She frowned. “My what?”
“Sorry,” I laughed. “We have to figure this out – are we binging ice cream and Netflix, or hot Cheetos and burning his pictures?”
“I don’t have any physical pictures of him.”
“Oh don’t worry about that, we’ll print them out,” I assured, making her giggle. “Or… you know what? Maybe we can mind our waistlines, and our brains, and not destroy anything? Let’s see if any animal shelters are open today. We should get a puppy.”
Her eyes went huge. “Really mom?!” she gushed, and I nodded.
“Sure. Um… there’s something else mommy needs to tell you… it’s related to the reason for the puppy. But I don’t want this, or the man, reaching your father. I’m not asking you to lie for me – don’t lie for me, if you’re outright asked. I want to tell him in my own time.”
“What, mom? You’re scaring me!”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing to be scared about. But um… you know your grandmother, my mother, died of a heart attack, right?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Well… it turns out that I have heart disease as well. But unlike her, I know about it, so it’s being treated. And I’m okay, I’m mostly healthy. I just have medicines that I have to take every day, and I have to eat well, and exercise.”
To my surprise, Madison nodded, not at all as freaked out as I thought she might be. “This group came and talked to us at school, about all of this. About keeping ourselves healthy, and looking out for our parents.”
I smiled, reminded of the seminars I’d attended at her age – the dangers of sex and smoking. “That’s good. So this isn’t entirely new information.”
“No. I knew how grandma died, before I was born, but you’re an athlete, you’re so healthy that I figured you didn’t need any of that stuff. So I never said anything to you. It’s not like you were gonna have a heart attack or something.”
When I didn’t say anything, her eyes got big again.
“…You’ve had a heart attack, haven’t you?”
“Yes. It’s how I found out about everything. And I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want you to be scared, because your mommy is just fine… as long as she does what she’s supposed to do. Okay?”
Madison nodded. “Okay. It’s just… a lot to take in.”
“I know. I know,” I admitted. “And this is not how I imagined telling you, moments after your first heartbreak, but… I don’t want to lie to you, Madison. My doctor recommended a dog because people with dogs tend to be more active, and dogs are good exercise companions. And if you get them trained, they can even help if – biiig, big if! – an emergency happens. But I think having something to take care of will help you right now too.”
“I get it. And I’m glad you told me. I’d noticed you didn’t seem like yourself, and I told Lang, and he said his mom got like that before they told him that his Dad had cancer. This is actually a lot less scary than what I had in my head.”
“Oh, baby. I’m so sorry,” I told her, pulling her into my arms again.
“It’s okay, mom,” she insisted. “I’m just happy to know what’s going on.”
“Okay. Okay,” I nodded, pushing myself up. “Well, let’s go then.”
Madison took on a crazy expression as she looked at me, and when I glanced down, I couldn’t do anything but laugh.
I was still in my robe, still in my headscarf, and my knees were reminiscent of powder.
“Okay, I am going to go get dressed,” I told her, laughing. “And then… we’re going to adopt a puppy!”
Nine
Who the fuck decided to host training camp in the middle of nowhere?
I sat back in the chair at the desk, tossing my useless phone across it. Of course I understood, logically, why we had training camp at a mostly-empty campus in the Connecticut woods, instead of our own perfectly capable practice facility.
Minimal distractions, peaceful setting… and apparently, extremely shoddy internet access.
It was that last one that had me so annoyed.
I needed to see what was being said about me on the internet.
Training camp had started out just fine. Everybody was present, and focused, and doing their best – even my rookie, who hadn’t given me a single problem. Things were good.
And then more people started to catch on.
Changing locations hadn’t changed the fact that training camp was open for the public to observe, and the Kings fans were out in full force. I didn’t mind the crowd – I had plenty of experience with tuning outside noise off. I would have been completely content to act like no one was there at all, if it weren’t for the text from Madison late last night, that I hadn’t seen until this morning.
Mom, everybody’s talking about you.
Between the spotty service and inconsistent internet, I hadn’t been able to get much more out of Mads and even less from social media, since I couldn’t keep a strong enough signal for anything to load.
Shit.
Maybe it was for the best anyway.
We had to finish these last few days strong, and this was a distraction I could do without. So instead of wasting further time, I headed to breakfast to start another long ass day.
At six in the morning.
It was breakfast, then morning walkthrough and practice, and interviews, then lunch, then afternoon practice, then smiling and shaking hands with whichever corporate sponsor or VIP was observing that day, and scrimmaging, and losing a player to an injury, and then the end of practice, and then dinner.
Every damn day.
Of the players we’d brought to camp, eleven were wide receivers. Only six would be lucky enough to be recognized as a King once the season started. Some would be cut, some relegated to the practice squad, and it was a decision that was widely up to me.
As if I needed more pressure.
Stepping into the coach’s dining hall, I acknowledged those who acknowledged me. No one had given me any direct grief – yet – but I’d be flat out stupid to think every man employed by this team appreciated a woman – a vocal Black one, at that – infiltrating a club they considered to be boys only, no girls allowed.
Luckily for me, I didn’t give a fuck.
“Morning, Brooks,” Underwood spoke as I joined him and a couple of coaching assistants at one of the tables. “Looks like you have a lot on your mind.”
“Always,” I told him, accepting a cup of decaf from one of the wait staff. “Only a few days left to give my recommendations for the team.”
He nodded, chomping down on a thick slice of bacon. “Understandable. Who are you thinking?”
“Well,” I sighed. “Johnson and Grant, obviously. And Amare. The kid is a star in the making.”
“Okay, so who are the other three?”
“Uh… Hart. Kittredge. Sanchez. Filmore. Gage.”
Underwood frowned. “That’s five.”
“So you understand my dilemma.”
Laughing, he sat back in his chair. “Yes, I do. But hey – think about it like this – three more days for them to prove themselves, not for you to decide. The performance makes the decision, not you.”
I nodded. “That’s true. A great way to think about it.”
“Besides – the bean counters might override you anyway. Could come down to who we can afford to keep.”
“Which is bullshit politics.”
“No, it’s professional football,” he teased. “Don’t just drink that coffee – eat something. I want you working on some drills with those guys today. Sponsors want to see some catches.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes, and instead, simply nodded. He was right – this was football, even the bureaucratic bullshit that went on behind the scenes.
I just had to survive it.
“Somebody chasing you with a chainsaw, Grant?” I called out, frustrated as hell, but trying not to cuss his ass out too early.
So far, his
antics had me barreling toward failing that mission.
Conventional wisdom suggested that it was wrong to have a favorite child, and even worse to just flat out not like one. Despite all that, if Terrence Grant were to have a sudden bout of amnesia, rendering all knowledge of his position and this team completely useless, but maintaining all other physical and mental capabilities… I wouldn’t be mad at that.
At all.
He got on my goddamn nerves.
“What’s the problem Coach B?” he asked, shuffling toward me with a wide grin – the kind that worked for the Jordan Johnsons of the world, but just looked irritatingly goofy on him.
“Did you forget what we’re doing? The scenario we discussed ahead of time?”
He shrugged. “What’s the problem, I caught the ball?”
Jesus, help keep my hands off his neck please.
“Too soon, Grant,” I reminded him. “The other positions are off working on their scenarios, so I understand that might be throwing you off, but listen up… again. What we’re working on right now is the fake-out. Making the defender guess what you’re doing next. We don’t want them looking at you, and instantly knowing our play because you’re heading top speed in a certain direction, and you’re moving too fast to switch without hurting yourself. You want to slow down, or you want a broken ankle?”
The look on his face told me he thought I was being dramatic, but I didn’t care. “You want me to do it again?” he asked.
“I want you to do it right.”
He blew out a sigh, mumbling something under his breath as he ambled away to get back in position for the drill.
And still fucked it up.
How the hell does he manage in a professional game?
Seeing Grant in action made me feel for the coach who’d retired, which had opened my place on the team. He was no Jordan Johnson, but numbers didn’t lie – Grant’s stats could hold their own with most professional receivers, but he was hell to coach – the problem I’d expected to have with Amare.
Amare was keeping his head down and doing his work though.
Grant was too busy trying to look good for the fans who were watching.
“Hard to catch a ball when you’re too far in front of it,” I insisted, not liking that I had to harp on him about the same damn thing – his speed. Yes, speed was important, but if you couldn’t modulate, there was no point to it. Full-on sprinting didn’t work for every. Damn. Thing.
“Since you know so damn much, why don’t you show me,” Grant challenged – obviously, he was as tired of being nagged as I was of nagging. He probably, like most, had no idea of my history beyond coaching at BSU, thought this was just something I’d learned from observing. Too bad he hadn’t been there at the rookie minicamp, to see what happened last time a player tried to challenge my knowledge and experience.
Amare did that so Grant wouldn’t have to go through it.
But alas, here we were.
I’d demonstrated things here and there throughout training camp, but had managed to mostly stay low key. Now though, in front of all the receivers, a group of fans in the stands who were observing, and Underwood who’d ambled over with several assistants… I couldn’t back away from this challenge.
Which scared the hell out of me.
“Of course,” I quipped, my voice sounding about a million times more confident than I felt. “I can run through it for you. Pay close attention.”
I gave a few directions to set up the play, hoping no one noticed how badly my hands were shaking. One of the assistants blew the whistle, and I started off, going in the opposite direction of where in a game, my quarterback would be looking for me. Then, suddenly, I pivoted, using a burst of speed to get where I needed to be, just in time to spring upward, snatching the ball into the safety of my arms.
As I came down, I slipped a little, but kept the ball secure as my knee hit the turf. Knowing I couldn’t just leave it at that – in college football, that knee hitting the ground would’ve been the end of the play. I needed the incoming rookies to see the difference - I pushed up, taking off again because the ball was still live.
I didn’t go far, just enough to make my point as the female fans in the stands went crazy, yelling out several cheers, including one “Bitch you better show them how it’s done!” that made me look up and wave as I jogged back to where my players were standing.
“That’s what I mean,” I told Terrence, tossing the ball to one of the assistants. “Take over for a minute for me,” I told Coach Underwood, a little under my breath. “I’ve been holding it, but I really need to pee.”
Underwood laughed, patting me on the shoulder. “Go ahead, morning drills are almost over anyway. Take your time, while we discuss your nickname. I’m thinking Bullet Train.”
I chuckled, then headed off to the sideline, exchanging words with a few people as I went. My footsteps got more and more urgent as I went, rushing to the fieldhouse and heading straight past the bathrooms to find somewhere, anywhere private.
I found my solace in an empty stairwell at the back of the building, where I put my back to the wall, sliding to the floor with my hands pressed over my left breast, trying to calm the rapid-fire pounding of my heart, trying to convince myself that wasn’t an ache in my chest.
Trying to convince myself I wasn’t dying.
Just breathe, Sloane.
Just breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
It wasn’t working.
None of it.
The calming or convincing or breathing.
I swallowed hard as I fished my cell phone from my pocket, praying it would have enough of a signal to get a call out. The two little bars my screen showed only seemed to make my heart rate spike higher as I navigated to the number I’d practically begged for before the team piled on buses to get here.
“Dr. Sharpe,” I gushed, relieved when he actually answered the number he’d assured me was his personal cell.
“Ms. Brooks? What happened?” he asked, already knowing there had to be an issue for me to have used the number. I’d promised that an issue would be the only reason I utilized it.
“I… I did something stupid. And I’m really scared,” I admitted, trying my best to choke back tears. “I ran a play, and I… my chest hurts, and I’m having trouble breathing, and I—”
“Ms. Brooks. Sloane,” he said, in that soothing ass voice that I appreciated more than he knew. “Calm down. I know it’s hard, but I just need you to stop for a second, and just breathe. Nothing else right now, just focus on breathing.”
Did I not just tell this man I was dying?
“Breathe,” he insisted, like he knew I was still too busy bugging out to listen. I closed my eyes, trying my best to do what he’d said, and after a few moments, I was able to fall into a natural pattern and catch my breath, when I hadn’t before.
“You still with me?”
I nodded, as if he could see me, eyes still closed. “Yes.”
“Still hurting?”
“No.”
“Okay, let’s give it a minute or two. Where are you? Can somebody help get you to the team doctor?”
Instantly, my heart rate spiked up again. “I cannot go to the team doctor,” I snapped as my eyes popped open.
“Then can you get back here, to me?”
“No,” I said quietly, shaking my head. “Not for… another three days.”
Dr. Sharpe sighed. “Ms. Brooks, if you’re feeling chest pains, you need to see somebody. Are you still hurting now? Has the pain come back?”
“No. No, it hasn’t. And I can breathe. I’m just freaked out.”
“And that’s probably all this is – anxiety-induced angina. It doesn’t feel good, but it’s not a heart attack. This is probably the most you’ve gotten your heart rate up since your cardiac event, and it frightened you. That on top of the stress of your job, on top of your fear of another heart attack… did you ever get that puppy we talked about?”
> I pushed out a sigh of my own. “No. My daughter didn’t see one that “spoke” to her, so we put it off until after training camp. I did consider it though.”
“Good. Pets are excellent companions for managing stress and anxiety. I also want you to consider starting a yoga program.”
“I don’t have time for that,” I immediately shot back.
“Then make it. Listen… I want you to see your team doctor, today, just to be safe. But I can’t make you, and I know you’re probably not going anyway. I want you to promise me though, that if you feel chest pains again – persistent ones that don’t go away when your heart rate comes down, or when you lay down, or anything like you felt the first time it happened… get your behind to the team doctor.”
“I promise. I do,” I swore, and really meant it. I believed what he said about me having just scared the shit out of myself – this time. But if this happened again, especially unprovoked, I was going straight to the team doctor, weakness be damned.
After I wrapped up the call with Dr. Sharpe, I took a few more minutes to myself before I eased back into the mix of the day, enduring my teasing about needing to do more than pee with good humor. Getting joked on was leaps and bounds better than the truth coming out right now, as far as I was concerned.
The remainder of the day was uneventful for the most part, and as soon as I could, I got myself back to the privacy of my room. My concerns about my heart may have been a false alarm, but the fatigue was real.
I took a much-needed shower after being in the sun all day, thankful once again that the coaches had been placed in faculty housing, which meant my bathroom was private. I needed to just stand under the hot spray, letting it soak over me for as long as I wanted, without any worries about who might walk in.
Once I was out, a quick glance at the time told me it wasn’t even nine at night yet. Some of the other coaches were probably out in the common areas, socializing, but they’d have to miss this face tonight.
I was taking my ass to bed, to get up and do this all over again the next morning.
Pass Interference (Connecticut Kings Book 6) Page 13
