Page 18 of The Perfect Pass
This policy ruled out a lot of potential suitors, given the town’s football fixation. Two years ago, Calla had an uneventful relationship with the high school’s baseball coach. He hadn’t exactly set her world on fire, but as the only male human in a fifty-mile radius who seemingly had no interest whatsoever in football, he’d fit the bill.
Then she’d discovered his dirty little secret. He belonged to a fantasy football league and only wanted to date her because she knew the game so well. He’d been not-so-subtly sneaking questions about stats into their conversations for weeks, even while feigning disinterest in what she did for a living. When his memo pad of hastily scribbled notes fell out of his jacket pocket on their four-month anniversary, all the pieces fell into place.
Calla dumped him right then and there.
“Yes, well. We’re all aware how you feel about that,” Stan said, and his gaze dropped to the ground as he shifted from one foot to the other. Now that the conversation was venturing dangerously close to forbidden territory—specifically, how losing Ethan had shaped everything about her adult life—he suddenly couldn’t bring himself to look at her.
Calla’s temper flared, and the toe of one of her redcowboy boots tapped a furious rhythm on the newsroom floor. “Then you should know you have nothing to worry about. Coach Jackson invited me to attend practices because he thought it would be good for my column, and I intend to go.”
“I agree.” Stan nodded. His mouth—usually set in a flat, firm line—twitched, as if caught between a grimace and frown. “And since you’ll now have such unprecedented access, I’d like to expand your column from biweekly to daily, Monday through Friday.”
Calla’s foot went instantly still. She blinked. “Are you giving me a promotion? Is that what this conversation has actually been about?”
Unbelievable, but she’d take it. It was just one step closer to getting off the sports page and onto features, where she could write about things that didn’t involve inflatable athletic equipment.
“Yes, and it’s effective immediately. I’ll send you an email about your extra compensation. Have five hundred words on my desk by the end of the day.” He scrubbed his freshly trimmed hair again, hesitating a beat before leaving. “And Calla?”
“Yes?”
He wagged a finger at her. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Of course she wouldn’t. She might be a tad antagonistic from time to time, but she had a good head on her shoulders. She was considerate, responsible and loyal to a fault. Shecared.
Way too much sometimes…
Unlike some people, who neglected their responsibilities to catch a private jet to Vegas to do heaven-knows-what in the middle of training camp.
“Don’t worry, sir. I won’t,” she said, and a brief, bittersweet ache tugged at her heart.
Because I’m no Jackson Knight.
Chapter Six
Jackson somehow made it through the school day, counting the minutes until practice when he’d hopefully feel more in his element. The hours until final bell consisted of a mix of administrative tasks, familiarizing himself with the school’s athletic program and going over the roster of players so he might have half a chance of learning the names of forty-plus boys before the day was out.
Unlike the other coaches, he wasn’t required to teach classes since he didn’t have a Texas state teaching certificate. Instead, Principal Dean had assigned him lunchtime detention duties.
What a special sort of misery that had been. The kids hadn’t listened to a word he said, talking over him as if they’d been fully aware it was the first time in his life that he’d ever been on the right side of detention. He’d had a raging headache by the time it was over. He’d also been tempted to email a few of his old high school teachers to apologize for his past bratty behavior. Instead, he’d downed a few Advil and rehabbed his knee in the weight room. Sweating it out had almost made him feel like his old self again. Almost, but not quite.
Practice would be different, though. Jackson was sure of it.
The locker room was abuzz with chaotic energy as the players got changed and ready for field time. Cleats squeaked on the rubberized floor, lockers slammed shut and equipment hit the ground with a thud. Jackson let the familiarity of it wash over him for a moment as he sat at his desk in the adjoining office. Then, just as he pushed his chair back from his desk so he could check attendance and go over the day’s practice schedule, he heard the sharp pierce of a whistle.
“All right, all right, all right. Listen up, boys. The new head coach starts today, but I’m here to tell you that nothing is going to change. He might know how to run the ball on the football field, but I think yesterday showed us that he doesn’t know diddly-squat about the Bulldogs or our football program. While he flails around and tries to figure out which end is up, we’re going to do what we do best.”
Simmons. It had to be.
Jackson crossed to the other side of his office and planted himself in the doorway where he had a clear view of the assistant coach’s back. A few of the kids glanced tentatively over at him, unsure who was running this show. Jackson simply tucked his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorjamb to wait. Simmons could talk until he was blue in the face for all he cared. It was probably best to let him go ahead and get it out of his system. Jackson could set things straight once the kids were out of earshot.
“What is it that we do best? Can anyone answer that?” Simmons bellowed.
Three boys situated at the front of the crowd yelled simultaneously. “Win!”
“What’s that again? I can’t hear you!” The back of Simmons’s neck was turning an alarming shade of red.
Jackson recognized them from the roster he’d been studying all day—star quarterback Watson Stokes, offensive tackle Hunt Collier and wide receiver Zander Brown. Their stats last season had been off the charts. Jackson wouldn’t be surprised if one, if not all three, boys got recruited for college ball by the end of the year.
Of course that was assuming the team itself had at least a moderately successful season, and Jackson wasn’t counting his chickens before they hatched.
