Page 49 of The Game Plan
Turning my attention back to the field, I jog out onto the turf as we rotate into another group of seven-on-seven drills. I keepmy voice steady, my posture loose, but stay alert as I run up and down the sidelines, calling out adjustments and making notes on the players' performance. I slap helmets as guys hit their marks and bark orders when they slack off.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, taking my attention away from the field.
I pull it out quickly and swipe the calendar notification away. It’s the fifteen-minute reminder of the offensive coaches meeting we have this afternoon to discuss week one’s game plan.
“Hawk,” I shout across the field. His attention snaps my way. “Fifteen minutes.”
He tosses me a thumbs-up. “Last one!” he calls back. “Make it clean, or we run.”
Before I slide my phone back into my pocket, I find Savannah’s name and type out a message to her.
I can still taste you on my lips. Hope you haven’t moved from my bed.
As the play ends and they slap helmets, my mind can’t help but drift.
An uneasiness settles in the back of my mind, and I can’t shake it.
Something’s coming.
I can feel it.
The conference room smells like lemon antibacterial cleaner, and I can’t help but smile as I inhale the fragrance. It’s nothing like the baked goods Savannah has been scarfing down around the apartment, but the lemony scent makes me think of her.
For so long, peaches have been the smell that reminds me of her—her perfume a mixture of peach and vanilla, and the peach gummy rings she eats while studying. But now with her cravings being anything lemon, she’s turned into my citrus girl.
Or should I say, my citrusgirls, since baby Jellybean, Sav’s nickname for her daughter, is sparking the lemon craving?
Moving through the room, I find an empty seat at one end of the table. The room is packed tighter than usual as offensive staff, positional coaches, and a couple of interns crowd the back wall. Everyone’s gearing up for our first game of the season, which is right around the corner. I slide into my seat, giving nods and distracted greetings. Even after this morning’s practice, I can’t get Savannah out of my head. The way she blurted that she needed to be fucked, the way her body moved against mine, and the sounds she made…
Fuck, the sounds she made. I feel my cock twitch at the reminder, and I shift awkwardly in my chair. I don’t need to sport a boner in the middle of this meeting. Shaking my head, I focus on the whiteboard where a slide is projected—our first opponent’s breakdown in sharp black-and-white.
Coach Reeves, our quarterback coach, is mid-sentence, discussing his quarterbacks. “Harris is looking the best he’s ever looked. His footwork has improved tremendously, and his arm is even more of a cannon. I don’t know what’s gotten into the boy over the off-season, but he’s going to be lethal.”
I smile inwardly as I hear the praise about my friend. It’s still weird to be coaching some of my past teammates, but I love hearing the behind-the-scenes comments on how well they’re doing. Tyler Harris is no doubt going to be in the running for the Heisman and a first-round contender in the NFL draft.
Coach Hawk, our head wide receiver coach and technically my boss, chimes in. “We’ve been watching past game film of the Trinity Knights. Their secondary is weak. I say we plan a lot ofdeep shots, especially if Harris’s arm is even stronger than last year.”
Everyone’s throwing out suggestions, comparing conditioning levels, injury statuses, and opinions on the game plan.
I try to focus—really, I do—but my knee’s bouncing and my mind keeps drifting to Sav. Her sleepy smile and how good she looked, naked, wrapped in my sheets. I hope she was able to fall back to sleep.
I glance around the table, at all the faces, and realize my dad isn’t in the room, which is odd. He’s always involved in these types of meetings.
Coach Martinez, the offensive coordinator, stands from his seat. “Now this is my least favorite topic of conversation, but are there any players I should have on my radar for potential misconduct?”
My stomach dips as my heart starts to race. As discreetly as possible, I wipe the growing sweat on my palms onto my shorts. Murmurs and whispers fill the room as heads turn in all directions.
But it’s the voices from the back wall that have everyone’s attention.
Coach Martinez looks at the interns. “You guys have something to say?”
The tension in the room is stifling.
All eyes dart to the back of the room as we watch the three interns nudge each other.
“You say it,” one of them says.
“Nah, man, you heard it, you say it,” says another.
