They all mumble out various yessir comments.
Shaking his head, Wiley passes the ball to Grant. “For the rest of this practice, your sole purpose is to carry the weight of your quarterback.”
They all nod like they get it, but they’re not even close.
“Jones, you’ll start it off. Pick Grant up and start doing laps. When you can’t carry him any longer, you pass him to another lineman. The rest of you follow along and be ready to help carry Grant.”
Confusion mars each guy’s face, but then that transforms into dreadful understanding.
“But, sir, that’s two hours,” the center comments.
“You’re correct, Hoffman. And if so much as a shoe string from Grant’s cleat touches the ground, the entire group of you, minus Grant, will be benched the first game of the season.”
“But, sir—”
“Get on with it.” Wiley points to Grant.
Jones swiftly picks up Grant’s six-four frame and drapes him over his arm, before taking off along the sidelines with the rest shuffling behind them.
“What if I gotta take a leak, sir?” Grant calls out.
“Do what you have to do, but your foot best not touch one blade of grass or all your linemen pay the consequence.”
They set out, so Trey and I refocus on our task, both fighting grins. Sensing Wiley shift his stance closer to me, I get a little nervous.
“Do you get paid to supervise my practices?” He doesn’t call me kid, and I guess that should earn him a few points, but his harsh tone wipes them out.
I take his lead from earlier and completely ignore the question. I figure it’s time to speed things up and get out of Dodge. Trey seems to be on the same page, because the weasel has already grabbed up the unneeded tools and has hightailed it on me. Talk about loyalty.
Standing up and brushing the muck off my pants, I say, “I’m done, Coach.” Without waiting for a response, I follow in Trey’s abandoning wake.
Chapter Four
The last two months have flown by in rapid speed with me keeping clear of Wiley while he’s on my field. Doesn’t mean I’m not supervising some of his practices from a conveniently unlocked box suite. It’s my right to keep an eye on my field. We have a perfectly maintained practice field, but Wiley refuses to use it most of the time.
Standing in the packed stands, my skin tingles with excitement as “Centuries” starts booming through the stadium’s sound system. The acknowledging roar of the crowd is deafening, as the army of black and gold rushes the field.
A glorious sun is shining this fine September Sunday, and the field looks awesome from this angle. The only thing not perfect is the guy standing next to me. I’ve never seen him in my life, but he’s carrying on like we’re engaged. I’ve already shrugged his heavy arm off my shoulder one too many times in the past fifteen minutes. From the rancid smell his breath is emitting and the noticeable sway, I’d say he started his celebrating yesterday. All I want is to watch this game, and my drunken fiancé is ruining it. He finally turns his attention to his buddy, so I scurry away. I’ve got roughly ten good minutes to find me another spot before kick-off. The only option is the box suites.
Pushing through the thick crowd with my mind made up, I hurry to my office upstairs. I can’t blend in while wearing my uniform, so I strip it off as soon as I lock my door. Pulling on a pair of black slacks and a creamy-gold top, I glance nervously at the clock as I yank a brush through my black mane. I shove my feet into a pair of too-high heels while working my hair into a loose bun. The mirror on the wall reflects the impatience in my light-blue eyes. Those babies are framed with a thick fringe of lashes so mascara isn’t needed, but I do swipe some lip gloss on as I grab my box suite pass on the way out the door.
Today is a special game. It’s opening day and Cooper Stadium has the honor of playing host, so I know the big guy will be in the main suite with the investors—great advantage for me with trying to sneak myself in. I’m getting right hungry, so I choose the VIP suite, since I know the menu for this room today includes baby back ribs and potato salad. The room is all abuzz and everyone is busy watching the field. The sweet, tangy aroma of barbeque sets my mouth to watering, but I leave the food alone for the time being and scoot over to claim a seat up front. Nope. I’m not shy.
“Hello, dear,” a lovely voice greets from beside me.
I glance over with enough politeness before honing back to the field in time to see the kick-off. “Hello. Isn’t this exciting?”
The older lady chuckles warmly. “It most certainly is—new coach and practically a new team.”
“No doubt,” I say, jumping to my feet when one of our guys goes down. Ugh. And the game just got started! We all clap when he gets up and walks off the field unassisted. Thank goodness.
“So you like this sport?”
“Absolutely,” I say as the opposing team in silver and dark-blue snaps the ball. One of our big boys stops it before they can make the first down. “Yeah!” I shout along with most of the room.
“What do you think about the new coach?” the dark-grey haired lady asks.
My lips twitch with wanting to release a grin when I meet her mossy-green eyes. “Your son is the best quarterback our country has ever had, and I’m putting my money on him being the best coach as well.” I squeeze her shoulder when I notice a pink blush color her cheeks. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Black. I’m Samantha Shaw. Now, no more fishing for compliments, young lady.” You can tell she is a proud momma and she most certainly has the right to be.
My mock-scold causes her husband, Nolan Black, to bark out in laughter. He reaches around her from where he’s sitting on her other side to shake my hand. He’s a big man with a mostly bald head, but I see a lot of Wiley’s handsome features were divvied out from him.
“The stadium is spectacular,” he comments, and now I do grin.
“Oh yes. And those logos painted on the field are extraordinary,” Mrs. Black chimes in.
“Why thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Black. I completely agree.”
“Please call us Maggie and Nolan,” she corrects.
“Does it matter which?” I ask as they laugh. I bring my attention to the spectacular logo they were bragging about and cringe. “Oh no.”
“What’s wrong, dear?”
“Nothing,” I mutter to her as I text Zane to meet me in my office first thing in the morning. Sure enough, the logo is beyond awesome, but it’s not the one I gave him to paint. Yes, the company name is there and all the info, but the design is nothing like the original.
After the second quarter begins, with only a three point field goal being scored by the Bobcats, my phone pings with a new text. I’m expecting it to be Zane, but find Cooper’s assistant letting us know that all department heads are to meet an hour after the game in his office. I don’t consider myself a department head and he knows this, so I’m not surprised when the message comes through—that includes you, Miss Shaw. Great! I know it’s the logo, too. That was a costly mistake.
Shoving the phone in my pocket along with my worries, I refocus on the field. Offense is at the line of scrimmage and my gut tenses. The ball doesn’t get very far. Not good. “Come on Jones!” I holler like he can actually hear me.
“What’s wrong with that big boy?” Maggie asks.
“Jones is having a hard time seeing past the stars swirling around his head to do his job. Fame does that to some of these boys.” I blurt this out without much thought. Several sharp looks tell me I need to remember to think next time.
I settle back down in my chair and watch with frustration coursing through my veins. Another play and Grant goes down. “Pull him, Black!” I yell with my heart picking up speed. Maybe I should have watched from home…
My eyes scan the sideline until they land on Wiley, and watch on as he yanks the headset off while yelling with flailing arms towards Jones. I happily settle down when he takes to yelling in the player’s face and then points behind him. A timeout is called. Wiley t
hreads his hands through his hair and that movement has captured my rapt attention. I do appreciate how that gold polo shirt stretches tightly across those well-defined shoulders and how he fills a pair of black pants out nicely…
“Honey. Yoo-hoo.” Maggie is saying something but I’ve not caught a word of it.
“I’m sorry. What was that?”
“It’s only Wiley’s first game. He’ll get them straightened out.” Momma Bear is taking up for her baby and I don’t blame her.
Patting her arm, I say, “I’m confident he will.”
Halftime shows up before we know it, with me digging into the glorious grub. I notice a gathering of tall, underfed beauties staying as far away from the food as possible. It’s as though they fear the calories may reach out and grab ahold of them if they get too close. Maggie is filling a plate beside me, and I just can’t help myself.
Nodding towards the scantily clad Barbies, I ask, “Which one of those lovelies belongs to your son?”
“Oh. None, dear. My Wiley says he doesn’t have time for such…” She trails off. I’m guessing he’s still licking his wounds from his very public break-up. Not to mention the fact his ex-fiancée moved right on to the next up-and-coming football star, without so much as a glance back.
I don’t bug her for any more dirt. It’s none of my business anyway. I do take my overfilled plate of ribs and elbow myself in the midst of the starved beauties—just for meanness. They scatter like flies on the run from the flyswatter. A chuckle slips from me as I dig into the tangy barbeque goodness.
In the second half, it’s very noticeable our players have settled down and are playing good enough to pull the win—28 to 24. I enjoyed my time with the Blacks and am relieved how the game turned out.
What I’m not relieved about is sitting in this office with about a dozen bigwigs. I’m back in my uniform and really need to get to work, but I’m stuck against my will, might I add. The meeting trickles on and I find my mind wandering along the long list of afternoon tasks until an elbow nudges me in the side. As the elbow retreats, I notice the room has gone silent. Great. What did I miss?
“Miss Shaw.” The big guy in charge drawls this out. I instantly seek him out and find him perched grandly at his desk. Stark white hair—thick and impeccable—gives the scowl he’s wearing a softness without meaning to.
“Yes, sir?”
“What do you have to say about the logo mishap?”
“I think the guy has too much talent to be wasting it on spray-painting fields.” My gaze roams the group and discovers each suit with their own scowl. Tough crowd. “But it was very inappropriate. Zane will be given a week’s suspension without pay.” Which is perfect because next week’s game is away.
The group goes a few rounds about the logo debacle until the meeting comes to an end. I try scooting my body in the midst of the crowd exiting in hopes of making a clean getaway.
“Miss Shaw.”
Ugh. I should have made a run… no, a sprint for it. Too late.
“May I have a word with you, privately?” Cooper asks.
“Umm… I’ve got quite a busy schedule…” Catching the expression on his face, it’s clear he’s not asking. “Sure.” Dragging my feet over to a chair in front of his desk, I plop down and wait for the rest of the room to finish clearing out.
Easing back into his leather throne, Cooper gets right to it. “Samantha, I can’t have you costing us ten thousand dollars just because you want to make some kid your pet project.”
“That’s a ridiculous statement, Dad.” I sit straighter in my chair to better defend the situation. “Zane was just testing the waters.” A reddening is creeping along his neck, causing me to reword that with hands held up in justification. “A costly testing, I know. He won’t ever do it again.”
“Next stunt like that, he’s to be terminated immediately, and you’ll be forking out the fine from your own pocket.”
“Wow, that’s steep for a head groundskeeper’s salary.”
“Don’t get smart with me, young lady.”
Ouch. I felt the sting from his sternness all the way from here. I guess my dad is in no playing mood. No longer sitting straight, I say, “Yessir.”
“You’re part owner of this stadium and team. You know what’s at stake.”
“Yessir.”
Dad sold me half the company the day I graduated college for a hefty ten bucks—that’s what I had in my pocket and that’s what he accepted. Yes, I’m blessed. No, I don’t take it for granted.
“Enough of that. I want you in the owner’s box next game.” The red from his neck is gone now that he thinks he has the upper hand.
“No can do. I’ve got to be keeping a closer eye on field situations from now on.” Crossing my arms, I wait for the red to creep back up, but am surprised when Dad chuckles.
“You’re as stubborn as your—”
“Dad,” I add quickly. And he knows it’s the truth. I catch the ghost of a smile.
“Samantha, you’ve got to quit hiding in the shadows. You’re almost thirty years old, and it’s time you stop playing in the dirt.”
Oh no. Here comes the settling down lecture. “Dad, I really have work to do. Please not today,” I whine.
He brushes the topic away with a wave of his hand and moves on. “What do you think about Black?”
“He’s taking his job very seriously. He won’t be tolerating his players dropping the ball.”
“Good.”
“Although, I’m not crazy about him kicking me off my field. And he got ahold of me for watching his practice the other day. Said I didn’t get paid to supervise him.”
We both crack up at this, because I actually do get paid for just that. “Maybe it’ll do you good to have someone around here who can handle putting you in your place.”
“Dad!” He knows that’s not fair.
Again, he brushes that topic off and rapidly moves to another. “Your presence is requested for the game day opening party tonight.”
“Requested?” That’s not technically an order.
“Encouraged.”
“Encouraged?” That can be discouraged.
“Dang it, Sam. You’re ordered to be there.”
“Well, there’s just no wiggle room with you, is there?” I scoff and cross my arms.
“No. And be sure to wash up beforehand. Your mother has a new dress and all that stuff ready for you at the house.”
Glancing at my watch, I say, “I don’t know if I’ll have time to make it out to the house.” I exaggerate house because the word just doesn’t suit a multimillion-dollar mansion sitting grandly in the center of a four-hundred-acre ranch. You can get lost in it, and I’m glad dad had me a cottage built on the property a few years back.
“Samantha.” That’s all he has to say to let me know that there’s no wiggle room here either.
“Yessir.” I make a beeline for the door before he can request anything else. He and Mom wanted a son, but they got me. I’m a tomboy so it seems they would be happy to get a close second, but they’re always on me to act more like a lady. Good grief.
*****
Running my fingers through my newly obtained glossy-black waves, which the stylist brushed into submission, I scoot through the doors of the owner’s suite at the stadium eight minutes late. I try blending in the crowd and acting as though I’ve been here all along, but Dad is like the time police and has me in his sights in seconds.
He’s in front of me just that fast, too, and is about to say something when I stop him.
“I know. I’m late. You should send me straight home for punishment,” I say as he gives me a quick hug.
“I was going to say you look beautiful.”
My palms smooth down the length of the fancy black gown. The texture is silky and cool to the touch. “Well, the team of stylists Mom had attack me gave it their best shot.” I shrug.
Dad inspects my feet with a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness.”
“What
are you thanking goodness for now?”
“Your mother talked you into proper lady shoes, too.”
I glance down in disgust at the four-inch gold stilettos. “There’s nothing proper about these dang things,” I say as I lick my lips absently. Ugh. I’m trying not to lick the peach flavored lip gloss, but I’m hungry and am finding it distracting. The makeup artist accepted the hundred dollar bill I slipped him in exchange for not painting me up so bad. Just some peachy bronzer on my cheeks and eyelids and gloss on my lips and I was done.
Mom walks by, giving me a hurried hug before some friend of hers pulls her away. I got all my looks directly from her and all my attitude directly from this oil tycoon standing before me.
“Okay. What’s my agenda for tonight?” I scan the room and locate the buffet, knowing what I want my agenda to be.
“Socialize with the investors. And try playing pretty.”
“I can’t make any promises on that last part, sir.” My nose wrinkles on its own accord as my newly plucked eyebrows pinch in disdain.
“Knock it off. I want a smile.”
I can’t help but present a goofy fake grin.
Shaking his head in defeat, Dad says, “You’re a lost cause.” With that he dismisses me into the crowd.
An hour later, I’ve managed to play pretty by keeping close to the food. I’ve had a few old geezers offer me their numbers with me politely declining. And most of the women I’ve spoken with only want to know who my stylist is and where my gold cuff and chandelier earrings came from—all of which I had to direct them to my mother. I have no clue. The only thing I do know is my red-soled shoes have the Louboutin label and every female in the room has been drooling all over them.
I’ve served my time, so my achy feet start easing closer and closer to the door. My hand is just a few feet away from freedom, aka the doorknob, when I hear Cooper call out from behind me.
“Samantha.”
Reluctantly, I turn around and find he has a distracted Wiley Black in tow. I can’t help but notice how his intimidating form fills out a black suit remarkably well. From the impeccably styled hair and neatly trimmed scruff, I’d be willing to bet his mom arranged a stylist attack on him, too. I’ve not encountered him closely without shades and a hat shrouding us both. My mouth dries as I take in the unobscured view of the very tall drink of water.
Love's Sporting Chance: Volume 1: 6 Romantic sporting novellas Page 11
