Page 5 of Mr. Irrelevant
“But?” he questions, raising a brow. I really hope I don’t offend him with any of this, but I honestly think that he’s just a few tweaks away from going from looking like a backup to commanding the field as a starter.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to hide the grimace that’s threatening to take over my expression. Inhaling deeply, I decide to throw it all on the table. If he gets upset, so be it. He’s the Renegades’ leader—whether he’s ready for it or not—and the first piece of the puzzle we need to put together to win.
“Well,” I begin, pushing my shoulders back, “your technique needs work. Your release point is too high, which is causing some inaccuracy. You push off your back foot if you settle into the pocket too long, robbing your deep ball of at least fifteen yards every time. And you do this weird thing where you tuck your wrist under the football before you release, which is definitely slowing down those bullet passes.”
He tenses, the muscles in his forearms winding tight as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his black sweatpants. “Who told you that?” His eyes narrow, and he looks around the field as if someone is going to emerge from the shadows to join us.
I wish I could say this was the first time a player has gotten defensive after I pointed out flaws in their execution, but it isn’t. When I was younger, the guys on my dad’s teams showed respect because they basically grew up with me. He coached most of them as kids, so it was nothing new when I’d offer advice. They knew he taught me the same things he taught them, and that I ran with it all, obsessively educating myself even further. But when I was in college, everything changed. I could rattle off player stats going back decades, but no matter what, I was always just some girl who couldn’t possibly comprehend the sport—let alone better than any of them.
Lifting my chin, I try my best not to be frustrated, because before today, he wouldn’t have been able to point me out on the street, which means hedefinitelydoesn’t know I could outsmart him on this grass seven days a week. “Me.”
“You?” he echoes on a laugh. “That’s cute. You look like you just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. What do you know about being a pro quarterback?” He scoffs sarcastically, and my blood begins to heat inside my veins as he looks down at me like I have no idea what I’m talking about.
Fuck this guy.
Without a word, I turn my body, shuffle forward two large steps, and fire a pass straight at the goalpost. It sails thirty yards through the air in a tight spiral before dropping and hitting the crossbar with a loud thump. A choked gasp comes from behind me, and Iturn to see Maddox staring in utter shock with his jaw hanging wide open.
“Do you want my help, or not?” I ask with a quirked brow. He closes his mouth, darting out his tongue and dragging it along his plump lower lip for at least a full minute before shaking his head in disbelief.
“Okay, Dimes,” he says. “You have my attention.”
FIVE
MADDOX
I’ve beenspeechless a handful of times in my life—but never quite the way I was three minutes ago when Olivia Grant, the five-foot-nothing daughter of my team’s owner, threw an absolute dot at the uprights from damn near half field. That was a first for me.
I’ll admit I got offended when she listed the problems in my passing technique like she was reading off a grocery list, which is why I momentarily went on the defense. It was fucked up of me to assume she didn’t understand the game or my position, and that she was fed those lines from someone else, when she clearly wasn’t. My saint of a single mother who raised me to know better would kick my ass if she were here right now.
“Before I tell you what I’m thinking, I need you to know that I won’t tolerate being treated as less simply because I’m a woman. I live and breathe for the game of football, and I’ve spent my entire life learning everything there is to know. If I were your size, I could makeyou cry on any given Sunday, without a doubt. So, when I speak, you listen. Got it?”
Damn. I’m kinda hard.
“Yes,” I reply confidently. I have no issues taking direction from her if it means that I don’t look like hot garbage on the field. Now, if we were in the bedroom, it’d be a different story. That’s one place I’ll never give up control. But lucky for us, that’s not what this is—even if she’s hot as hell with her sassy attitude. I don’t think I’ll have a problem keeping things professional, though. This girl is as far off-limits as humanly possible. Not only is she the owner’s daughter, but she’s also willing to give me tips that’ll hopefully get us some wins. Because right now, I’m not being a very good leader.
“Alright,” she says with a tight nod. “Let’s get started.” I watch as she runs toward the end zone, bends down to retrieve the ball, and throws it back with perfect form. It hits my hands with a thump, making me shake my head again, becausewhat the fuck. Aside from the fact that she’s a woman—which we’ve established is anon-issue—she’s a tiny little thing. She can’t weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, yet there’s enough power in her pass to make my hands sting even after I’ve made the catch.
I scrunch my nose. “I feel like you’re coming for my job.”
She jogs the rest of the way, stopping a few steps in front of me before a wistful look blooms across her face. “I wish. I’ve considered women’s leagues, but even there, I’d be small. Plus, Ohio doesn’t have one, and Ilove it too much to leave.” I can definitely understand that. I haven’t been here long enough to experience the lake effect snow I’ve heard so much about, but otherwise, Cleveland seems great. I know from my internet search that she’s an Ohio State alumna, so she really isn’t lying by saying she loves it.
“Maybe you could show me around sometime,” I reply, immediately wanting to take it back. She didn’t ask me to hang out or be friends. She brought me here because she obviously thinks I’m a dumpster fire who needs her help to become a starting quarterback. She’s not completely wrong. While I know I’m capable of playing at a professional level, there’s something that’s been plaguing me for the past two games. I’ve watched tape and just can’t seem to pinpoint it, but maybe Livvy can. Which is why it’s probably better if we keep our interactions limited to the field.
Her shoulders slump, and she pulls her lips to the side in contemplation. “I’d love to,” she replies with a half-smile, but it fades quickly as reality settles in. “But we really have to keep this thing between us a secret. Nobody can see us together in public, and my dad absolutely can’t know I’m helping you. I’m supposed to be next in line to take over the team, which means business stuff only. Any dreams I had of coaching went out the window the day he bought the Renegades.”
My brows pull in. “You wanted to coach?”
She hesitates, as if she doesn’t know how much to tell me, before finally blowing out a slow breath. “Since I can remember,” she says quietly. “My dad coached high school teams before I was even born, so I guessyou could say it’s in my blood. I used to watch from the sidelines, occasionally mimicking him by stomping around with my little clipboard, until one day, I started asking questions. He always answered them, and where any other kid my age would’ve gotten bored and moved on, I wanted to know more.” She shrugs. “I’m grateful for every opportunity I’m about to be given when it’s my turn to run the franchise, but I suppose I’ll always be that little girl with the pigtails and knobby knees who had a different kind of dream.”
Maybe it makes me a pushover, but seeing the longing in her eyes as she tells me about her childhood aspirations makes me want to shove down all the defensiveness I was feeling moments ago. “Well, you have a clean slate with me,” I say. “I trust you, Livvy. I’m ready for you to turn me into the kind of quarterback Cleveland needs.”
A confident look passes over her face as she raises her chin. “Okay then,” she says with a nod. “Let’s get to work. I think the easiest thing to fix would be the way you tuck the ball under your wrist before you throw. It’s very subtle, which I’m sure is why your quarterbacks coach hasn’t addressed it. But I think it’s taking a substantial amount of distance off your passes.” She steps up next to me, extending the football in one hand. I take it from her, letting my fingers run along the laces until they settle between them, gripping onto the textured cowhide and feeling an instant sense of calm. It’s been that way as long as I can remember—as long as I have a ball in my hand, I’m home.
“Okay, put it right between the uprights,” sheinstructs. I put my arms out, mimicking the way I’d be standing if I were under center before rolling back and making the pass. I immediately notice the way my hand rotates under, causing my wrist to overextend as I release. It’s not a far distance, and the target area I’m aiming for is wide, but I definitely see where I’m losing power, and even some accuracy.
“I felt it,” I tell her. She smiles, giving me a tight nod before she takes off to retrieve the ball. I use the opportunity to watch, unabashedly, taking in her gorgeous curves and long, blonde hair as it blows in the breeze. I definitely shouldn’t be creeping on her this way, considering she just made it very clear that this is a mutually beneficial business arrangement, but I’m not a stupid man. I know a ten when I see one—and she’s a goddamn eleven. The fact that she knows as much as she does about football is just the icing on the cake.
She bends over, lifting the ball from the bottom of the hill that sits behind the end zone, jogging back before offering it to me again. I take it, but instead of letting go and stepping back like last time, she gets closer, settling behind my shoulder and covering my hand with hers. I’m sure it looks ridiculous from the outside, since I’m almost a foot taller than she is, but my body goes hot all over as she presses against my back, slowly guiding my hand toward my ear.
