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)
“Are you stupid?” Bradshaw asks. “She’s the head coach’s daughter, dumbass. Messing with her would be like strapping a ticking bomb to your chest and hoping it won’t go boom.”
Well, fuck. As everyone else in the room nods their agreement with ease, I suddenly feel stressed out. Like my big plans have now been blown to bits. Logically, my brain has known all along that Chelsea’s status as my head coach’s daughter makes her off-limits to me. But I guess other parts of my anatomy had somehow convinced me our prior history created some kind of a loophole, only applicable to me. But now, thanks to Bradshaw’s colorful metaphor, I’m realizing if I were to make a move on Chelsea like I’ve been fantasizing about doing, it wouldn’t end well for me, as surely as if I’d strapped a ticking bomb to my chest.
The veteran addresses the rookie once again. “If you’re smart, you’ll channel all that misplaced horniness for the coach’s daughter into putting your head down, studying hard, and shutting the fuck up.”
The rookie laughs, apparently thinking the veteran is being playful with him. “That’s a tall order, given that the rest of her is even hotter than her eyes. Even when she’s wearing an oversized polo shirt—”
Without my brain consciously directing me to do it, I slam both palms loudly onto the desk in front of me while simultaneously shooting out of my chair to standing. “If you want to keep all the teeth in your head, don’t finish that sentence.”
As the rookie and everyone else stare at me with wide eyes and raised eyebrows, I realize my volume and intensity would have been better suited for a large auditorium than a small classroom. Shit. I’d better to do some quick damage control or someone’s going to figure out I’ve got a massive boner for my new babysitter.
“I feel for her,” I explain, sitting back down and trying to look casual. “She’s got a big name to live up to, and that’s something I can relate to.” When that last comment catches nods, I exhale and forge ahead. “Do I think she’s got what it takes to make her big dreams come true? Not from what I’ve seen so far. But who knows? And either way, I respect the hell out of her for chasing her dreams, the same way we’re all doing here. That’s a tough thing for anyone to do in this league, but it’s especially tough for a woman.”
Murmurs rise up in the small classroom, all of them expressing agreement with me.
Feeling emboldened, I say, “My mother knows more about football than anyone. I kid you not, she could have been a head coach, or at least a position coach, thanks to all the games she’s attended and all drills she’s put my brothers and me through. But guess who has to put up with endless disrespect and underestimation from random dudes in bars and on airplanes? That’s why I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting Chelsea now, because I’ve seen the exact same kind of bullshit playing out with my own mother my whole life.” I glare at the rookie. “Talk about Chelsea or a single hair on her head again, and you’ll need to answer to me.”
“And me,” Bradshaw says, as a few other veterans in the room also echo the sentiment.
One of the veterans says, “I played three seasons with Lincoln Parker before I got traded here, and he’s still like a brother to me. That makes Chelsea my honorary little sister, even if she has no idea about that.” He shoots daggers at the rookie to emphasize his point.
“Guys, I was just joking,” the rookie says, his palms raised. “I swear, it won’t happen again.”
“It better not,” I grit out, and the veterans who’ve got my back flash me a collective look of solidarity.
A long, tense silence ensues.
But finally, it’s my old buddy Calhoun who breaks it.
“I have a question,” he says, his index finger raised. “You said we can’t mention a hair on Chelsea’s head, but I’m wondering if it’d be okay for me to comment on Chelsea’s thick, shiny hair in a totally nonsexual way? I’ve always appreciated a really good head of hair, whether it’s on a man, woman, child, dog, or horse.”
Everyone cracks up, even me.
“He’s not lying,” I confirm. “Calhoun constantly complimented everyone’s hair when we played together at Nebraska.”
“Especially yours,” Calhoun says. “You Maguires are blessed with some damned good hair.” Laughing, he takes off his ball cap and runs his palm over his shaved head. “You’re giving me hair envy, man.”
Again, the room bursts into collective laughter.
Addressing the crowd, one of the veterans asks, “Is everyone cool with Calhoun and only Calhoun getting a free pass to comment on Chelsea’s hair? If so, say aye.”
“Aye,” the room responds in unison, and another round of chuckles ensues.