Page 81 of Risky Game

Logan

I loved this game. I loved everything about it. I loved the smell of both turf and grass, the lingering scent of freshly painted sidelines. I loved the smell of sweat, the clang of a hard tackle. I loved the roar of the crowd, the comraderies of the players.

There wasn’t a damn thing I enjoyed more than football, except for maybe recently, being buried in Ruby’s sweet, warm cunt.

Her last text of the night had irritated me. Knowing she pleased herself without me, even if she’d done it thinking of me, had thought to ask me first, made me jealous. I didn’t want anyone in charge of her orgasms, even herself, until our time together ended. I went to bed cranky because of it. And the fact I knew she’d silenced her notifications to be sassy. Crazy how well she knew me.

I was over it in the morning, pushed it to the side while we had a quick morning meeting with the team and then a walk-through at the stadium before the gates opened. We warmed up, then went back to the lockers. Guys who needed the attention spent time in the physical therapy room, getting massages and being taped up. Other guys headed to the bikes to keep their muscles loose and warm.

Others sat their behinds down on the couches and played video games. A few kicked a soccer ball around to stay loose, too.

I sequestered myself in the coach’s office with the rest of my team. We drove ourselves crazy, going over our list. Was there anything else to do? Any changes to be made? We had two hours until game time and the only thing that could have distracted me from getting this first win, setting the expectations for our team and the fans, and letting the entire league know without doubt I was the best coach to lead this time, was the awareness that at any moment, Ruby and Amelia were going to be out there, cheering my team on.

“We need to stop this.” Allen Jacobi shoved his iPad out of the way and dropped his head into his hands. “We’re driving ourselves crazy.”

“I agree,” Tom Hansom, the defense coach, said. He closed the cover on his iPad with a resounding snap.

“I know. I know we do. We’re ready.” I tugged off my ball cap, scrubbed a hand through my hair, and resettled the hat on my head. “Right?”

I scanned the table. For all of their moaning a bit ago, all the coaches glanced at each other. They nodded, but they were slow, hesitant nods that didn’t give me the confidence I was hoping for.

The call was mine to make.

They were right. We were ready. I doubted I’d ever feel one hundred percent ready for a game. I never had when I played or when I ran the offense in California. Doubts came with the job. Small tweaks could always lead us closer to perfection.

Constantly doubting myself would make me hesitant when it came time to call the plays.

“You’re right,” I told them all and met each of them in the eyes. “We’re ready. The team is ready. Cole is healthy, our entire defense stepped it up last week. Special team has been explosive, and Moore hasn’t been kicked in a game since November last season. There’s nothing we can do to be more ready for this game.”

Small smirks followed by grins broke free on all of them. “Hell yeah, Coach.”

Damn, I loved being a coach. I shoved back from the table. “I’m going to grab lunch and hope like hell I don’t throw up on the sidelines.”

Jacobi chuckled. Hanson rolled his eyes. “We’re ready. We have the best team in the league even with trades and rookies, and the guys know what they’re doing. Bonus, Los Angeles is projected to have one of the worst defenses, so that’s helpful.”

Right. I’d been ignoring my first game as head coach was against my previous team. It should have given me more confidence. I knew their plays, their offense. Unless the new OC had come in and changed everything up, we were more than prepared for this game.

Hanson’s reminder only made me jittery at facing my old head coach as an equal. We hadn’t spoken much since I left, and he wasn’t thrilled or encouraging of me to leave.

It was more I had to prove.

I glanced back at my iPad… maybe we could…

“No.” Jacobi slapped his hand over my tablet and slid it away. “Don’t doubt yourself now.”

I glared at him. “Fine.”

“Go eat.”

My scowl deepened. A grin broke out on his face. “Go, Logan, before you have an aneurysm before the kickoff happens.”

“Fine.” I laughed, threw my hands up in defeat. The team was ready. I was ready. And Ruby and Amelia were waiting.

I ate. I checked in on the players in the physical therapy room. I double-checked the laminated card that held all of our plays and my game plan before tucking it back into my pocket. With nothing left to do except worry and second-guess myself for the umpteenth time, I headed toward the field. I breathed in the excitement from the fans who were arriving. The marketing trailers and the team’s promotions on the screens. The lights of the field had me adjusting my hat against the glare, and I stepped out of the tunnel onto the corner of the field.

This was it. A lifetime goal I’d had for myself ever since I knew I wouldn’t continue playing football. I was there, leading a team. Soon to be surrounded by almost seventy thousand fans, many critics included. My pulse raced and my hands burned with nerves, but it wasn’t only nerves.

It was the excitement. The thrill. I stepped farther out onto the field and turned in a slow circle. Los Angeles was just leaving the field and there was a small group of my own players down by our closest goalpost. Jassen, Knox, and others kneeled on one knee. Their elbows planted on the other. Their foreheads rested on their fists while the group gave one final prayer.

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