Page 100 of The Coach

I clench my fists.

“If it were relevant, you would know. You’re not a friend. You’re acolleague.So stop acting all weird.”

“Alright, alright.” He lifts his hands in surrender, backing toward the door. “But if you start slipping up in games? I’m coming right back to dig.”

“Get out.”

He chuckles as he leaves.

I sit back down, pressing play on the film.

I force myself to focus.

To see the field. The plays. The game.

I can’t afford to be distracted.

I can’t afford to let this thing with Ivy—whatever the hell it is—pull me away from my job.

At work, I’m locked in.

But when I get home?

When I finally let my guard down?

That’s a different story.

The players are already in their seats, laughing, shooting the shit, too damn comfortable.

Not on my watch.

I slap a remote onto the table. The room goes silent.

Dallas Connelly raises an eyebrow from the front row, arms crossed, watching me.

I don’t say anything. Just press play.

On the screen are the ugliest plays from our last game. The missed tackles. The blown coverages. The lazy secondary routes.

I let it play for a full thirty seconds.

Then, I turn to face them, voice sharp, cutting.

“You think you’ve arrived, gentlemen?”

Silence.

I scan the room, looking each of them dead in the eye.

“You think you’re hot shit because we won our first three games?”

A few guys shift in their seats.

“I don’t care what the scoreboard said. That was a sloppy fucking victory. Sloppy football doesn’t win championships. It might work on a second-tier team, but in the playoffs, sloppy football gets you embarrassed. And if we play like that in Minnesota?”

I pause. Let it sink in.

“They will run us into the fucking ground.”