Page 82 of The Game Plan
I lean back on the couch and laugh as the two roommates banter. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live with the two of them, and then throw in my sister. As they bicker about “whose ego is bigger,” I zone out to their words, hoping it quiets my racing mind. The truth of the matter is, I’m nervous as hell about tomorrow’s game.
This is my first game on the sidelines, where I’m wearing a headset and holding a clipboard, not lacing my cleats or strapping on a helmet. I’ve put in the work—watching endless hours of game film and working closely with the underclassmen. But it’s weird to know I won’t be the one taking the hits.
But this has always been the dream.
At a young age, I knew my destiny was to be a coach. Hell, the man I admired most was one of the most promising up-and-coming coaches in college football. Today, he’s one of the greatest college coaches. Many question why the hell he hasn’t moved on to the NFL. His answer is always the same: this is where he’s been called to be. He wants to be the one finessing the talent before they go on to the big leagues.
Growing up, Dad let Bret and me tag along to his office, sit in on film, even watch practices in the offseason. We weren’t just kids on the sidelines; we were part of the team. While other kids dreamed of playing college ball and moving on to the NFL, I dreamed of playing under Dad and one day coaching next to him. I had the talent for the NFL, sure, but not the heart. Coaching was always my future.
I’ll never forget one time, when I was in the eighth grade, I had a chance to job shadow Dad and his coaches for a class assignment. Seeing the way my dad interacted with the players and how he motivated them on and off the football field, itinspired me to want to give that kind of encouragement to players.
“You good, man?” Crew asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I shrug, thumb clicking away on the controller. The guys were waiting for me to start the next round. Who knows how long I was zoned out? “Yeah, just, uh…tired.”
“Bullshit,” Harris says, tossing his controller on the cushion beside him. “You’re in full broody Campbell mode. What’s up?”
With a huff, I rest my head against the back of the couch and stare at the ceiling as if it has the answers to my worries. “The nerves are creeping in. Tomorrow is the first game I’m coaching and not playing. I worry about leaving Savannah alone this close to her due date. I’m married with a baby on the way. It feels like it’s all hitting me at once.”
“Damn, man. I didn’t realize you were feeling this way.” Harris shakes his head.
“Seriously, Campbell,” Crew adds. “You never show any emotions.”
I glance at him before running my hand through my hair. “I hate showing emotions and having people worry about me. That’s my job.”
“No, Grant. It isn’t your job to worry about other people. You also don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders when you have a group of people who care about you.”
Crew points his finger at Harris. “Exactly that. The last six months have been a whirlwind for you. There’s been a lot of changes in your life. The future you once thought was impossible is now your reality. You’re following your dreams and coaching with your dad. That’s huge, and I can only imagine the stress you feel.”
“Not to mention, your fake-turned-real marriage,” Harris mumbles.
My eyes land on the framed photos Savannah placed on the TV stand—one from our wedding, her back pressed to my chest, my arms wrapped around hers, the look in our eyes one of pure love. Another from a toga party sophomore year, both of us glassy-eyed and ridiculous, carefree in a way that feels like a lifetime ago. And then a candid she snapped with her head on my lap, her hand over her belly, mine covering hers, her bump peeking through beneath our palms.
“There’s going to be a baby girl here any day now,” I mumble.
“Daddy Grant… It has a nice ring to it.” Crew chuckles.
“Don’t fucking call me ‘daddy.’” I shiver. Leave it to Crew Riggsby to lighten the mood with an idiotic comment.
A burst of laughter leaves Harris. “Daddy Grant. That’s great.”
“Yeah, we’ll get the guys to start calling himDaddy.”
“Don’t even think about it.” My voice turns gruff as I throw a pizza crust at Crew’s head from the paper plate next to me.
He catches it, of course, and tosses it onto the box.
“But seriously, you ready?” Harris asks.
I shrug. “As ready as I can be. I’m ready to meet her. And for Sav to have a safe delivery. That’s the part that freaks me out most.”
“Whatever you do, don’t watchGrey’s Anatomy. Bret’s been binging that show, and I’m ready to roll her up in bubble wrap.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to know any details.”
Silence settles as another round ofCall of Dutyplays out. It doesn’t last long—Crew’s character dies and he starts swearing while Harris executes another flawless plan. When the final round ends, Harris checks his phone before tossing it aside. He’s been off lately. I told myself it was preseason nerves, but the tension in his body says otherwise.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
