Page 5 of The Rookie's Sister

My throat constricts. Dad has dreamed about this since Jeff first tossed a football at age three—his boy going pro. And Dad was supposed to be right by his side through it all: the highs, the lows, the victories, and defeats. But now...

Dad seems to read my thoughts, his bushy brows furrowing. “Just a minor speed bump. I’ll be back on my feet before the season starts.” But we both hear the hollow note in his words.

I stare at the heart monitor, watching the spikes march across the screen. “You need to focus on your health right now. Let me handle Jeff.”

Dad’s eyes flash, and for a second I see a glimpse of his old vitality. “Now you listen here. This changes nothing. Jeff’s future is too important—” A wheezing cough cuts him off.

My shoulders tense as I wait for the spasm to pass. When Dad’s breathing returns to normal, I keep my voice measured. “Dad, you’re in no shape to manage Jeff’s career. Not when—” I gesture helplessly around the room. “Let me take over temporarily. At least until you’re back on your feet.”

Dad’s mouth sets in a grim line. We lock eyes, two bullheaded forces focused on the same goal but clashing over strategy. I prepare for an argument.

But then Dad’s face softens, something like pride flickering across his tired eyes. “Look at you, baby girl. All grown up.” He lays a trembling hand against my cheek. “Okay, sunshine. The reins are yours for now.”

Relief and panic war inside me. Dad’s trust means everything, but the weight of responsibility threatens to crush me.

Dad seems to sense my trepidation. He gives my hand one last pat. “You’ve got this, Emma. Now go show them what a Thompson can do.”

I smile through the sheen of tears misting my eyes.

Game time.

* * *

The moment I step into Thunderhawks’ strategy room, the harsh glow of halogen lights meets the glass doors, flashing a short-lived glare that dances across my vision. I blink hard, forcing the shadows and shapes to coalesce into something recognizable—a long table, the centerpiece of the room, surrounded by a cadre of people engrossed in paper shuffling and the synchronized tap-tap-tapping of laptop keys.

It’s like entering the Situation Room but for football. A war room for million-dollar plays and multimillion-dollar players. My fingers wipe against the fabric of my pantsuit, damp from nervous sweat. I scan the room for any sign of friendliness, any semblance of an ally.

“Emma! Hey, Emma!”

The voice sails across the room, a buoy in a sea of uncertainty. I pivot toward it, and my shoulders drop a fraction as I spot Holly Jones, the assistant offensive coach, waving energetically. She’s the kindest soul in this viper’s pit.

I make my way to her, letting my heels hit the floor with purpose. “Thank God you’re here, Holly. I was afraid I’d be swimming with sharks alone.”

Her laughter washes over me, a sonic hug. “Sharks are more afraid of you than you are of them. Besides,” she leans in, her voice a soft whisper, “today the big bosses are here.”

Her eyes cut to the end of the table. There sits Robert O’Malley, the team owner. As if beckoned by our attention, Xavier, the star player turned devil’s advocate, turns and winks at me—an exaggerated, deliberate gesture. I resist the urge to roll my eyes skyward. Forget sugar and spice; dealing with that ego is a job for a cattle prod.

“I hope you’re prepared,” Holly presses her arm against mine, a tactile pep talk.

I straighten my blouse and wish for the nth time that I wore a more imposing outfit—a power suit for a power meeting. But I’m stuck with a blouse and skirt. “Prepared as I’ll ever be,” I reply, and Holly’s nod makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I do belong here.

The head coach walks in and stands at the head of the table. His gaze sweeps the room, an invisible wave that silences any lingering chatter. “We have a lot to cover. Let’s begin.”

The room obeys, diving into a dissection of recent scrimmages, all the while a coil tightens in my gut, winding up for the inevitable discussion about my brother, Jeff. Just when I think I might implode, the coach takes off his glasses, rubs his temples, and speaks.

“Thompson. The kid shows promise, but potential is nothing without performance, and he’s lacking.”

I’m already formulating a defensive strike when Xavier, a maestro of interruption, cuts in.

“Coach, I have to concur. Thompson is raw talent, and raw talent is still half-baked.”

My eyes narrow as I meet his gaze. “Are you saying my brother’s not up to par, Xavier?”

His eyes dance, filled with the enjoyment of a cat toying with a mouse. “I’m saying he needs refinement. Maybe someone could guide him, refine him. I’d be willing to take on that challenge.”

I cross my arms. “So you’re suggesting mentorship as a guise for ego-stroking?”

“More like shaping potential into greatness,” Xavier retorts, a sly grin on his lips.

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