Page 28 of Calling the Shots

“Okay, boys. We’re going to start with drills this afternoon. First up, the redirect drill. Remember we did this last week. Get into your lines and let’s go.”

The boys fall into their three lines, one behind the other, and I stand five yards ahead of the first line.

“Now, first row—I expect to see y’all exploding off this line. Keep your eyes on the ball. Ready?” I snap the football off to the left and the front row moves, chasing the ball down the line.

“That’s it! Yes, Griffin, just like that. Take the shortest route possible. Next line!”

The second row moves up, taking position, and I fire off the football. This time I snap the ball to the right and a few of the players scramble.

“Some of y’all guessed wrong,” I chide. “Watch my eyes. Next!”

The third row steps up and I snap the ball to the far right. None of the players misstep, all moving toward the ball this time.

“Good work, third line. First line—again!”

We run the redirect drill five or six times, then I move the players down the field to the blocking stations. They practice tackling with the dummies and I scribble notes for Friday’s game. Sweat beads on my low back and my polo sticks to my skin, although it’s nearly five pm and the sun’s quickly sinking.

Finally, Coach Carter blows his whistle, signaling the end of practice.

“Good work today, boys. See you tomorrow!” He waves everyone off and Baker and I walk around, collecting equipment.

“Baker, you coming over for pizza?” Coach Carter asks, tossing a football into the mesh gear bag.

“Can’t. I promised Lindsey I’d work on the nursery this week. She’s starting to panic that the room won’t be ready in time.”

“Dude. Don’t you have a few months still?” I frown over at him, wondering when my friend transformed.

“Yes. Four months, most likely. The doctor explained to her that she probably won’t deliver early, since this is her first pregnancy and all. But she said she’ll feel loads better once the nursery’s ready.” Baker throws up his hands in defeat. “Whatever. I just want to make her happy right now.”

Coach Carter chuckles, shaking his head. “The old mantra, ‘I just want to make her happy.’ Words to live by, Baker.”

“Whipped,” I mutter under my breath, teasing, and Baker punches me in the biceps.

“One day you’ll understand, Mack. Sometimes the path of least resistance is better. Happy wife, happy life.” Baker fishes his keys out of his bag, throwing the duffel over his shoulder. “See y’all tomorrow.”

He hustles off the field and I stare at his retreating backside.

“Tell me that doesn’t happen to everyone.” I turn to Coach Carter, searching for reassurance, and he just laughs.

“Wish I could, Mack. But happens to the best of ‘em. Come on, let’s drop off the equipment and go watch the game.”

Two hours later, the pizza’s devoured and I’m two beers in, my max on a weeknight. We’re sitting in his living room at opposite ends of his ancient sofa, the television blaring.

“I thought this game would be closer,” Coach Carter grumbles, stretching his legs out. Carter’s tall, six-three at least. A former football player himself, he seems oversized in the tiny space.

“Yeah, it’s not very riveting, that’s for sure.” I pick at a callous at the base of my hand, wondering how much longer I need to stay. Normally, we watch the entire game including the recap. But tonight, I have other things on my mind.

Namely, a certain curvy blonde I should stay away from.

“You check your fantasy? Looks like you’re back in good standing after tonight.” Carter taps on his cell phone, scrolling through the fantasy football points.

“Not yet. I had total faith.”

That’s a lie. I purposely kept my phone in my pocket to avoid the temptation of texting Gracelyn.

“You okay? Baker get you worked up tonight? You seem distracted.” Carter narrows his deep blue eyes at me, like he’s reading the field. I try not to squirm under his stare.

“Me? Yeah, I’m good. Why wouldn’t I be?” I take the last slug of my beer, set the bottle on the coffee table.

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