Page 35 of Her Game Plan

My stomach tightens with disappointment. I can tell Mom was hoping for more, too, but there’s something final about the way Callan says it, so she moves on, asking about training camp and his thoughts on the new recruits. Mom can talk football with the best of them.

The rest of dinner goes well, better than expected, but I can’t shake the knot in my stomach from when Callan refused to talk about his family again. I know we’ve only been living together for a week, and that this is fake, but I’m a little hurt that he won’t tell me anything about his family, especially when he’s knee-deep in Langford family drama. I know I shouldn’t care that we drove separately one day this week just so he could go visit her after work. Even though I offered to go with him, he still declined. But it’s fine. Fake-dating protocol probably suggests not introducing your fake girlfriend to your grandma, anyway.

Probably.

Chapter 14

Callan

“Good luck!” Charlotte calls as I make my way to the locker room for our first preseason game. She insisted on riding in with me, even though the game doesn’t start for another three hours. I look behind me, feeling like something is off. As she walks away, her black dress sways gently in time with her hips. The loose curls in her hair hypnotize me as I simply stare at her retreating form, unable to look away. Then I realize what’s missing: the click of the ever-present heels. Instead, she’s got kicks on her feet. No, they’re heeled tennis shoes. I can’t help but laugh. Of course.

I force the image of her from my mind as soon as I walk into the locker room, a task I seem to find myself doing more and more lately. Like always, as soon as I walk through the door, I pull on my headphones and start my “Games” playlist. “Lose Yourself” by Eminem accompanies me as I make my way to my locker, nodding at a few of my teammates.

I peel off my jacket, going through my usual routine. Jacket and shirt, both hung up, then pants. When I check my phone one last time, I read the message from Nan. She’s wished me luck before every game since I started playing in the fifth grade. Whether she knows it or not, she’s a critical part of my routine at this point. After I respond, I change into my compression gear as I run through the game plan. The truth is, this is preseason, so I won’t play much. None of the starters will. But it’s still important to have my head on right. To go through the usual motions.

Changing things up in pregame is what causes unnecessary injuries. Silly mistakes happen because you weren’t focused enough. And at thirty-four, I can’t risk an injury.

I head out onto the mostly empty field for a walkthrough. I start by tossing around the ball with Jerry, one of the equipment guys, working through my routine before heading into the training room for a quick check-in with the trainers and some light shoulder work. Structured warm-ups begin not too long after, and the players all complete the drills together to make sure timing and routes are set. Finally, we’re back in the locker room, and “We Ready” is playing on my headphones as I close my eyes to mentally move into execution mode. The locker room is loud around me, most of the team preferring to get hyped rather than to focus.

Finally, we’re ten minutes away, and Coach comes in to say a few words. I follow him, reminding the team that this is about staying clean. Getting a feel for action without doing too much too soon.

As we make our way out to the tunnel, I pull Kenny aside, wanting to make sure I have a moment with the rookie before the game. It might not be a big game for me, but for someone who could be cut, it’s a huge opportunity. “You’ve got this, man. Just play your game. They might move faster and hit harder than last year, but so do you.”

I fall to the side as the team is announced, letting everyone else run out before me. Finally, I do what I always do, pointing my helmet to the sky as I jog out after the team, the roar of the crowd settling the final nerves moving through me. This is where I’m meant to be.

I run to the sidelines, glancing up at the stands to see if I can find Charlotte—

“Sorry,” I grunt, holding out my hands to steady the person I bumped into.

“We’ve got to stop running into each other like this, Ball Boy.” Charlotte laughs, maneuvering the clipboard she’s holding out from between us.

My body responds before my mind, heat flaring where our skin connects. “Charlotte?” She’s supposed to be in the owner’s suite. The one her dad and brother have watched every game from since I started here seven seasons ago. “What are you doing down here? Did you need me for something?” I’m not sure why I like the sound of that, but I do.

She furrows her brows. “No. Of course not.”

“Then, why are you here?” I search her hazel eyes for an answer. Which is why I see it when they harden into fierce defiance.

“Because I’m the owner of this team. If I want to be down on the field so I can make sure the people I’m paying millions of dollars to are doing their jobs, then that’s where I’ll be. And, it just so turns out, I do.”

My shoulders tense at her statement, knowing it won’t be well-received by some of the people down here. Particularly the coaches. I look around, pulling her closer and turning us slightly so no one else can hear our conversation. “I… That’s not something owners tend to do, Charlotte.” As confusing as it is, I want to protect her.

“Maybe not the male owners, but they’re used to doing things the old way. Have you ever heard of Carlie Irsay-Gordon? She’s fucking phenomenal, and she’s on the sidelines with her team. So I will be, too.”

“Charlotte,” I start again, but she cuts me off, and I swear something like disappointment crosses her features.

“You’ve got a game to play, Devine. Don’t let me keep you from it.” And with that, she turns and walks away, leaving my heart beating faster than any of my warm-ups did.

I blink twice, trying to wrap my head around what just happened. Fuck, I’m worried about her, but at the same time, a spark of pride lights up in my chest. Of course, Charlotte fucking Langford is turning professional football on its head. She’s a goddamn storm, a force no one can stop. A whistle blows, and I realize I’m late. I hustle to the center of the field for the coin flip, meeting Pitty and Hershaw there.

The Salt Lake Fury wins the coin toss and elects to possess the ball.

They quickly go three-and-out, not having even suited their starting quarterback, and I’m on the field, Coach Phillips’ voice coming through the speaker in my helmet, calling the play. I relay it to the rest of the team. “Gun trips right,” I announce, voice even. “Z-in, X post. On one.” Then we’re in shotgun formation, ready for the first down of the season. I have one heartbeat to appreciate how amazing it feels to be back on the field with my team before it’s time to take control. The linebackers shift late. “Fifty-two’s the Mike.” It’s echoed down the line. Everyone on the same page. A breath. “Blue eighty… set—hut.” The ball is snapped, and a second later, I see their safety hesitate. I plant and let it fly.

We score on our first drive. Coach pulls me, letting me know I’m done for the game. I take my helmet off, and, as if tugged by some invisible rope, find myself walking to where Charlotte stands, in the middle of it all.

I watch her for a few moments, my attention split between the game and her hands as she writes a note on the corner of the play-call sheet. Her fingers are thin and long, the type you’d expect to see on a piano player, tipped with pure black nail polish. I drag my gaze away from them, forcing myself to think of anything but what they’d look like wrapped around—nope. Shaking my head to get myself to focus, I ask, “What are you doing?”

She sighs. “We’ve been over this, Callan.”