Page 9 of The Tiger in the Sack

“Montgomery Whyte,” Gabrielle said motioning toward him. “Our VP of Football Operations.”

He crossed to me with his hand extended and I shook it. His grip was not what I expected from a man of his build. It was... careful, like he thought he might break me, just by being in the same room with me.

“We are so excited about what you’re going to bring to this squad,” he said, and he meant it, which was somehow the unsettling part. “You know what I think this program has been missing? Someone who really understands what the underdogs feel. That connection, that sense of community, that feeling of walking into PlayCore Stadium and seeing something that makes you feel like you maybe belong here too.” He smiled at Gabrielle and back at me. “That’s what it’s all about, right? Making sure everyone gets to be the cool kid, the jock, the cheerleader, even if they never were.”

He said it like he got the point.

And the whole raw-raw speech was a backhanded-slap-across-the-face compliment.

Gabrielle’s smile didn’t move a single millimeter. “Monty, was there something you needed?”

“Kingman’s here for our eleven o’clock.” A glance at his watch. “Thought I’d walk him in myself, give you two a chance to wrap up.”

“We’ll be right out.” She was still smiling. Giving absolutely nothing away.

Monty pointed at me like a man who wanted to be remembered as encouraging. “Great things, Clover. Great things.” And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut.

Gabrielle raised one eyebrow at the door for exactly one beat before she looked back at me. “Now you’ve met him,” she said. The same quiet voice she’d used when she’d said not everyone in these halls is going to share our vision. Like both sentences meant the same thing.

She stood. “Come on. I’ll walk you out so you can go find your office and get set up.”

Isak Kingman, Tiger’s starting quarterback, and well-known media chaos goblin, was standing in the hallway with his phone in his hand, looking like he was actually reading something and not just doom-scrolling.

I’d seen him and the rest of the royal family of Kingman football brothers on television approximately a thousand times. My father had made sure of that. On TV Isak was impressive in the abstract way that professional athletes were bigger than life.

In person his mere presence rearranged the hallway. His slightly mussed hair, and the ease of someone who was at complete peace with the space his body took up was hard to ignore.

My second thought, which I was not going to be having, was that whoever had given him that jawline had been showing off.

Not having it. Moving on.

“Isak.” Gabrielle’s voice shifted into the real, warmer register she used for people she’d chosen on purpose and was glad she had. “Good, you’re here. Come meet our new dance and cheer coach.”

He looked up from his phone, his head doing the tiniest jerk to the side like he was surprised by something. Maybe he hadn’t known Coach Daniels had been replaced. More likely, that position, and even the cheer and dance team were well beneath his highness’s radar.

Just like a football player in his prime. Fucking football players. They all thought their shit didn’t stink.

Or maybe I made all of that up in my head. I wasn’t speaking from experience or anything. Not like I didn’t have two older brothers playing in the pros.

I was raised in the house that Brick Freeman built with blood, sweat, and pigskin.

I’d had the long term college boyfriend who’d ended up in the League the same as them, playing middle linebacker for my hometown Chicago Bruins, and currently, as far as my mother was concerned, the one that got away. My dad even still texted with Warner about Bruins stats like they shared custody of something.

I wasn’t bitter. I’d done the leaving. You don’t get to leave a man and keep the bitter too.

Isak crossed to us, and Gabrielle said, “Isak Kingman, this is Clover Freeman, our new dance and cheer team coach. She was previously the cheer captain at Chadwick University.”

His hand came out and I shook it. His grip was warm and unhurried, the kind that didn’t perform strength because it didn’t need to.

His touch made my skin do a flicker-flash of noticing just how fine this man was. I was immediately filing that under unhelpful and irrelevant and we are not doing this, Clover Brenee Freeman.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

The back of my brain sat up very straight.

Something about his voice. It tugged at the edge of a memory I couldn’t locate, but it was warm and safe and I knew it from somewhere.