Page 2 of Mr. Irrelevant
I wasn’t expecting much out of my time in San Francisco, to be honest. As grateful as I was to be there, I knew any hopes of becoming a starter—or at least the first backup—rested on the possibility of being traded. I also knew that if I was cut, there was a large chance that I’d stay a free agent forever, so I spent every waking moment working hard and being a good teammate. With any luck, my leadership potential and willingness to put in the extra work would make me stand out in a sea of guys who had better technique than I did. And that’s exactly what happened at the expansion draft earlier this year. I certainly didn’t plan on uprooting my life in California and heading across the country to play for a brand-new team, but here we are, and I’m not about to complain.
“I get it,” Jett replies. “Before Bailey crashed back into my life and flipped it upside down, I was the same way. Mark my words, though, man—one day, the right girl is going to come along and have you rearranging all your priorities.”
I smirk, rolling my eyes. “I don’t know about all that. I’m always down to flirt and have fun, but I’m not sure I can see myself doing the wholeserious relationshipthing. It’s hard to find someone who understands our lifestyle, and I don’t have the luxury of taking my foot off the gas when it comes to football.”
He pats my shoulder, a knowing grin curling the corners of his lips. “You’re asking for it with that attitude. I’d bet my new contract that you’re wifed up by this time next season.”
I jut my chin in his direction. “Not a smart way to blow your entire wad, Kingsley. I can promise that’s one bet you won’t win.” This guy is nuts if he thinks I’d go from being happily single to ready for marriage in a year, especially when we all just got here. Between practice and traveling to away games, I barely have time to sleep, let alone date. So,no, I won’t be picking out rings for this hypothetical future wife of mine anytime soon.
We’re broken from our conversation as the coaching staff enters the locker room. Coach Hendricks steps forward, confidence radiating from his six-foot-seven frame as he silently demands our attention. He played in the league for twelve seasons and has two Super Bowl rings, which is no easy feat, so we’re all too willing to hang on his every word. He was a late draft pick like me—albeit notquiteas late—and I can’t help but be inspired by his underdog story.
“All right,” he says, his loud voice bouncing off the brick walls. “Last week was tough. We lost West early in the game, and we struggled to find our footing. But that’s okay. The important thing is that we didn’t give up on each other. We kept fighting, even when it seemed hopeless.
“No matter what happens out there today, I needthat same energy. We have something nobody else in this league has right now—we’re the original members of the Rock City Renegades. Many will come after us, but decades from now, when people talk about the history of this team,”—he points around the room—“it’s you they’ll be honoring. Let’s go out there and give the city of Cleveland something to be proud of.” Cheers echo throughout the room as we get fired up, jumping toward each other until we’re huddled together around our quarterback.
“Teamwork on three!” Baker shouts. “One! Two! Three!”
“Teamwork!” we yell in unison, and my heart begins to pound a heavy cadence inside my rib cage at the excitement that washes over me before every game. Even though the chances of me seeing the field are slim to none—hopefullynone, because if I do, that means there was an injury—I can’t help the butterflies in my stomach from tumbling around wildly. I love this game and the energy that fills the stadium each and every week. Just shooting out of that tunnel with my team to tens of thousands of screaming fans elicits the type of euphoria that can’t be found anywhere else but professional football. And I’m grateful every day that I get paid to do what I love.
Just over two and a half hours later, we’re losing to the Minnesota Graywolves by three touchdowns. It’s been a rough day against the reigning conference champs, but we’re doing our best to stay positive. Losing our tight end last week, just to have Jett replace him, has been tough on the offense. He’s doing a great job hitting his blocks, but we’re unable to run passing plays with him as a target because he hasn’t had enough time to learn the new playbook. So, we’re leaning heavily on our run game and the one reliable receiver we have.
“Red forty-two! Red forty-two! Hut,hut!” Baker says loudly, and the center snaps the ball into his waiting hands. He rolls back, scanning the field as the play develops, hoping Emmett can shake the defender and get open for the pass. But unfortunately, they have not one, but two guys covering him, so Austin has no choice but to check for another target. He goes through his progressions, looking for an available receiver, but when the defensive end finally breaks through, there’s no other option but to tuck the ball and make a run for it.
The home crowd goes wild as he pulls an epic spin move, blowing past the first defender and finding an open lane down the middle of the field. Graywolves come at him from every angle, but he manages to gain another seven or eight yards before he knows he needs to give himself up. He got the first down and then some, so he initiates the slide, letting his feet lead the way as he drops to the turf. The ref blows his whistle, signaling the end of the play, and like it’s happening inslow motion, I watch as the cornerback heads toward Baker at full speed. He doesn’t even attempt to redirect his body as he launches forward, stopping only when they collide against one another in the dirtiest, most illegal hit I’ve ever seen. The entire stadium collectively gasps, and we all watch helplessly as our team captain lies motionless on the thirty-one-yard line.
Medics from both teams rush onto the field, immediately kneeling down beside Baker to assess his injuries. Everything seems to register in fragments. One minute, I’m watching as the ambulance begins making its way across the turf, and the next, there’s a football pressed against my chest. I’m like a deer in headlights as my eyes slide over to the Renegades’ offensive coordinator, a look of horror plastered across my face as soon as it all clicks in my head.
“Throw a few warm-up passes while they’re taking care of him,” he instructs, but I’m still frozen. I haven’t taken a single regular-season snap in this league, and now I have to do it after witnessing such a brutal hit. No matter how much I tried to prepare myself for the possibility of something like this, the reality of the moment is like nothing I could’ve ever anticipated.
“Dane,” he tries again, finally snapping me out of my stupor. I focus on his familiar face, doing my best to regain control of my emotions so I can do my job. “Let’s get that shoulder loose. It’s time.”
TWO
LIVVY
“Another interception,”my younger sister, Sydney, deadpans from beside me. “Shocker.” We’re sitting in the Renegades’ owner’s box, watching as Maddox Dane turns the ball over for the third time today. I thought maybe the two picks he threw last week were flukes, or that he was just shaken by the turn of events that led to him taking the field. That would be completely understandable, considering Austin Baker is still in the hospital recovering from several broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a torn rotator cuff. Not only was it a season-ending injury, but he’s lucky to be alive. I can imagine that witnessing it affected Maddox on another level.
I blow out a frustrated breath, rolling my eyes. “Lay off him, Syd. It’s going to take a minute to find his groove. He’ll get there.”
“Yeah, right,” she replies sarcastically, kicking her feet up onto the window ledge in front of us. “Too bad Dad let his team of idiots talk him into spending therest of our salary cap on Jett Kingsley. I mean, he’s amazing, but now we’re stuck with this.” She gestures toward the field, just as Maddox rolls back, finding an open Emmett Hayes about thirty yards downfield and firing a beauty of a pass in his direction. I shoot out of my seat, holding my breath as the ball sails through the air, somehow finding the receiver’s hands even through the defense’s double coverage. The crowd goes wild as he’s tackled to the ground, the referees immediately blowing their whistles to confirm the completion.
I look down at my sister, a smug smirk raising one corner of my mouth. “See,” I say, shrugging a shoulder. “There’s a starter in there somewhere. He just needs a little work.”
“Whatever you say. At least he looks hot in that uniform.” She shakes her head, tossing a piece of popcorn into the air and opening her mouth to catch it. True to form, she misses by a mile, flinching as it hits her in the cheek and falls to the floor. I laugh at her incoordination, grateful that I was blessed with our dad’s athletic ability and not our mom’s, like she was. Katia Grant’s idea of a full-contact sport is going to the grocery store instead of ordering delivery.
Growing up, I was the ultimate sports fanatic. Not only did I watch hours of NFL highlights so I could memorize stat lines and plays, but I used that knowledge to help my dad with the teams he coached. It wasn’t uncommon to see eight-year-old Livvy trotting onto the field with her pigtails blowing in the wind before grabbing a two-hundred-pound lineman by the facemask and telling him to do fifty pushups forjumping offsides. By the time I reached junior high, there was no questioning what I wanted to do when I grew up.
When I told my family I aspired to be the National Football League’s first female head coach, they were totally on board. My parents have always been supportive of me and Syd, reminding us that we can do anything we put our minds to. I spent years learning everything I could, hoping I’d be able to make my dreams come true. But as it often does, the real world hit me like a bag of bricks to the face as soon as I arrived at Ohio State University.
My plan was well thought out. I’d get my bachelor’s in Sport Industry, maybe land an internship with the football team, and learn some valuable skills that I could use after graduation. Then, I’d return to Cleveland, apply for assistant coaching jobs—or whatever I could get—and work my way up the ladder. Unfortunately, nothing panned out the way I had hoped. Not only were the internships extremely limited, but in the entire four years I was there, I only had a single interaction with one of the coaches. I ended up working with a local junior varsity team in Columbus, and while I got a lot out of it, I had higher hopes for myself when I entered into the workforce.
I tried not to let it deter me, doing my best to stay motivated when the time came to apply for coaching positions. But the more resumés I sent out, the more I realized the world I grew up in—where a little girl could command an entire team with a Twizzler in one hand and a whistle in the other—didn’t really exist. Thecold, hard truth became slowly and painfully apparent. Nobody wanted a coach without on-field experience—especially if that coach was a woman.
It wasn’t an easy pill to swallow, and maybe I was naïve for thinking I wouldn’t run into these types of roadblocks along the way, but a new fire was lit inside me the day my family bought the Rock City Renegades. I was willing to earn everything that came my way, even if that meant starting in the mailroom and working up to a position on the sidelines, but that’s not at all the way it’s going down. I went from getting rejected by high school teams to learning how to take over ownership of a professional one almost overnight, and there really isn’t much I can do about it.
Syd and I are our parents’ only children, and with me being the oldest—and her refusing to learn the ins and outs of the game beyond how tight everyone’s pants are—the Grant family legacy rests on my shoulders. This is my dad’s dream, and he’s been supportive of me my entire life. The least I can do is rearrange the plans I had for myself and reassure him that the Renegades will be in good hands when he’s no longer able to work. I still get to be around the game and have a say in everything that happens around here…I just won’t be doing it from the field.
I look down just as the pocket collapses, and Maddox is sacked for a loss of yards. That one was on the offensive line, which is definitely missing a few of the puzzle pieces we’ll add after next year’s draft. That’s the thing about an expansion team—it’s a slow build, and you’re bound to have a few shitty yearsbefore it gets better. Our center, Boomer Davenport, lifts him by the pads and onto his feet, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as they jog to the sideline. The punting team runs out, but my eyes are glued to Maddox as he pulls his helmet off and sets it down on the bench. He combs his fingers through his sweat-soaked coffee-brown hair, looking utterly defeated as he plops down on the hard plastic and drops his head into his hands. For a moment, I feel bad for putting him in this situation—leading a brand-new team in front of a stadium full of booing fans who aren’t giving any of them the grace they deserve. But I see something in Maddox Dane that they don’t. That’s why I talked my dad into bringing him here. None of us were expecting to have him thrown into the action the way he was, but here we are, and we have to make the best of it. Our coaching staff is great, and I hope they’ll take the time to dig deep and pull out the talent that lingers behind his inexperience. He’s already been written off as a career backup by the rest of the league, but I think they’re wrong—and someday, they’ll all eat their words.
