24. Cam

CHAPTER 24

CAM

“ I will.” I clear my throat, swallowing hard over the lump lodged above my Adam’s apple.

The last thing I want to do is talk to Coach about dating his daughter, but I know it’s the right thing to do. Man up and be honest with him.

It’s gonna suck, much like burpees and wind sprints, but what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?

And hopefully Coach Carter won’t kill me.

“Really? You sure?” Sloane’s eyes widen. “You want me to be there? Or is this gonna be a man-to-man sort of thing?”

“The latter, I’m thinking. I’ll talk to him after practice tonight.” I cup her chin and press my lips to hers, kissing her softly but wanting more. So much fucking more.

After a few seconds, she pulls away. “When are you moving out?”

“Tomorrow. Or maybe tonight, if your dad’s pissed at me. ”

She frowns, tiny creases forming in between her brows. I smooth them away with my fingertip.

“It’ll be okay, promise.”

“I know. I like having you there, though.”

“I’m planning on seeing a lot more of you now.” My hand skims the side of her breast and her lips curve into a shy smile. I lean forward, seizing her mouth in a long, hungry kiss before reluctantly pulling away.

“I’ll see you tonight, either way.” Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, I gently tug on her earlobe. “Promise.”

She rises on tiptoe and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “You’ve got this. Text me afterwards and let me know how it goes. So I can be prepared, either way.”

“I will.”

“Good luck and Godspeed.”

“Thanks, Trouble.”

I have a feeling I’m gonna need it.

I debate the best time to talk to Coach the rest of the afternoon. Ideally, I’d love to get the conversation over with. But that’s probably not the smartest approach here. He’s doing me a solid, letting me practice with the team, coaching me through my crisis. It’d be uncool of me to bust in and blow up his afternoon session, distract him from the task at hand. I decide to wait until practice is over to have our chat.

“Crawford! Don’t just stand there, get going!” Coach yells at me from across the field, twirling his finger in the air to indicate the laps I’m supposed to be running.

Immediately, I break into a jog, already lagging behind the rest of the team. Sloane has me good and distracted, which is far from ideal. I need to get my head back in the game or I’ll be proving Coach’s point before he even gets a chance to make it.

The blazing summer sun beats down on the track and I’m dripping in sweat by the time I finish running the warm-up. At least I caught up to the team—it wouldn’t do for me to come in dead last, even at practice.

Coach blows his whistle and we all huddle around him, waiting for instructions.

“Defense—you’re running drills with Coach Mack. Special teams, head over to the bleachers to work with Coach McGilly. Offense, you’ll be working with Coach Baker this afternoon. I’m taking Dalton, Langley, Stevens, and Crawford.” Coach blows the whistle again, breaking the huddle. Then he motions for the four of us to follow him to the far end of the field.

We dutifully trail behind him. Dalton chats with the other kid, while Langley and I stay silent. I’m trying to keep my attention on football and Langley’s tense, his jaw tight.

“Alright, y’all. Tonight we’re mixing it up. Dalton, you’re with Crawford. Langley, you’ll be with Stevens. Same drills we’ve been doing, different partners. Any questions?” Coach looks to each of us, but none of us speak up. “Okay, then. Let’s get going.”

He tosses Dalton and Langley each a football and we pair off, heading into our respective positions. Stevens and I jog across the field, lining up opposite each other. Langley and Dalton take their spots and we start the drills.

I miss the first ball by a solid ten yards.

“What the—?” Dalton throws his arms up in exasperation, frowning so hard I can see it all the way down here .

“Sorry, man,” I apologize weakly.

Get it together, Crawford.

Dalton shakes his head before firing a perfect spiral in my direction. I jump for it, mercifully making contact. Coach scribbles something on his clipboard before feeding Dalton another ball.

Three more passes, each one perfect, and I catch them all. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Langley bobble his next throw and my gut clenches. I shouldn’t have favorites, but I really don’t like this Dalton kid. I want Langley to get the starting QB position.

“Yo, Crawford! You ready or what?” Dalton hollers at me, bringing my focus back to him and the drills we’re supposed to be running.

“Ready!” I shout, running my sweaty palms down my shorts.

My mind drifts to Sloane and how I’m about to tell Coach I want to date his daughter. I sincerely hope he leaves it at that and doesn’t ask any follow-up questions.

Will he? If he does, what am I going to say? Yes, Coach, I want to drill your daughter, fast and hard until she screams my name.

SMACK.

The ball hits me square in the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. Coach tweets his whistle as I clutch at my pec and try to rub the pain away.

“Take five and get some water, boys! Crawford, you okay?” He adjusts his ball cap, turning it backwards on his head. I nod.

“Fine. Just a little dehydrated is all.” I amble over to the bleachers and chug water from the gallon jug I brought with me.

“You trying to throw the stats, Crawford?” Dalton scowls at me over his water bottle. “Or do you just suck this bad?”

Hot anger rolls through me. This kid and his piss-poor attitude’s really starting to grate on my nerves. That, and the fact that I’m taking my eye off the ball – literally – with thoughts of Sloane muddling my brain. The exact thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do.

“How about you worry about your throws instead of my ability to catch them?” I grab my towel and wipe the dripping sweat from my brow, trying to keep my cool with this little shit.

“I would, if I thought you were playing fair.” He takes two big steps forward until he’s crowding me, his teenage chest invading my personal space. “Know what I think?”

I couldn’t care less what this high school twit thinks, but I humor him.

“No. Not a clue.”

“I think you got cut because you’re over the hill. Your career is over. Done-so. I mean, you can’t catch a high schooler’s passes. How are you going to go back and play with the big boys, old man?”

Now my hackles are up, fiery anger surging through me. I’d love nothing more than to shove this kid away from me, take him down a notch or seven.

But that wouldn’t be very mature. And the last thing I need is any negative social media attention, with this sorry little punk ass whining all over TikTok about how I beat him up at his high school football practice.

Instead, I take a deep breath, pushing all that aggression away. “We’ll see about that. How about you bring your A-game now, huh?”

Dalton shakes his head, glaring at me. “Whatever, geezer. ”

Throwing his empty water bottle down on the grass, he swaggers away down the field. I inhale again, breathing in calming air and exhaling all the pent-up negative energy. A hot tip from my woo-woo sister Ansley, and I’ll never admit to her that it actually works. But my muscles relax, tension seeping from the knotty ropes in my traps. Rolling my shoulders a few times, I run back out to the field.

I don’t drop another pass the rest of practice.

“Time!” Coach shouts. The sun’s sinking and the temperature’s finally dropping, although the humidity’s still thick as pudding. “Huddle up, boys.”

I stride over to the bleachers, joining Coach and the rest of the team.

“Great practice today, boys. I’m happy with the effort most of y’all are putting in.” Coach glances around the circle. “If we keep it up, I feel real good about our chances next season. Make sure to drink lots of water when you get home, eat right, and get some sleep. Don’t be staying up all night watching videos on YouTube or any of the other apps y’all are into these days. I’ll see you boys in the weight room tomorrow, bright and early.”

“Yes, sir, yes, Coach!” A chorus of male voices sounds out and I’m transported back to my own high school days, a wave of nostalgia washing over me.

Playing in the pros is great, don’t get me wrong. But there’s something special about your high school team that can never be replicated. Maybe it’s the innocence of youth, maybe it’s the fact that everyone’s intentions are pure — not yet tainted by money and sponsorships and real adult responsibilities. Or maybe it’s Coach Carter and how he runs his team like a family, treats you like one of his own.

“Hands in and Thunder Creek on three.”

Everyone thrusts their hands into the circle and chants, “ Thunder Creek, Thunder Creek, Thunder Creek, go-o-o Mustangs!” before breaking the huddle and dispersing.

“Crawford.” Coach pats me on the back, getting my attention as I’m gathering my gear and shoving it into my bag.

“Yes, Coach?” I glance over my shoulder, tension creeping back into my body.

“You okay? That ball hit you pretty hard out there.” His eyes crinkle in concern and guilt gnaws at me as I meet his gaze. He and Sloane have the same eyes, and the resemblance makes me feel even worse about the conversation I’m about to have with the man I so deeply respect and admire.

“I’m fine. The pass wasn’t that hard.” I swallow, clearing my throat. “But I, um, need to talk to you about something.”

“Yeah?” He shoves his stopwatch into his pocket, leaning down to grab a mesh bag of footballs.

“In private. If that’s okay.”

He shrugs, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “Come with me to the office then. You can carry the cones.”

I do as I’m told, lifting up the stack of orange cones. Coach waves to Mack and the other coaches, wishing them good-night before we trudge off the field toward the offices. Dusk is upon us, the air still as the sun sinks lower in the sky. Coach doesn’t speak, doesn’t bother trying to kick up any small talk. Instead, we move in synchronized silence, the only sound our footsteps on the pavement.

He unlocks the metal door leading into the school and reaches inside, clicking on the bright fluorescent lights. We trudge down the long hallway, passing by the line of empty blue lockers, doors opened wide to air out for the summer. My sneakers squeak on the linoleum and I feel sixteen all over again.

Coach kicks open the door to his office, tossing the mesh bag to the floor before crashing into the rolling chair behind his county-issued faux wood-and-metal desk. Likely the same one he had a decade ago, when I was officially his athlete.

“What’s going on, Cam?” He leans forward, elbows resting on the desk, fingers steepled, hazel eyes boring into me.

I do my best not to squirm.

No, I’m going to be a man about this.

I shuffle my feet and gesture at the empty chair in front of his desk. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Sliding into the seat, I swallow hard over the gigantic rock in my throat. I take a deep breath and try to figure out the best way to say I want to date his one and only daughter.

Coach waits while I debate with myself, blood roaring loud in my ears.

“I want to date your daughter, sir.”

Wow. Okay. That was really fucking direct.

Coach blinks, once, twice, but says nothing. His lips thin, he’s pressing them together so tight. Probably to keep from saying whatever it is he’s thinking. Which may very well be something along the lines of Go fuck yourself.

After a long, long moment, he breaks. “You sure about that, son?”

Not one-hundred percent certain what he means by that comment, I nod. “Yes.”

“Because I know you’re trying to get back to the pros. And that takes time. And focus. And commitment. Sloane could be—will be—a distraction.” He cracks his knuckles and the crunching sound bounces off the cinder block walls, echoing around the small room.

“She’s worth it, sir.”

Coach leans back in his creaky chair and contemplates me. Like he’s seeing me for the first time. Maybe not as a player, but as a man.

Possibly a threat, and that thought’s less than comforting.

“I don’t want to see you mess up your career, son. Or break Sloane’s heart. One asshole’s already done that. And she’s tough, but twice in a row is kinda hard to deal with. Even for someone as strong as my daughter.”

My chest tightens as I absorb his words, his fears. Worry’s etched on his face, tension thick between us.

“I understand, sir.”

And I do.

I hear what he’s saying, feel his anxiety with every palpitation of my own heart.

But none of it surpasses my love for his daughter.

Shit.

I love Sloane Carter.

The thought hits me harder than Dalton’s football to the chest. I’ve probably always loved her, I was just too caught up in my own life and football to see it.

“I’ll do right by your daughter, sir, I swear. I’m going to get back to the pros. And I’ll take care of her. She means the world to me. That’s why I’m talking to you about it. I appreciate your hospitality, more than you’ll ever know. But I found my own place and I’m moving out. And if you’d prefer me to not practice with the team, I understand.” I swallow and hold my breath, waiting for him to explode. Or worse, agree with the last stupid-ass thing I said. Because I kind of still need his coaching advice.

“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind then. I appreciate you being forthright with me, Cam. And you know I’ve always treated you like a son.” He leans forward again, pausing, steepling and resteepling his fingers. “But hear me when I say this—if you hurt my daughter, you’ll be answering to me. Everything I’ve ever done has been for her. She’s my entire world. And no man—even someone I like as much as you—is going to hurt her without answering to me. Are we clear?”

I straighten my shoulders, sitting up as tall as possible. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

He shoots me a salute and I take the hint, slipping out of his office and leaving him alone before he can grill me on any of the details.