Page 27 of Her Game Plan

I consider his words. That’s true. He is fully committed to this. Which is maybe suspicious. I mean, definitely suspicious.

“Why did you agree to this?” I whisper as we sit in the front row. “Do you hate Chris? Is he a bad boss?!”

Callan shakes his head. “No. He’s great. Your dad’s great.”

I stare at him, waiting for a real answer as players fill in the seats.

Finally, he replies quietly, “You asked, okay? I didn’t really consider the fact it would mean you were taking over as the owner of the Stallions.”

Well, that doesn’t seem promising. What if Callan thinks I’m a terrible choice and changes his mind? “And now that you’ve thought about it?”

He shrugs his large shoulders. “I’ll still help you. But don’t read into it from a company standpoint. Aside from what you told me about losing our main sponsor, I’ve never had a complaint about your brother.”

There’s a pause that feels suspicious. I narrow my eyes. “And…”

“And he never parked in my spot,” Callan retorts, but his eyes suggest he’s maybe not as annoyed as he sounds.

A small gasp escapes me as I poke him in the side as Coach Phillips walks onto the raised area in the front of the room. “I’m going to be amazing at this. Just you wait,” I whisper.

After Coach welcomes everyone back for the season, he calls me up, explaining the change in leadership for the year. He doesn’t mention the weight of the outcome of my season with the Stallions, but I’m sure he knows.

I walk up to the podium, my gold-sequined jacket reflecting spots of light across the room. My black pants are more subdued than I usually go with, but it can’t be helped when trying to match the team colors. Diving into my prepared speech, a slightly wittier version of the one I’ve heard my dad give hundreds, if not thousands, of times, I find my gaze flicking to Callan more often than it should. He’s listening intently, and I can’t help but smile. I’m killing it up here.

Or he’s taking mental notes of things to mock me about later. I can’t really get a read on the guy who loves to verbally spar with me but also agreed to fake date me without asking for anything in return.

“Not too bad, Princess,” Callan says when I’m back in my seat, and I can’t help the jolt of pride that surges through me.

We listen to a few more of the team’s leaders speak before Callan is called up. The team cheers and jeers good-naturedly as he makes his way to the microphone. It’s clear they love him.

“It’s another season, boys,” he starts, his gaze firm, like he’s talking to each of them individually. He talks for almost five minutes: sometimes inspirational, sometimes logistical, but always holding the attention of his team. Finally, he declares, “What you did last year? It’s no longer relevant. What you’ll do in February? It can’t be controlled. But what you do today? Today is where the change happens. So let’s get to it, huh?”

In a swell of noise and movement, the players are all on their feet, talking and cheering as if they’ve been waiting for Callan to release them to do what they came here to do. And, honestly, I’m more motivated than ever to make sure the Stallions have the best season possible.

Chapter 12

Callan

I watch, confusion warring with the odd spark of excitement that has been growing in my chest since Charlotte started working with the Stallions, as a moving truck pulls up in front of my house on Sunday afternoon, two weeks later.

“I thought you said it was just clothes,” Beckett murmurs, hands in his pockets.

“That’s what she said.” I’d asked Charlotte on Thursday whether she needed any help packing up her stuff, but she’d assured me she was only bringing her clothes and toiletries, wanting to keep her condo fully furnished for her friend. And for her inevitable return after we “broke up.”

Beckett, still staring at the truck, can’t seem to grasp what is happening. “I moved from Florida with two duffel bags.”

Finley offers him a smile that only a girlfriend can, as Charlotte jumps out of the driver’s door of the small truck, looking extra sporty in a pair of hot-pink, skintight shorts and a gray sweater that has slipped off one of her shoulders, exposing a bright purple bra strap. “That’s because you only wore team-issued gear,” Finley says. “Charlotte uses every spare inch of her condo as a closet. Hope you boys are feeling strong.” She starts walking down the stairs, teasing Charlotte when she unsuccessfully tries to open the back of the truck on her own.

“We should call in reinforcements, right?” Beckett asks. “You know what? Fuck it. I’m calling Li and Larsen,” he says. “Larsen is always begging to hang out anyway.”

I shake my head. “Ah, leave the poor rookie be. Maybe it won’t be that bad. She loaded the thing by herself.”

We join the women at the truck. When I drag my eyes from the exposed skin on Charlotte’s shoulder, I finally catch a glimpse of the inside of the vehicle. I laugh in disbelief. There are almost twenty boxes that you use for moving your hanging items, and then another stack of large square ones. They’re each labeled with permanent marker, but instead of the room they belong in, they say things like red jacket, neon shoes, and sequined. The sad thing is, after seeing Charlotte around the training center over the last few weeks, I can picture at least one article of clothing that would go into each box.

“How did you get these all loaded?” I ask, envisioning her carrying a stack down the twelve floors from her place to the garage. “You could’ve called. I would’ve helped.”

She shrugs. “The concierge and the doormen helped me.”

My jaw tightens, and as I force it to relax, I realize I don’t like that she asked someone for help instead of me. Even if it is fake, I’m the guy who is supposed to be carrying her boxes for her. Not some twenty-year-old doorman.