I stretch my arms out as I survey the field, and I’m surprised by how oddly calming it feels to be here.
Especially since, just six short months ago, it seemed improbable that I’d ever play another down of football in Crusader Stadium.
Rumors of being traded got into my head last season, and I have to admit, I let those fears and insecurities get to me.
When August Austin retired and I was made QB1, I was sure that last season was going to be my time to shine. However, it just seemed like everything that could go wrong, did.
Three weeks into the regular season, I injured my rotator cuff, making any pass play nearly impossible—not to mention our season’s record was the worst in Crusaders history.
I’m honestly surprised I wasn’t traded. But I’m not complaining.
This year, there’s no excuse, though. Coach says I’ve got to completely turn things around, or else I can kiss my place on this team goodbye, and truthfully, I know he isn’t kidding.
I’m the highest-paid player on the team, and this is my last chance to prove I deserve to be QB1 after four long years as Austin’s backup.
“How’s the shoulder, Maxie?” I turn around to see one of our wide receivers and one of my best friends, Anderson DeLower, standing beside me.
“Stiff, but a lot better now. I listened to the doc. Rested it all off-season.”
“That’s good. You ready to meet your shadow for the next six months?” I roll my eyes at Andy’s question and don’t answer. It’ll only piss me off all over again.
“Who the fuck does this guy think he is? You know Coach made me read that stupid essay cover to cover.
“Firstly, most of that shit is just common fucking sense, and secondly, the fucker literally wrote, ‘My final observation is that in any offensive system, calculations can determine the perfect play, but does not account for an imperfect player.
‘For the resolution to function properly, the team leader must adhere to the system that works for his team, not himself.’
“What type of bullshit is that?”
“Well, he must’ve struck a nerve if you memorized it,” Andy jokes, trying to hide his smile. He’s lucky we’re friends, because I might’ve punched him for that.
“Whatever, man. I don’t have to listen to a damn thing he says. He’s not my fucking coach.”
Andy just shrugs and tosses me a football so I can begin my warmup. While he throws me the ball, I’m surprised by how good my shoulder feels.
It was nearly excruciating to throw a simple spiral just a few months ago, but my arm feels sturdy.
After going through my warm-ups, I move on to throwing a few routes to DeLower.
After the third, I see a few accuracy drills in my near future because it’s perfect and sunny out, and wind can’t account for my shitty passes.
I’m lucky Andy is such a smart receiver, because lord only knows how he was able to catch those. In a game, I’d be screwed.
I take a quick break to drink from my water bottle, and Andy jogs up to meet me.
“Coach is here,” he coughs not so discreetly into his arm, and I groan. The last thing I need is for Coach and whoever he’s brought with him to see my shit throws, proving this dumbass guy’s right.
“I might kick his ass,” I mutter, tossing my empty water bottle into the garbage can.
“Um, yeah… You might want to hold off on that, chief.” Andy slaps me on the back, and I turn around to follow his line of vision.
Walking toward us on the field is our offensive coordinator Mike Rodney and the tiniest human being I’ve ever seen in my life.
The girl barely looks taller than five feet at most, and her large button-up sweater and pencil skirt swallow her frame whole, making her appear childlike.
Her chocolate-brown hair is pulled back into a bun, and black, square frames nearly cover half of her face.
She looks nervous as hell as she takes in the field, stumbling behind the coach in her kitten heels, and I can’t even pretend to hide my confusion.
“Garland!” Coach Rodney barks in my direction. Andy makes himself scarce—pussy—and I try to hide my disdain for the little person trailing on Coach’s tail.
The girl doesn’t even look me in the eye until the last possible second, and she has to tilt her head all the way back to do so. It’s hard to believe the girl in front of me is my new assistant OC.
She barely looks old enough to drink.
“Maxwell, this is Nova Connors. She’ll be working directly with you and me for the next seven months as an offensive consultant.
“Her responsibilities will not only be to help you adjust to your new offensive system, but she’ll also aid in improving your technique as well.
“Please welcome her with open arms, and be on your best behavior. She’ll just be sitting in today, but tomorrow you’ll have time to get acquainted.”
Nova’s expression is mostly unreadable as she holds her hand out for me to shake, but there’s no mistaking the look in her bright greenish-hazel eyes. She’s terrified.
I smirk, deciding I can use that. She won’t last a day out here.
“Nice to meet you,” she says quietly. She eventually drops her hand after she realizes I’m not going to shake it, and her cheeks flush in embarrassment.
I ignore Coach’s glare and eye the girl up and down. I intend to make her as uncomfortable as possible, and I assume it’s working because she averts her gaze to the turf.
“So this is the geek who thinks geometry is going to fix me?” I raise an eyebrow at Coach, and he shoots me a warning look that I ignore.
“Um. Technically, it’s called kinematics... It’s a branch of physics that analyzes motion in terms of time and distance.
“It’s used to help calculate speed and velocity stats, specifically for quarterbacks.
“For example, if you want to find your velocity, you just take your distance in yards, convert it to meters, and divide that by your time in seconds to—”
“I’m sorry... Am I being punk’d?” I interrupt with a laugh. The girl whose name I’ve already forgotten blushes again and tugs on her sleeve.
“Yeah, no. Sorry,” I say to no one in particular and turn on my heels to head back to the field. I feel Coach’s eyes boring into me, and in a millisecond he’s caught up to me.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Rodney snarls when I meet him face-to-face. He’s bright red, and judging by the angry look he’s giving me, I just fucked up majorly.
Though I can’t find it in me to care.
“Are you serious? That girl’s like fucking twelve! Who cares about a stupid essay?” I bellow, not caring that she’s standing barely a few yards away from us.
“She’s familiar with the defensive system of nearly every team in the league and can memorize a defensive strategy after seeing it once. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“Who is she? Like Rain Man or something?” I snort in disbelief.
“I don’t give a shit. Most QBs can’t do in five seconds what she does in one.”
“Is that even legal?” I ask.
“It is for now.”
I glance back over at the girl standing awkwardly by the bleachers and shake my head. I can’t believe this is what it’s come to.
It’s going to be nothing short of humiliating to have to take direction from someone whose hands aren’t even big enough to hold a football.
“Whatever,” I grumble, making my way to the field.
“That’s the spirit, Max!” Coach calls out after me.
Fucking great.
