Page 29 of The Game Plan
And then she had to go and say we needed to set ground rules. Well, the joke's on her. I’ll follow her rules, but I’m adding some of my own. Ones that force her to relax around me.
She also required a code word if I wanted to bring a woman back to the apartment. As if anyone else matters. Doesn’t she know all I’ve ever wanted is her? Still, if it makes her feel better, I’ll play along.
Glancing around the field and seeing everyone performing the way they should, I slip my phone out of my pocket and open our message thread.
Are you settling in?
A minute doesn’t pass before my phone buzzes with a new message.
Sav: [1 photo attachment of a coffee mug pointed at an episode ofCriminal Minds.]
“Campbell, my office!” The announcement comes from the speakers inside the field, interrupting practice. Heads whip in my direction, and I can feel my balls shrivel up. Instantly, I’m hitwith a wave of panic, like a kid who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Snapping my head away from my phone, I pocket the device before moving to the exit.
Shit, am I in trouble? Does he know about Savannah?
I can coach grown men, call out bullshit from thirty yards away, stand against sketchy bikers, but something about facing my dad when I’m harboring a secret terrifies the shit out of me.
Stepping into the open door of his office, I rap my knuckles against the doorframe. Dad glances from his laptop, nodding. “Come in.”
Mondays suck.
They always have, even back when I played, but now, they’re worse as a coach. If it were only strength and conditioning sessions and position drills, it wouldn’t be so bad. But no, my afternoon is spent in back-to-back meetings and overseeing any media obligations. The meetings drag on until my focus shuts down, and it sounds like the humming at the end of a record.
Today was brutal. Instead of overseeing media interviews, I was the target of one. A blogger from an up-and-coming sports site called me in for a one-on-one. Total douche. His questions grated on my nerves.
He wanted a deep dive on “legendary Coach Campbell’s son” and how I planned to live up to my father’s legacy. Polished, polite, canned responses—I delivered them all, exactly as the PR team trained me. But he kept pushing, testing my patience. When he asked if I was coaching only because I couldn’t hack it in the NFL, I ripped off my mic and cut him off. “We’re done.”
Luckily, a PR team member was in the room and completely agreed that the interview was over.
It pisses me off when people assume I was too scared to enter the NFL draft. The truth of the matter is that it was never my plan. While I would’ve preferred to start as a high school-level coach, there was an opening here that I’d be stupid to pass up. It had nothing to do with my dad. He wasn’t even the one to suggest it first. It was Ron Hawk, the head wide receiver coach. Once the topic was approached, it was my dad who helped convince me to take the position.
And while I don’t mind answering questions about following in my father’s footsteps, there’s more to me than being Derek Campbell’s son. It drives home the fact that I’m only viewed as my father’s son and not as a man with his own path. His own dreams.
By the time I make it home, I’m beat.
The quiet apartment never bothered me before, but knowing she’s at work and I’m home is unsettling. During the past five hours, I’ve made dinner, wiped down the kitchen…again, read my personal development book, and watched a few innings of a baseball game.
I’m completely wrung out and ready for bed. Only, I can’t bring myself to go to bed, not until I know she’s home safe.
But she’s late.
Her shift ended an hour ago. She should be home by now. I pace the living room with my phone, looping sports highlights for the fifth time, glancing at it every few seconds for missed calls or messages. My thumb hovers over her contact. Should I call? I don’t want to distract her if she’s driving or make it feel like I’m monitoring her…but I’m worried.
Images flash in my head: Savannah behind the wheel, dozing off. A flat tire in a dark parking lot. Her phone dying. Her stomach clenching in pain. Something wrong with the baby. Worst-case scenarios looping, chest tightening. I scrub my hands down my face and pace again.
Then…I hear it.
The sound of keys jingling outside the door. The lock turns, and I freeze.
When the door eases open, I watch as she practically tiptoes into the apartment, nervous to make a sound. Her hair is piled messily on top of her head, shoulders sagged in exhaustion. I admire the way her body looks in her work clothes. Black dress pants flare around her ankles, and a button-down hugs her baby bump. Her tote slides off her shoulder as she closes the door and twists the lock. In her other hand, a brown paper bag; the smell of tacos drifts through the air.
Relief slams into me as I finally lay my eyes on her.
And then, like a dumbass, I snap.
“Where the hell have you been?”
She jumps, nearly stumbling, her body spinning in my direction. “Jesus. Calm down, Dad.”
