaning and groaning and rubbing herself into me like a woman possessed.
Unfortunately, I don’t remember precisely what all that goodness felt like in the moment. Not specifically. It’s been way too long and I’ve had too many other experiences since then to remember the exact sensations I felt when I made out with Chelsea. But what I do remember vividly is thinking at one point,Christ almighty, this mathlete’s going to ruin me for anyone else.
True, I was only nineteen when I had that shocking thought, so my life experiences weren’t what they are today. Not even close. But knowing I had such an extreme thought at the time only makes me want to find out if I’d still feel similarly today, as a full-grown man, if I got lucky enough to get a redo.
“Moving on,” Coach Martinez says. He raises the remote, but before a new clip starts, the door to the dimly lit classroom opens and a young staffer in a Mastodons polo shirt pokes his head through the doorway.
“Excuse me, Coach Martinez. The big guy wants you and your coaches to come down to his office. Robby’s wife just went into labor, so he took off like a rocket, and Coach wantsto divvy up what he was scheduled to handle at the all-team meeting later today.”
“Sure thing.”
The staffer disappears, and Coach Martinez turns off the projector and addresses the group. “Looks like the linemen’s coach is going to become a daddy a little earlier than expected. While we’re gone, use your time well, gentlemen. Go over your notes or study your playbooks. Use every minute to your advantage.”
Coach Martinez heads toward the door, along with his two official assistant coaches. But before the three men exit the room, Coach Martinez stops at the door and calls out to Chelsea, “What are you waiting for, Coach? You heard him. He said the big guy wants to see me and my coaches.”
“Oh!” Chelsea blurts, her excitement practically bouncing off the walls of the small room as she pops out of her chair. “Coming, Coach!” She’s practically panting with glee, but before she heads off, she pauses long enough to point at me sternly and then at my notebook as if to say, “Study while I’m gone.” And then, with her message firmly conveyed, she skips away like a middle schooler who’s stampeding into a boyband concert.
Once the adults are gone and we kids are left alone to run amok, it’s instantly clear none of us wants to study or otherwise “use our time wisely.” On the contrary, the minute we’re left to our own devices, it’s plain to see we’re all relieved to have a break from the grind.
Not surprisingly, it’s gregarious Calhoun who leads the revolt.
“Hey, Maguire,” he says. “I noticed you and the big guy’s daughter looking awfully cozy over there, player.”
I roll my eyes. I haven’t been called that nickname since my college days.
“Yeah, I noticed that, too,” a veteran middle linebacker says with a suggestive arch of his eyebrow.
Calhoun clucks his tongue. “Are you the lucky guy who got picked to get personal coaching from her?”
Shit.The precariousness of the situation suddenly dawns on me. “‘Lucky’ isn’t the word I’d use,” I reply with a scoff. “It’s more like she’s my punishment for yesterday’s stunt on the uprights. Coach Parker decided to slap me with a babysitter to teach me a lesson.”
That gets a laugh. Or maybe they’re all just reliving the hilarity of my gymnastics routine.
Calhoun leans back in his seat, looking a bit skeptical. “Chelsea made it sound like whoever got picked would get extra coaching. She made it sound like a huge advantage, not a punishment.”
