Forgetting the Rules: A Second-Chance-Romance Sports Standalone

by Mariah Dietz

  My thoughts of that afternoon with Dad drift away as Coach Danielson waves me in. “Glad you could fit this meeting in,” he says, patting one of the seats across from his desk before he rounds it and sits down. “We have a big year ahead of us and several new players. How do you feel about our team? What are your thoughts on the new guys? Desantos is strong at breaking through tackles, but I’m worried about his pursuit. He runs straight every single time.”

  “He’s fast, but he doesn’t seem to get the angles. He needs to learn how to read the play better and adjust on the fly,” I say. Coach nods his head, letting me know to continue. “His speed made up for that deficiency in high school, and he did okay last year as a Freshman at Wisconsin, but he wasn’t going against teams like San Diego and Utah. Desantos can’t rely on being the fastest anymore because he’s not, and he needs to work on what he’s lacking.”

  “Glad you studied up over the summer,” he replies with a smirk.

  “We should put him on the field and run some plays with The President or Paulson. Pres is quick and always sees the fields and openings, and Paulson would give him a hard run for his money at being the fastest.”

  “Paulson couldn’t find an angle if it blew him,” Coach says, shaking his head. “Thankfully, he’s Craig’s issue, not mine. But, you think Desantos has potential?”

  I nod. “He’s smart and fast, but like I said, he doesn’t read the field very well, and he’s stubborn about it. He wants to be a leader, which I think he’s capable of becoming.”

  Coach nods, flipping his bright red Brighton U baseball hat backward before grabbing his water bottle and leaning back in his chair. The action brings forth an uncanny resemblance to my childhood best friend, Dustin Templeton, and silences my thoughts for a solid moment as I realize how close I am to accomplishing my goal of being drafted to the NFL. I’ve worked tirelessly to achieve this goal, dropping classes, forgoing relationships, and parties, and almost everything else you get in an average college experience that didn’t fit into my practice routine.

  “I think you’re right, but he needs to earn that leadership by learning all of our plays, improving, and paying his dues,” Coach Danielson says.

  “I like Wilson, too. He seems to get along well with the team. And he takes direction well. Plus, he’s a tackling machine. Nothing gets past him.”

  Coach grins. “Yes. I noticed him at practice yesterday, and he knows how to drop that shoulder and use his legs.”

  “Torres is good, too. He understands the cut. I think he could actually pressure Pres if he’s up for the challenge,” I add.

  “I don’t know,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest. “With it being his senior year, Harris won’t want to take many risks with Beckett. He’s too valuable. Plus, that kid is already being courted by at least three NFL teams. If the draft was tomorrow, he’s likely be a first-round draft pick, but we’ll see what this season brings.”

  Pride has my chest inflating while jealousy pricks at the base of my shoulders, constricting my muscles and making it difficult to focus on Coach’s next words. Lincoln is one hell of a player, but more than that, he’s one of my closest friends. When you spend three years pushing yourself physically and mentally toward the same goal, a brotherhood seems to build. Of course, there are a couple of dumb fucks on the team who I’d happily cut if I had the power and say, but thankfully they’re outliers rather than the norm. Still, Coach’s words serve as a stiff reminder that even if we manage to pull off another undefeated season, it won’t guarantee that him or I or anyone else who has worked their asses off will get drafted to the NFL.

  “We need to show up Saturday and shut Montana down.”

  Coach Danielson nods. “We’ll definitely win, but it would be nice to shut them out. Our offense is fucking amazing, but our defense is pretty incredible as well.” A wistful expression fades from his features. Offense gets you wins, but the defense keeps you from losing. I don’t mind not being in the spotlight. Just the idea of people recognizing me in public like they do Paxton and Lincoln, and even Arlo after he went viral last year, makes me itch. The thrill of breaking through an offense and sacking the quarterback is all the notoriety I need and want. “We have to focus on the three main keys of defense: tackle, turnover, and pursuit.”

  I lean forward, my elbows on my knees. Aside from playing, talking shop is my next favorite thing.

  We devise a plan for practices this week and our game against Montana on Saturday, discussing how we’ll utilize our strengths against their speed until it’s time to head to practice.

  The field is where all of my thoughts fade. As I slide my helmet into place, my adrenaline spikes, ready to lose myself in something that actually makes sense.

  “Elbows in!” Coach Danielson bellows. “Shed that blocker, or you’re never going to get to the damn ball, Hoyt! You guys are better than how you played last week at New Mexico,” he reminds us, pacing along where we’re lined up, working on hitting drills.

  My muscles are fatigued from a full practice and my shoulders and hands ache. Sweat drips down the back of my practice jersey, making my neck itch. We’re chasing a second undefeated season, something that the news reminds us all of daily. Half of the fans seem to stand behind us, believing we’re capable and are expecting us to rise to greatness, and the other half are waiting for us to fail. It’s a harsh reality.

  Coach Danielson’s stare stops on me, and with his tightened jaw and nod, I know he’s telling me that he’s reminding me to push my teammates even off of the field. Remind them what we’re working toward and help them be mentally ready for Saturday’s game. Few realize the toll we put on our bodies and how rest and being mentally strong is as important as knowing our handbook. I nod my understanding.

  With a final tight jerk, he dismisses us to the locker room.

  “Fuck me, that was brutal,” Desantos says, wiping his face with his forearm. “I get that we were off last week, but we still won by over twenty points.”

  “It should have been closer to fifty,” I tell him.

  Desantos shakes his head in short bursts. “What about the offense? It wasn’t us—the defense—who kept our offense from scoring.” He shakes his head. “They want to say the game was too close because they got a new offensive coordinator and played some good ball, but don’t want to mention that we’re still doing the same shit offensively that we were last year, and every team has been studying our plays and knows them.” He shakes his head again. “It has to go both ways.”

  “You’re right.” I shrug, too tired for this conversation but still straightening my shoulders because the last thing our team can tolerate is division. “But, we’re two halves. They have to take care of their shit, and we have to deal with ours. New Mexico shouldn’t have scored as much as they did, and we need to make sure Montana doesn’t do the same. We have to shut them down and stop them from getting on the board. That’s our job. If the offense is losing our games, then I’ll go to Pax, but we can’t point fingers when we had too many of our own faults last week. We were weak, and it showed.”

  We weren’t weak—we were lazy—but mentioning weakness makes our team rally, while lazy only makes them defensive.

  Desantos furrows his brow, his top lip rolling back with a sneer. “Way to stand up for your team, Captain.”

  I grab his practice jersey in my fist. “My job isn’t to wipe your ass. We didn’t play a game worth being proud of. Period.”

  He shrugs me off. “I’m sick of taking all of the blame.”

  I nod once, knowing well that Coach Danielson is by far the biggest hardass on the coaching staff. The other coaches can turn off their anger and annoyance, and yet, Danielson is either angry or livid once we hit the field. Even when we’re winning, the man is relentless. Desantos isn’t the first or only one to be tense by the constant state of Coach’s disapproval.

  “Don’t listen to his tirade,” I tell him before patting my chest. “Listen to me. We could have done better
. We are better. We have three more practices, and then we get to prove that we’re the best fucking defensive line not in just our division but the entire fucking league.”

  Desantos releases a long breath, his shoulders sinking. “We hold them to thirteen,” he says.

  I nod. “Thirteen.”

  He pats my shoulder, his jaw tight as he debates whether to trust me. He transferred here at the end of last year as a freshman from Wisconsin and spent the summer learning our playbook. His hunger and determination for our team to go undefeated for a second year is a shadow compared to the skyscraper I’m holding onto.

  “And then we’re going to celebrate our win at my house Saturday night.” I pat his shoulder pads again.

  “Your rules against drinking paired with a curfew don’t spell party, Cap.”

  I shrug. “It’s part of the role.”

  His lips coil again. Likely, he’s seen or heard that some of the guys have drunk during the season—Paxton is one of them. But rather than defend his actions, I prefer to play ignorant and focus on the defensive team, which is my responsibility. “My tolerance is small. I wouldn’t waste it on drinking. Especially at my house.”

  He releases a sigh, and I sense his resolve. Sometimes, it’s a matter of just realizing how far you can push a person to know where the limits are. In this scenario and others over the past few weeks, since the season began, he’s been testing mine, and I’ve held steady. I’m not about to let his ego hinder my season. I give another rough pat to his shoulder and move past him.

  The locker room is filled with happy tones. A jeer is thrown, followed by laughter, and then a rebut that makes everyone laugh even harder. Many of us are as close as family. We’ve been through games that have made us feel like gods and ones that have left us feeling like washed-up has-beens. We’ve seen tragedy and scandals, but above all, we’ve gained friendships that will undoubtedly span the test of time.

  “Hey,” Arlo says from his locker beside mine. Kostas is one of those guys who I know I will be talking to in forty years, bullshitting each other and making sure we have one another’s backs. “Rough practice?”

  “You could say that. How’s the knee?”

  He looks down at his knee that is in a thick, black brace. At the end of last season, Arlo tore his ACL, something that could have potentially ended his days of playing altogether.

  “It’s feeling good,” he says. “Not too much longer.”

  “You’re the Terminator.”

  He laughs.

  “How has school been?”

  Arlo shakes his head. “The beginning of the year sucks ass. I don’t know how you do it. You should have chosen an easier degree. Just the words computer science makes my brain hurt.”

  I scoff. “Too many syllables?”

  He belts out a laugh. “Did I hear right? The party has been moved to your house?”

  I nod. “As long as I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes. I figured it would make it easier since you guys have neighbors and a little less space.”

  He laughs. “A little less space.” More laughter. “Works for me, man. You want to place bets on who tries breaking the drinking rule? I’ll put twenty bucks on Hoyt.”

  “He better not. Pax will bench his ass. His tolerance seems especially low lately.”

  Arlo nods as his eyes grow wide. “You have no idea.”

  I glance toward Pax’s locker, but he’s absent. “Is he getting clean?”

  “Trying to.”

  “Girl troubles, still?” I ask, knowing if anyone knows about our quarterback’s personal life, it will be Arlo, who is roommates with him.

  Arlo bobbles his head with a no and then a yes. “He always has girlfriend trouble. That girl’s a train wreck and should have come with a warning label. But I think he’s feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders right now.”

  “Tell him I’ll be blacklisting the team, so they won’t be able to order drinks. Even him. This year we can’t afford to cut corners. We’ve got to be at one-hundred percent with every game.” I close my locker.

  “You’ll get the word out about the party?” I ask.

  He grins. “Who would want to miss the stuffed mushrooms?”

  “I’d advise against it.”

  Arlo slams his locker shut; a shit-eating grin spread across his face. “Me too. Liv and I will be there. I’ll talk to Rose.”

  I wince at the mention of her name that has seemed like a constant over this past week. I can tell he notices based on the double look he gives me. “I know it’s none of my business, but I thought you guys were hitting it off?”

  To anyone else, I’d likely shrug off the question and say something colorful or rude, but Arlo’s friends with Rose and his loyalty to her is as strong as a teammate—potentially stronger—since she helped him and Olivia get together.

  I release a sigh, but my lungs still feel weighted. “So did I, but, you know Rose.” I shrug, working to regain my indifference. “It’s cool though, with everything riding on this year, I don’t have time to date.” The words are beginning to feel like a mantra.

  His eyebrows rise, and I hear the silent “bullshit” that never crosses his lips. “I’m glad you’re both being cool about it.”

  I nod.

  More thoughts ghost across his face, ones of doubt and disbelief and confusion.

  “I’ll see you later, Kostas.” I grab my duffel and skip the showers. The scrutiny of his questions—even the silent ones—follow me out to the parking lot.

  “Wait up!” I pause, catching sight of Luis jogging toward me with his duffel slung over one shoulder. “I thought we were watching tape tonight?”

  I nod. “We are.”

  His gaze crosses over my sweat-dampened hair and the tee I’d put on in place of my practice jersey and pads. “Smelling like ass. Why didn’t you shower? I know your mom taught you basic hygiene.”

  “You’re such a dick.”

  His eyes become bright with humor. “Is there a reason you’re running out of the locker room like you’ve got a quickie waiting for you?” His brows lower. “You don’t have a quickie waiting on you, right? Tell me you didn’t double book me.”

  Before I can tell him to relax, Hoyt catches up with us.

  “Did I hear Kostas mention Rose? Rose Cartwright?” His eyebrows are raised, his smile crooked with insinuation. “Did you guys make a deal to hook up?”

  Luis’s eyebrows arch, looking at me for a quick reply.

  I shake my head. “You need to stop spying on people in the locker room, perv,” I tell Hoyt.

  He laughs heartily. “C’mon, I hear her name, and I can’t help but listen. That girl is hot, and I’ve heard she’s got a rule that she only sleeps with guys once. Talk about a win-win.”

  Luis winces as he turns away. The guy can’t mask his thoughts to save his life, much less my back.

  “You should ask her. I don’t know anything. We hung out a couple of times because Arlo dates her roommate.”

  Hoyt’s grin returns. “I know. She came and hung out this summer. We went tubing down the river and did some bonfires and went to the beach—"

  “Why are we talking about this? Shouldn’t we be discussing how you failed to strip a single tackle last week?”

  Hoyt takes a step back, rubbing his hand over his short-cropped hair. As one of the most easy-going and excitable team members, regret attaches to my words and shoves me dangerously close to apologizing. Before I can consider it, he nods. “You’re right. We’ve got to stay focused on the game. It’s more important.”

  “You keep trying to hit down, and you’ve got to hit up, pop that ball out. We’ll work on it tomorrow at practice.”

  Hoyt extends his fist, and I knock my knuckles against his. “See you later, Captain,” he says before heading toward the parking lot.

  “She’s still under your skin, huh?”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  “I get it, man.”

  Luis has been dating Al
exis for three years. The two are basically stitched at the hip. He doesn’t understand a damn thing.

  “Trust me—it’s over.”

  “Let’s go watch some tape and get some food. God, I’m missing pizza. I’m eating some Sunday night. No regrets.”

  “Stevie made something with salmon for tonight.”

  “Oh. I can go for salmon, especially if it’s got that soy-ginger sauce he made last time. You know, you can just tell him to expect me for dinner every night.”

  “He says you insulted his cooking.”

  “I grabbed the salt one damn time.”

  My laughter is interrupted by my phone ringing with multiple alerts. I reach for it, reading through the train of texts.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “My parents are moving back next week,” I tell him, scrolling through the lengthy number of messages from my dad. “My dad is going to run for governor.”

  4

  Rose

  Our professor stalks to the front of the class, her back straight, shoulders pulled back. Professor Krayzer is fierce and whip-smart. She garners attention by choosing engaging topics, which makes her class much more enjoyable than a traditional lecture. This morning, we’ve been picking apart our most recent reading assignment, but she manages the discussion in a thoughtful and provocative manner that doesn’t tarnish the author but the ideals that were mentioned from the early nineties when it was published. I kind of want to be her in twenty years, sans the teaching.

  It’s Thursday, our first class, and already I know that Labor Economics will be my favorite course of the semester—with the large exception that Ian is in the class. I’m still nursing the wound he inflicted when he came in and swept his gaze across the room and chose the seat farthest away from me.

  I glance in Ian’s direction again, considering the article I still have to write for The Daily Dose that will be publishing on Monday. I’m supposed to cover their home game against Montana. He stares straight ahead, allotting me a brief moment to trace over the planes of his jaw that are chiseled and straight, leading to his chin that has the slightest dimple, which I can’t see from this angle. He leans back and starts to twist in his seat like he feels my stare. I nonchalantly turn my attention from him to my laptop, where my football notes are currently open. After the shock and disappointment of my new assignment for the paper had settled and determination fueled me, I reached out to Dean Putney. He previously wrote the sports column but quit last year, disgruntled about the decision to cut a day of publication due to budget restrictions. His hard truth was I had to write about football for much of the year because it was proven to drive readership. Thus, for the past three days, Arlo’s been teaching me about football every night like it’s my new part-time job.