Page 15 of The Game Plan
“Don’t get cocky.”
I chuckle, but it fades as I watch his expression sober.
“You’re the youngest coach on staff, Grant. That’s not a secret. Everyone knows who your dad is, and that’s going to put a target on your back. The media are going to be watching, waiting for you to screw up.”
I release a heavy breath. “I know.”
“You’re going to have to work twice as hard to prove you’re not on this staff because of me.”
Jaw tight, I nod. “I didn’t take this job to ride coattails. I believe in this program.”
“I know that, but not everyone is going to buy it.” He sits back, bringing his mug to his lips. After a long gulp, he eyes me. “Nepotism is a thing, Grant. When they claim I hired my son, don’t let it define you. Earn your position every damn day, much like you did when you were playing for me.”
As much as I appreciate his bluntness, it still stings. I could’ve played anywhere in the country, but I chose to play for my dad. I was judged every single game because of that decision. Now I find myself in a similar position; only this time, my dad is my boss. Again, I could’ve gone anywhere. Hell, I could’ve landed a head coaching job at a few local high schools, but I believe in my dad’s method of coaching—The Campbell Effect. And that’s why I chose to stay at Central Texas University.
Needing a reprieve from the intense conversation, I glance at one of the TVs mounted on the counter. A news reporter stands outside a building roped with caution tape.
And that’s when I see it.
The block capital letters scrolling at the bottom of the screen. It takes seconds to realize I know that building. Her building.
BREAKING NEWS: Armed Robbery Results in One Dead.
My blood runs cold. The reporter keeps talking, but I ignore the closed captioning.
“Grant.” Dad’s concerned voice doesn’t snap me out of where I’m staring.
I climb to my feet. “I-I’ve got to go, Dad.”
I start reaching into my back pocket for my wallet, but Dad shoos me off. “Go, Son.”
At his dismissal, I turn and run through the glass doors.
The drive blurs in flashes of traffic lights and barely remembered turns. By the time I pull onto her street, it’s blocked off with police tape and orange cones. My heart pounds viciously as I navigate around the block to find an empty parking space.
Making my way through the throngs of people, I notice the front entrance to the restaurant is taped off. Glass still lays scattered on the sidewalk, glittering in the morning sunshine. I push past the crowds, the cops, and the media frenzy, heading around the corner to the door I know leads to her apartment.
That’s when I see them—two guys by the door. One leans against a matte-black motorcycle, arms crossed like it’s just another day. The other’s head is down, typing something on his phone. With his back toward me, I notice the t-shirt he’s wearing. There’s a coiled serpent wound around the skull of aram, its fangs bared, with a single flower blooming where one eye should be on the ram. The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention as worry floods my veins. Who are these men? And why are they outside Sav’s door?
As soon as the second guy hears my footsteps, his shoulders stiffen as he turns to face me. “Hey!” he shouts, taking a drag of his cigarette and tucking his phone in his pocket. “Closed scene. Move along.”
Even though every notion in my being is telling me to turn around, I stand straighter and keep walking closer to the door.
I nod toward the door. “I need to get inside.”
“Yeah,” he says, exhaling a plume of smoke. “And you are?”
“Grant Campbell.”
Recognition flickers across the guy’s face as his jaw shifts. He doesn’t say anything at first, just gives me a hard once-over. His shoulders loosen a fraction as he nods at me. No more introductions.
“She’s upstairs.”
He turns, and I follow him through the door, giving the second guy a terse nod. We climb the steps in silence. My pulse quickens, and it’s not from the climb. I don’t know who the guy is, but it sure felt like he knew me, at least by his reaction to my name. He walks like he has authority, but based on the way he’s dressed, I think it’s safe to say he isn’t a cop. He didn’t flash a badge either. And the way he was looking at me—like he was sizing me up for a coffin—makes me uneasy as hell.
Still, I follow.
We hit her floor and head farther down the hall. He stops at a dirty cream-colored door and pushes it open without knocking.
