Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
“Ouch.”
“Please, Luca, put your ego aside and let me help you. If you don’t plug the many, many holes in your leaky boat, your time in the NFL will be over in a matter of days.”
Every word feels like a gut punch. I shift my weight again and swallow hard.
“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings or embarrass you, Luca. I hope you know that. We just don’t have time for me to sugarcoat anything.”
I can’t formulate words yet, so I run a hand through my sweaty hair and stare off into space, trying to wrap my brain around what she’s telling me. Am I really that far gone? Is it really that dire for me?
“You need more explosiveness in your get-offs,” she says, filling the silence. Apparently, she’s incorrectly interpreted my silence and averted gaze as defiance. “Also, your footwork gets lazy from the third quarter on, so we’ll need to work on sustaining mental focus, along with physical stamina, too.”
She’s crushing my spirit and blowing my mind in equal measure. But, still, what if she’s wrong or otherwise totally unqualified for this? We’ve only been here for thirty minutes, after all. That’s not nearly enough time to know for sure if I should take such a gigantic leap of faith.
“Will you at least let me lead you through a few more drills?” she asks, motioning to the sleds. “If not, that’s fine. I’ll go find Jeremy.”
When I flash her an eye roll, she bites back a wicked smile that lets me know she’s joking. Man, she’s damned good at motivating me, though. I’ll give her that.
“I’m game to work on the sleds,” I say slowly. “But on one condition: You don’t mention Jeremy Calhoun or any other player for the rest of this fucking practice.”
It’s official.
Chelsea the Mathlete is some kind of a linebacker guru. A miracle worker. A unicorn. Or maybe she’s just so damned hot, I can’t stop killing myself in her presence to try to impress her. Either way, the past hour with her has been a revelation.
It’s too early to know if the Chelsea Parker magic I witnessed this morning will have any kind of longevity, but if it does, then I think it’s fair to say she’s in the running to be the most brilliantly effective position coach I’ve ever worked with. If I agree to work with her throughout camp, that is. One hour of drills, even amazing ones, isn’t enough to convince me to sign my entire football life away in blood.
“So, what’s the verdict, Montague?” she asks with a hand on her hip. She’s breathing hard, just like me. “Will you let me coach you while I’m officially babysitting you anyway?”
“It was a damned good session,” I concede slowly.
She lights up. “Thank you.”
“But even so, I’m not ready to sign on the dotted line just yet. If you’re willing to agree to a middle ground here—”
“Nope. It’s all or nothing, Luca. Either you swear to do everything I tell you as your coach, big or small, or I’ll find another player to work with.”
“What’d I say about that?”
She throws up a hand. “What else can I do? I’ve got to try to prove myself and earn my keep around here somehow. You’re either going to have to trust me and my process, completely, or I’m going to have to find another way to show everyone I’m a lot more than Coach Parker’s daughter.”
I exhale with frustration. “I can’t give you total and complete power over me. That’s too much to ask.”
“Okay. Best of luck to you. I’m off to find Calhoun or someone else who’s far less stubborn and stupid.” And off she goes with an exaggerated flick of her dark ponytail.
“Chelsea, goddammit. Chelsea Parker, stop.”
When she finally turns around in a huff, I take four bounding steps toward her till we’re standing toe to toe and I’m looking down into her fiery blue eyes from mere inches away. “You know I’d burn this place down before I’d let you work with Jeremy Calhoun or anyone else. You know that, so don’t talk like that again. I mean it this time, Chelsea.”
She physically shivers but doesn’t break eye contact. “You don’t want my help, so you’re not in the position to tell me what to do.”
If I were to lean down, and if Chelsea were to go up onto her tippy-toes, we’d be perfectly aligned to crush our lips together and pick up where we left off in Bloomington. But of course, that’s not at all what I should be thinking about right now, when my very football life is at stake.
“Let’s not forget your father commanded you to babysit me,” I remind her. “That means you’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not, so stop pretending you’d have any spare time to coach anyone else.”