Page 1 of The Silent Count
ONE
LEA
“Morning, boys.”
“Morning, Lea,” fifty-three half-naked men echo back in unison, sending a jolt of warmth racing through my veins. I have yet to find a cup of coffee strong enough that gives me a rush of energy the same way having an entire professional football team wrapped around my finger does.
I say hello. They jump to respond.
I give a lecture. They sit attentively in their seats, nodding along while taking notes.
I set ground rules. They follow them.
My chin tips up at the reminder, and the nagging smile that’s been pulling at the corner of my lips breaks free. As I work my way through the locker room, I catch players out of the corner of my eye scrambling to reach for towels to cover themselves. All the while, I’m focused on pretending the turned heads and whistles breaking out aren’t going straight to my head.
Morning workouts ended half an hour ago, which means my dad was fifteen minutes late for our standing morning meeting. Most days, scouring the Matrix practice facility to find him isn’t much of a hassle. Nine times out of ten, he’s holding back a player to give them pointers. But on the rare day that he is nowhere to be found, I’m left with no choice but to draw back my shoulders and throw on an unaffected expression before checking his office. Which just so happens to be located in the back of the player’s locker room.
“Yo, watch it! Some of us are naked in here.”
“Cute of you to think I’d want to check you out, Gonzales. Glad to see you aren’t letting the newfound ‘fame’ go to your head.” I throw up air quotes as I pass the rookie’s locker, watching a bright pink stain rise to the apples of his cheeks. A rumble of laughter erupts around the room, and a couple of his buddies are quick to peel the towels off their shoulders to smack him on the ass.
“She’ll come around, bro. Trust me,” he mutters to the second-year defensive end who shares the locker next to him. “Next season, she’ll be wearing my jersey on the sidelines. I’m sure of it.”
“I’d be careful who you share that with,” I call over my shoulder. “Or my father will kick you off the team before I have the chance to reject you.”
A player’s first year in The League is hard enough between navigating a new city, coaching staff, and teammates. Yet, in my six years working for the team, I could confidently say nothing makes players crumble faster than realizing they’ve gone from college football’s prime-time player to a League no-name overnight. Repeatedly, I’ve seen players who can’t cope with giving up their relevance. Gonzales is a good kid, though. Young and naïve, sure. But unlike some of his fellow newbies, he doesn’t have a chip on his shoulder, which will get him further with his teammates than he realizes.
We are a family team here at the Matrix, and if he plans to have a lasting career with us, it’s only right he gets used to our playful antics early on.
The veterans throw their heads back, breaking out into deep belly laughs. Most have been playing with the Matrix their entire career, and are more than familiar with my father’s golden rule for his team. I can practically hear my dad’s voice in my head saying, “And under no circumstances are any of my players permitted to date my daughter.”
“Lea, you coming to Friday night dinner?” Abel, the best tight end in The League, and my best friend’s boyfriend pipes up from my left.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
October Calhoun and Fortune Parker, our star quarterback and wide receiver duo, give me tight half-smiles from either side of Abel.
“Calhoun. Parker.” I give them each a nod, trying not to linger on the beads of water dripping down Fortune’s chiseled torso or the way his plush, white towel is tied low around his hips.
Peeling my eyes away doesn’t help much, considering I can sense his gaze burning against my back. I try brushing off the thought of him checking me out as I poke my head around the corner to find my father’s office with the door closed and lights off. Now was not the time to decipher Fortune’s prolonged stares. I’d leave that for this afternoon when I was alone in my office with nothing but time on my hands.
Becoming well versed in the art of silent observation takes years, sometimes decades, to master. Living in a world ruled by instant gratification means most people are opposed to taking the slow path to uncovering people’s patterns and routines.
It’s rare to find another person who studies the art, but when the opportunity strikes, it’s almost as if there is an unspoken rivalry until one person is crowned the victor. Because slim competition means fierce competition.
To the outside world, my father is The League’s most beloved Hall of Famer, turned back-to-back championship winning head coach. But to me? He is my longest-standing opponent. And Fortune Parker is a close second.
“Anyone seen Coach Sterling?”
“Saw him about half an hour ago in the weight room,” Gonzales chimes in.
“She meant after morning workout, dumbass.” I recognize the deep rumble of an offensive lineman from the back of the room.
“Gonzales?”
“Yeah?”
“Stop talking,” I deadpan.
