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)
As I clap along with everyone else about the completed pass, Moriarty leans down and says, “The rook’s got a cannon.”
“His accuracy needs work, though.”
“Accuracy, he can work on, Parkette. Having a cannon, not so much.”
Parkette. He keeps calling me that, and I wish he wouldn’t. “Parker,” I murmur, even though I know my correction is landing on deaf ears.
It’s third down now.
After the snap, our rookie steps back in the pocket again, finds that same cutie-pie receiver, and completes another pass—this one for twelve yards. We’re still on our end of the hundred-yard playing field, and it’s only a meaningless preseason game, but everyone on our side of the field momentarily cheers like that was a touchdown pass in the Super Bowl. Obviously, we quickly contain ourselves and act like we’ve been here before. But it’s clear everyone’s feeling a momentum shift on our side of the field, and it’s an exciting thing for a team with such a losing track record as ours.
I peek toward Luca, eager to share a smile about that second pass completion, but he’s not sitting on the benches anymore. I look around and locate him standing with a pack of players on the sideline. Either that second pass got him up, or he’s coincidentally too antsy to sit any longer.
After the next play, Luca finally looks my way, and when our eyes meet, I shoot him an encouraging look. One that says, “You’ve got this, baby.” Our secret moment is soon interrupted, though, when Moriarty leans down to talk to me, blocking my view of Luca’s gorgeous face.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, not even listening to whatever he’s saying. And the second he’s done talking, I crane my neck to peek back at Luca and find him seething, not surprisingly. Clearly, he’s not pleased about Moriarty’s constant chumminess with me, even though I’ve told him I can’t stand the guy. The good news, however, is that jealousy has plainly lit a fire inside Luca—and that’s something I can capitalize on.
I turn away from Luca’s blazing eyes to tap on the defensive coordinator’s shoulder. “Would you put Ninety-Five in during the next defensive series, as a favor to me? I have a gut feeling this is the right time.”
It’s not my place to tell a high-level coach which players to put in and when, especially during a game. If this were a regular-season matchup, I wouldn’t dare. But screw it. It’s only preseason, and Luca’s football life is at stake.
I can’t read the defensive coordinator’s expression when he replies, “I’ll consider it.”
A few minutes pass, and the time comes for our defensive unit to take the field. When they do, I’m elated to see Luca among them.
Off the bat, the Admirals run a rush, which means there’s no chance for Luca to even try to get a sack, since there’s no throw by the opposing quarterback. Luca nonetheless makes a good impression: As the QB makes his handoff to his running back, Luca reads the play perfectly and immediately stuffs the running back for zero yards gained.
Of course, everyone on our side of the ball applauds and cheers, if only briefly. Everyone except Moriarty, that is. When I glance at him, he’s stone-faced and squinty-eyed. Interesting. Is our golden boy feeling Luca’s hot breath on the back of his cocky neck the same way he did when the press lauded Luca as the next Moriarity, only better, during college?
The next snap for the Admirals leads to yet another running play, which once again affords Luca zero opportunity to notch a sack or even apply pressure on the QB. But still, Luca makes an impact. This time, he not only denies the running back any forward progress, he also drags that powerful, flailing man backward for a full five-yard loss, like a shark dragging his dinner to the bottom of the sea. My God, I think I just had an orgasm.
Again, our sideline erupts in brief celebration of Luca’s monstrosity, even more so than the last time. And again, when I look at Moriarty, he’s impassive and prickly. Ha. Suck it, Jacob. You’re not the only big dog in town.
It’s third and long now. Which means the Admirals will almost certainly try to throw the ball to get themselves out of this hole. Come on, Luca.
The Admirals call a time-out. Not surprisingly. I’d call one too if a fire-breathing dragon was lined up in a three-point stance opposite my quarterback.
Hydration assistants dutifully jog onto the field to take care of our sweaty, dripping warriors. And as Luca guzzles water and wipes his face, I patiently wait to catch his eye. It’s not my role to coach him any longer. And certainly not in a game. But I know that man’s strengths and weaknesses better than anyone else. And thanks to my deal with Bellamy, I’ve got a vested interest in his success more than anyone, too.