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Coach B blows his whistle, ending the session, and gathers us around. He gives us a talk, offering some notes on things we need to improve on. I find it incredibly satisfying when he gives Ryder a lengthy list but offers me nothing other than praise. The rookie's face is sour, and I see him casting dark glares at a couple of the other young receivers I'd been throwing to. They give him a shrug and an apologetic look, telling me Ryder had expected them to make him look better by dropping the balls I was throwing. I've been around the league long enough to know how this shit works. But good on the rookies for standing up to Ryder.
“All right, that’s it. Hit the shower and we’ll break for lunch. After that, break into your position groups and get to the film study,” Coach B calls. “Cole, Simmons, hang back.”
As the team breaks for the facility to shower up, Ryder and I stay where we are. It’s too early for Coach B. to be naming a starter for the season opener, which tells me this little meeting is probably going to be less than pleasant.
“Okay, listen up,” Coach B starts. “I heard what happened in the training room today. I don’t know the details—don’t need the details. All I need to say is that you two are supposed to be the goddamn leaders of this team, but you’re acting like fucking children. That shit stops right here and right now. Do you understand me?”
Ryder and I exchange a look then turn back to Coach B and nod but say nothing.
“I don’t know what sort of beef you guys got, but it’s well past time you get over that shit. Carter, you’re a veteran. You’re the adult in the room, so act like it. Ryder, you’re acting like a child. You’re a pro football player now, so grow up,” he says. “Do you both understand me?”
“Yes, Coach,” I say.
“Yes, sir,” Ryder says.
“Good. Because if I hear of anything even remotely resembling what happened today again, you’re going to force me to make some really tough decisions—decisions I don’t want to make, gentlemen,” he says. “I think you both have a lot to offer this organization. I think we can all win a lot of games if we work together. So, figure your shit out. Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Ryder says again.
“Crystal, coach,” I say.
“Good. Oh, and one last thing,” he says. “You both need to stay the fuck away from my daughter. Find somebody else in the training department to work with. I don’t want to see either one of you near Cami again.”
And with that, Coach B turns and stalks away, leaving Ryder and me staring after him. The rookie casts me a dark, dirty look. For a moment, I wasn’t sure I heard Coach B right. Cami is his daughter? I honestly had no idea because she never told me.
“Listen, you stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours,” Ryder says.
“Fine with me. But you don’t go near Cami again. You don’t even think about her.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
Ryder turns and heads for the facility, leaving me standing there feeling like I just got kicked in the balls with the revelation of Cami’s parentage.
11
CAMI
When my father told me he’d spoken with Ryder and Carter about what happened in the training room, it felt like I’d swallowed a bowling ball.
I was shocked that he had dared to call out his prized rookie and pricey free agent addition. But I’m not going to lie. There’s a part of me that’s grateful he decided to be my dad and to protect me first, and be a coach second for a change.
Of course, the downside of that is that Carter seems to have been avoiding me the last couple of days. He hasn’t returned my calls or texts, and when I see him in the facility, he turns and heads the other way. He had other trainers handle his taping before practice and his treatments afterward, and on those rare occasions when we were in the same place at the same time, he refused to look me in the eye.
That's just not working for me, so I decide it’s time to take matters into my own hands. I raise my hand and knock on the door—probably a little harder than I'd intended to but whatever. Taking a step back, I cross my arms over my chest and wait. A moment later, it opens, and Carter looks at me with an expression of surprise on his face.
“Cami,” he says. “Jesus, I thought a SWAT team was about to kick my door in.”
“Sorry. No, I’m not. Not really. What the fuck, Carter?”
“Seems like I’m the one who should be asking that question. I mean, there seems to be something you forgot to tell me. Something rather important, as it turns out.”
I push my way past him and walk into his place, stomping my way down the short hallway and into the living room. Putting my hands on my hips, I turn and look at him.
“Sure. Come on in,” he says and closes the door.
He leans against the rounded archway that leads into the living room and watches me in silence. Carter’s place is nice and well put together, but it’s also very generic. The furniture and artwork on the walls are all plain and look like something that came straight off the IKEA showroom floor. He’s got no memorabilia, no knick-knacks, no photographs. There are literally no personal touches anywhere.
“Jesus, Carter, is this an Airbnb?”
