Page 7 of Trapped and Tackled

She made me realize that there are women out there who aren’t after a player because of the job title or the money or the social status. There are women who just believe in love.

Imagine that?

Shaking my head at my wayward thoughts, I bound down the steps, and swing by the cafeteria for a shot of espresso. I have one more meeting with Coach Stevens before I head home.

Training camp has kicked off and I can’t afford distractions. Or missteps. This team—Coach Strauss specifically—has taken me under their wing and molded me into the player I am today.

A kicker who helped win the Super Bowl last season.

It’s a legacy I’d like to uphold. It’s the only thing I truly have to my name. Without football—who am I? What am I?

I’m a kid from Indiana who grew up solo, with a chip on my shoulder, and found an outlet in a game I love. That game bought me an education and a career and a team. A family.

I can’t sacrifice that for anything.

I take a sip of my espresso and check my Apple Watch. Ten minutes left.

“Yo,” Gage Gutierrez calls out.

I glance up and flip my chin in his direction. Sauntering over to the cafeteria table a few of my teammates are seated around, I drop down.

“What are you still doing here?” Jag Baglione asks.

I lean back in my chair. “Meeting with Stevens in a few.”

“Hey,” our wide receiver, Cohen Campbell, glances at our QB, Avery Callaway. “You think Leni showed up yet?”

“She did,” I confirm, before I realize he wasn’t asking me.

The guys at the table swing their gazes my way. I take another sip of espresso. Clear my throat. “Coach asked me to meet her at the main entrance and bring her up to his office until he finished a call.”

Avery shakes his head at me. “Don’t get any ideas, Miller. Leni Strauss is off-fucking-limits.”

Cohen scoffs. “He wasn’t getting ideas. Talon’s not that stupid.”

West Crawford tilts his head, pondering this assumption. “You sure?”

I flip him the middle finger. “She seems like a nice girl.”

“Ah, Len’s the best,” Cohen says sincerely. “Lincoln too. When they were in high school, Coach made them come to every home game.”

“Every pep rally, every charity event,” Callaway tacks on.

“He pointed out how smelly and gross we are.” Cohen laughs, gesturing around the table. “The stench of our pads?—”

“The piles of dirty towels,” Avery adds.

“Anything he could to steer those girls away from football players,” Cohen continues.

“Hell, athletes in general.” Avery nods. “Not that I blame coach. If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t want her anywhere near us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Leo Quincy quips, sliding into a chair next to West. “Crawford’s got a kid and?—”

“Nope,” West interjects. “Callaway’s right. I don’t want my baby girl anywhere near a football team when she grows up.”

The guys laugh and I force a grin, but something pulls tight in my chest.

I know they’re joking around—with a modicum of truth. But it’s the truth that cuts. Because no dad would want me around their daughter. Especially not a father like Coach Strauss. And definitely not a daughter like sunny Leni.

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