Page 51 of The Game Plan
My eyes widen as heads whip in Dad’s direction as he steps farther into the room. His movements are slow, calculated, as he tries to wrap his head around what he heard. Meanwhile, I’m trying to wrap my head around what I just said.
How the hell am I going to explain this?
Fuck that. How the hell am I going to tell Savannah I announced our marriage—when we haven’t even officially dated?
Was it just this morning we slept together for the first time in almost a year? She opened the door for more, and now I’ve gone and sprung this on her.
“You married a student?” Martinez questions in disbelief as my dad stands ghostly still.
“She’s not just a student,” I start, leaning forward until my elbows are resting on the table. “It’s…complicated.”
The room explodes with more whispers and murmurs.
“This is bad,” Hawk mutters. “There’s a clear policy—”
“Forget about the policy,” Martinez snaps. “There’s optics,” he adds with a heavy sigh. “Rumors are already swirling about nepotism because you’re the head coach’s son. And now this? Ethics, Campbell. Is it your kid? Sleeping with—and marrying—a student? What does that say to the administration? The donors? The media?”
I can’t answer. I know how it looks, but this is more than me sleeping with a student. We have history. We’re the same age—just at different places in life. She’s only a student for one more semester. If she’d graduated with me last spring, none of this would be a story.
My dad hasn’t moved. His shocked silence is alarming, especially as he lets Martinez go on his high horse.
Finally, I watch as he runs a hand through his dark hair before muttering a curse under his breath. Then he straightens and looks at the room, eyes hard.
“Enough.” His command is harsh. “This meeting is about football and our game plan for the first game. This isn’t gossip time.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. As the room shifts back to strategy, I’ve completely zoned out. I’m itching to get out of this room and figure out what the hell I’ve done. I sink back into my chair, heart pounding, ears ringing, and replay the three words that just changed the trajectory of my life…
She’s my wife.
Hours later, waking and feeling freshly fucked and refreshed, I slide out from underneath Grant’s soft sheets. I stand, stretching my arms overhead, back arching.
That nap was glorious. The best sleep I’ve had in weeks.
I’m talking dead-to-the-world, drool-on-the-pillow, REM-cycle sleep. My body aches in the best way possible. And as my mind starts to become more alert, I push the chaotic storm of thoughts away. I refuse to overthink this morning.
Instead, I bend down and pull Grant’s comforter up to my face. I’m hit with the smell ofhim.
Cedar, spice, and whiskey.
And, of course, sex.
A blush heats my cheeks as I’m reminded of earlier. The soreness between my thighs is the delicious kind—the kind that makes you sigh and smirk at the same time. I bite my bottom lip and glance at the clock.Shit. I have to leave in two hours for work.
I speed-waddle to the bathroom with the kind of gait that screamsjust got railed at nine months pregnant. Wincing alittle, I lower onto the toilet and mentally high-five Grant for the best morning of my life.
After I flush, I lean over the sink, toothbrush in hand, and finally catch my reflection in the mirror.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, shocked at my reflection.
My hair is a wreck, the messy bun looking more like a rat’s nest dangling off the back of my head. There’s a new flush on my cheeks that’s definitely not from sleep, and my lips are slightly swollen. Hell, even my boobs look perkier…somehow, which should be scientifically impossible at this point in my pregnancy.
I pause mid-brush, eyes widening.
Is that a bite mark?My fingers trace the spot where my neck meets my shoulder and, sure enough, there’s a red imprint of Grant’s teeth. I don’t even remember him biting me. So much for rule two and not biting.
I blink as my mouth curves again. Toothpaste foam pools in the corners of my mouth as I spit and rinse.
I’m a mess.
