Page 7 of Ignite

All I needed was to try and coach a modern-day hero. But if I wanted to get the team’s respect, I needed to start with Reece Sinclair.

Before Reece could reach me, the door banged open as a swarm of young men in their twenties strode in and you could almost cut the testosterone with an axe. The banter was brutal, and they tossed their bags underneath the bench in what appeared a pre-defined hierarchy.

I stood in the doorway to my office, facing the room with arms crossed over my chest and a blank stare. They needed to earn my smiles and friendship in the same way I needed to earn their trust and respect—with hard work.

“Looks like we have a special guest here today,” one of the guys called out to a series of chuckles. “Or should I say, look who’s decided to crash into town?”

“Leave it, Trey,” Reece said before punching his friend and then being the first to walk over to within handshaking distance. I noted how the others fell in behind him. “You must be Ethan Cooper, former coach of the Southern Sydney Dragons and former Captain-Coach of the West Sydney Eagles.”

“You forgot to add my favorite title,” I said, extending my hand. “MVP for Under 6s Roos.”

“Under sixes?” Reece said, laughing, and took my hand. “Don’t tell me you hit your peak playing under-sixes?”

“Ethan Cooper, at your service.” I tapped my forehead in a mock bow, not explaining my MVP hadn’t been won for rugby league, or that my mother still had the photo of me holding the round ball and trophy on her bedside until she died. “And you must be the famous Reece Sinclair, savior of kittens, puppies, and smoke alarms.”

“I prefer to use the term,infamous, but you got me in one.“ Reece flashed me a smile that would work a treat on the ladies. “Let me introduce you to your new team.”

As the guys came forward, I straightened my shoulders and gave them each half a smile. I’d passed their first test, but would they pass mine?

“Korbin Greenhill.” Blonde Adonis that had to be related to the Hemsworths.

“Glenn Wynters.” Asshole who wanted to break my wrist, I’d break him on the field.

“Steve Caswell.” Vanilla in looks and handshake.

“Bailey Rexworth.” Blonde hair, surfer dude. Probably a playmaker or center.

“Trey Greenstreet.” Cocky attitude and a smile that I’d wipe off on a ten-kilometer run.

“Eric Roth.” Yet another fucking blonde Adonis, but moved with the grace of a cat. Where did he fit in?

“Brody and you don’t fucking need to know any more.” At least he gave me permission to ignore and forget him.

I shook hands, gave out individual greetings but to my tired brain, they’d all blended into blah, blah, and fucking blah after the first two guys. Out of the corner of my eye, I was studying Reece Sinclair, looking for subtle tells about how he felt about each of the players.

“Okay, let’s stay in the training room today. I want to see what you’ve been working on. I’ll watch aerobic and anaerobic. I want to see who goes hard and who goes long.”

“You’re gonna let us train ourselves?” Bailey asked, looking to Reece for agreement.

“Do you need to call your mama and ask permission to pee?” I said, deciding to make my stamp on the group. “Or are you going to get on the treadmill and show me what you’ve got?”

“I prefer running outdoors.”

“I prefer working with players when I know what they’ve got.” If he wanted a stare-down, I was up for it. Bring it fucking on, my father had taught me well and this time there was more than ownership of the tv remote on the line. I felt Reece itching to get involved, and respected when he didn’t.

“Treadmill?” Bailey huffed. “Well, I might as well put it on an incline just to make it interesting.”

I’d passed the second test, and Bailey had passed my first. Not only did he commandeer the treadmill, he made damn sure I knew he wasn’t going to take it easy. I could work with him.

I watched the first hour from the doorway before pulling Reece aside. “You’ve got good technique on the lift,” I said, nodding towards the weights.

“Less injuries when I take the time to do it right.” We walked over to the water station so he could refill his bottle. “Was wondering when you were going to ask me about the goss.”

“And here I was, wondering when you were going to offer to spill your guts.” Our banter was light and already I felt a good working chemistry forming. Reece was obviously a leader amongst these men, but when it came to football, he was prepared to defer to their coach—me.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “The guys are looking forward to you taking control.”

“What happened to the coach from last year?” I knew the guy’s name from the photos on the wall, but didn’t want Reece to know I’d been doing my research.

---