Page 19 of Offsides Attraction

“He tried.” They exchanged sympathetic glances. One of the assistant trainers was eager to use his newfound cupping skills, thanks to a weekend continuing education course he’d taken in Seattle before the season began.

“I’d rather do acupuncture,” Bash said, hoping to keep the conversation going and work on his small talk. It was getting easier with people he knew, like the team or training staff, but chatting with complete strangers was painful.

“I’d rather do a long massage, followed by a beer and a fishing pole. Best relaxation there is. Do you fish?” Nickerson asked. Coach Mack opened the door before Bash could admit he’d tried it once and preferred cupping. Too much stillness. He needed to move.

“If you ladies are done jabbering, how about we get this meeting started?” Coach Mack opened the door wider. “I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but the damn thing is blinking at me again. There’s water in the mini fridge.” Coach might be gruff, but he was big on hydration.

“Nickerson?” Bash asked as he grabbed a bottle. The coaches already had open bottles in front of them. Coach Shockley looked like he needed an IV drip of caffeine. The new dad was exhausted, and Bash wondered why anyone had more than one child.

“Sure.” Bash tossed it to him as the coaches exchanged glances. Nickerson looked nervous, like a kid called into the principal’s office. Bash was old enough and had been around long enough to know that odds were good the coaches wouldn’t chew them out in front of each other—if that’s what was happening—but this was the rookie’s first year.

“Sit.” Coach Mack pointed, and like well-trained dogs, they sat. Bash hadn’t been in the head coach’s office before. He’d expected stacks of papers, dirty coffee cups, and general chaos, but it was clean and tidy. He had some family photos on the credenza—him and his wife, Margie, a family photo from his son Alex’s wedding to London Banks, daughter of Stephanie Banks, the morning talk show icon, and Ian Banks the famous former NFL kicker turned sports show host, and close-up shots of the family’s sports legacy. Alex and his Olympic medals, CJ, his other son, with his Super Bowl ring, and one of his daughter and her Olympic hockey teammates. “I’ll cut to the chase before Sam falls asleep on us. You two need to knock it off.”

“Sir?” Nickerson asked.

“Whatever your issues are, they don’t belong on the field. Understand?”

“What issues?” Nickerson paled, and it looked like the giant was going to pass out. He was an inch taller than Bash, and he had at least eighty pounds more on him.

“The fact that you won’t follow Bash’s plays. They’re good and they have potential, but you consistently muck them up. You need to stop.”

Shit. Bash scrubbed his hand over his face. He’d planned to talk to Nickerson or Sam about this privately, but he’d avoided it. He knew his plays had potential, but Sam wasn’t pushing them, so Bash hadn’t pushed his suspicion. Doing so might open Pandora’s box.

“Is there a way we can take my plays and visualize them?” Bash asked.

Sam sat up. “You want charts?”

“We don’t need more charts,” Coach Mack growled.

“I think we do,” Bash said. “When I shared my plays with Sam and the others, they were written, with step-by-step instructions. I think pictures might be useful.” Coach Mack sighed and looked at Nickerson, who hung his head.

“Nickerson, would pictures help?” he asked, and Coach’s matter-of-fact tone impressed Bash. No blame. No condemnation. No shame.

“Yes,” the big man mumbled, looking at his shoes.

“Okay, then. We’ll get them done ASAP. Can you read?”

“I can read.”

“But you couldn’t read Bash’s plays.”

“They were pretty complex.” Bash shrugged and Sam shook his head no when the coach looked at them.

“Did you read your contract before you signed it?”

“My agent did.”

“Did you read your agent’s contract before you signed that?” Coach Mack sounded exasperated. Nickerson swallowed and the tips of his ears turned red.

“I’m not much of a reader.”

Sam rested his elbows on his knees, saying, “I’m not either, and neither is my son, Ben, but we read together as much as we can. We both have dyslexia, but Ruthie, my wife, has an interest in it. Without her, I don’t think I would have made it through college.” Nickerson met Sam’s eyes. “She might be able to help. I’d be happy to give you her phone number.”

Nickerson snorted. “She’s got enough on her plate with the new baby and the other kids.”

“Are you kidding me? She’d love something other than changing diapers and laundry. If you’re interested, we’ll make it work.”

“I’m no expert, but let me know how I can help. If it’s going to take several days to get the charts done, I could draw something. It won’t be pretty, but it might be usable,” Bash said. If they thought the plays had potential and the only thing keeping the offense from perfecting them was Nickerson’s non-collegiate reading skills, he’d draw the charts. It was a better use of his time than plotting the demise of the schools that graduated Nickerson.

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