Page 76 of The Game Plan
“Th—” I start, before clearing my throat. “Thanks for having us.”
She nods and steps aside. Her eyes linger on Grant for a beat as something unsaid passes between them.
Moving through the room, Grant pushes open the patio doors as we’re met with sounds of laughter. I’m thankful Crew and Bret were able to come tonight. I don’t think I could’ve handled our first family dinner without them. Looking around Grant’s shoulders, my gaze locks onto Bret first. She’s talking animatedly while scrolling on her phone, a glass Coke bottle in front of her. Her eyes flick up, and a beaming smile spreads across her lips as she sees us.
“Hey, you two!”
I give a nervous wave as Mr. Campbell turns his attention to us. His stoic expression, much like his son’s, isn’t calmingmy nerves. Tension swirls in the air heavily. I hold my breath, bracing for the shoe to drop. For everything to blow apart. But it doesn’t.
Mr. Campbell stands from his chair and walks toward us before stopping in front of me. My heart sinks to my stomach, waiting for his next move. And what he does next shocks me.
He leans down and wraps his arms around me. I stiffen at the contact, frozen in shock as he hugs me. “Savannah, welcome.”
Eyes widening in shock, I look to Grant. He nods toward me with encouragement, and I snap back into reality. My arms wrap around his dad’s in a gentle hug. “Uh, thank you for having me, Mr. Campbell.”
Stepping back, the hug is broken as he gestures toward the table. “Have a seat, and please, call me Derek.”
I nod, walking toward the empty seat across from Bret. Grant takes the one on my right, putting him directly across from Crew.
Derek sits at the head of the table between Crew and Grant as we wait for Mrs. Campbell to join us. He isn’t rude to me or cold, but the energy shifts in a palpable way.
Conversation resumes as Bret tells us about her latest summer league basketball game. Even beneath the laughter, I feel it. The storm presses in, ready to break.
Mrs. Campbell, or Emily, as she insisted I call her, brings out the platters of barbecue chicken, roasted potatoes, corn on the cob, and macaroni salad. When I asked if she needed help, she insisted that I was to sit and relax.
We sit at the long outdoor table beneath cafe string lights as a 90s country playlist wafts softly in the background. Their backyard is spacious, with bright green grass, detailed paver work, and beautiful landscaping. Through casual conversation, Grant never drifts far. His hand on the back of my chair, thumb rubbing my shoulder blade, knee brushing mine under the tablein silent security. It does what it’s intended to do: keeps me grounded.
As dinner winds down, so does the small talk.
His dad is the first to break the tension. “We need to talk about your marriage.”
My spine stiffens, but Grant remains laid back, his arm stretched across the back of my chair. To anyone else, he looks calm. Relaxed. But I see it—the subtle tic of his jaw that betrays him. “Figured that’s why you invited us over.”
“Oh, sweetie, you know that’s not the reason. You’re always invited to join us for Sunday dinner,” his mom says, trying to dampen the rising temperature.
“I got a phone call with the athletic director.” His dad continues. “Coach Martinez had to report the marriage.”
“I’m aware,” Grant grits out.
“The university has policies against consensual relationships between faculty and students. There are expectations you have to follow and lines you simply cannot cross.”
“I didn’t break any rules—”
“Grant,” his dad interrupts, but Grant refuses to back down.
“The university has a policy on consensual relationships. It says they’re not forbidden, but discouraged. The only thing I failed to do was disclose it. Otherwise, I—we—didn’t break any rules.”
“Goddamnit, Grant. You had your own code of conduct when you signed your contract to work under me. It stated that coaches within my organization are held to a higher standard. You are to set an example, uphold policies, and keep the university in a higher light.”
My stomach clenches at his father’s harsh tone, and suddenly, I don’t want to be here for this conversation. Call it childish, but confrontation isn’t for me. It triggers years of memories of mymom fighting with her flavor of the week. I feel my shoulders start to sag, but Grant never breaks our connection.
“Derek,” Emily scolds.
His dad exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The AD said they’re still discussing if there’ll be consequences. For now, it’s an internal matter, which means you two need to keep this private, at least until we get a ruling from the university. No PDA. No social media posts. It needs to stay quiet.”
“Dad…” Grant trails off as he shakes his head.
“You’re already under a microscope, Son.”
