Page 76 of Her Game Plan

“The coaches and trainers haven’t mentioned anything about him slowing down,” I reply, trying to remain neutral. “I’m not saying we can make it to the championship game this year, but I think we can make it next year if we get the offensive line figured out.”

“It’s not the O-line, Charlotte,” Hugo snaps. “We’ve been over this.”

“I disagree—”

“All right,” Dad cuts off our argument. “I’m not sure we’re a contender, but let’s see how far we make it this year. We don’t have to make any decisions today.”

“I—”

“That’s—”

Hugo and I start talking over each other.

“Enough. We wait,” my dad declares, proving how little say I actually have in this acting owner role. “Have a merry Christmas, Hugo. Make sure to tell Bianca merry Christmas from us, too.”

Hugo begrudgingly wishes us the same before hanging up.

“A championship run is open for next year,” I reiterate as Dad and I make our way back to the party. “And the only way we’re getting there is with Callan. I’m not saying that because of who he is to me. I’m saying that because of who he is to the team. We need him.”

Chapter 29

Callan

The clock is running out, but not fast enough. Thirty-eight seconds. One timeout. Ball on their forty-two.

My hands are steady in the huddle, even if everything else feels like it’s vibrating through me as I listen to the play call in my helmet. The noise from our home stadium presses in, an energy on the field that’s almost a living thing.

“Trips right. Y Stick. Alert X if he presses. On one. Get out of bounds fast.”

Helmeted heads nod. We break, and I catch a glimpse of Charlotte on the sideline, tablet in hand, tracking exactly what’s going on. She doesn’t look nervous, though, and her confidence blooms in my chest. She knows I can do it.

I jog to the line and settle into my spot under the center. Their line shifts late. Now there are five on the line, both edges wide, their linebackers acting like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment all afternoon.

Of course they have.

“Kill, kill!” I call, flipping the protection. I tap my thigh twice for the back. He nods, but he’s already glancing outside, thinking route, not blitz. It’s not ideal.

I exhale once and reset.

“Blue 80… Blue 80… set—” The ball hits my hands, and everything narrows. My first read is covered, and shit, the second is late. The right edge of my pocket starts to cave. I step up right as my shoulder has contact. I move, just enough.

I’ve lost my pocket, so I roll left, buying space. Space that shows me a receiver breaking late, but the window is already almost closed. I hold, not willing to force it. At least, not yet.

Ten seconds.

I tuck the ball and run, sliding hard after eight yards. The turf burns through my pants, but I’m up immediately as Coach calls a timeout.

After a brief break, I line up in shotgun, hoping it will give me a half-second more to see the play we need.

“Set—” The ball is snapped.

The left side holds. Just for one beat, but I’m quick enough this time.

I hit my drop. One, two, three. Pitty sells the out, plants, turns upfield. The corner bites. Hard.

I let the ball go, a tight spiral cutting through the lights.

Then I get hit.