Page 44 of Chasing the Rush
“Show ’em, Montague. For both of us.”
“You’ve got it.”
With a curt nod, Chelsea jogs her hot little ass off the field, her dark ponytail swinging as she goes, and a moment later, we’re off again.
As instructed, I make Chelsea’s adjustment, and this time, the QB’s throwing mistake is so big and obvious, a corner in the backfield is able to snag the ball for an interception that makes the entire defensive unit cheer.
I share a huge smile with Chelsea from afar, but she quickly looks away when Bellamy walks up and says something to her. Holy shit. Is that a good sign for me or a total coincidence that he’s talking to her right now?
My position coach, Coach Martinez, yells my number to come out, so I jog toward Chelsea and Bellamy, hoping to covertly listen in on whatever they’re talking about. As it turns out, no stealthy maneuvering is necessary to eavesdrop: The second Bellamy sees me approaching, he calls to me to come over.
“That was some good pressure that time, Ninety-Five,” he says.
“Thanks.” I unstrap my helmet. “Chelsea gave me some good advice right before the snap. She’s got great instincts.”
“Keep listening to her, then.” With that, he takes off towardthe other end of the sideline, probably on his way to talk to Coach Parker or one of the offensive guys.
“You impressed him,Coach,” I say with a nudge to her arm and a grin.
Chelsea bites back a smile. “No, you did. I’m not the one who executed the play flawlessly.” She looks down at her iPad, still trying not to smile. “I’ve been taking meticulous notes throughout practice on everything you’ve done right and wrong—mostly wrong—and I’ll add everything to the spreadsheet I’m making for you tonight.”
“When can I see this fancy spreadsheet you keep talking about? I’ve never had a coach keep track of things that way.”
“You’ll see it when it’s time. But the spreadsheet is only a means to an end—the place where I’ll compile the data I’ll eventually use to create a detailed, personalized playbook for you.”
I stare at her in awe. Maybe trainers for superstars like Roman and my cousin Marco do stuff like that for their players, but nobody’s ever put that kind of effort in for a player like me. “Sounds exciting. Why don’t we meet up tonight so you can tell me all about it? Your room or mine?”
Chelsea full-on snorts. “Nice try, Montague. I’ll never step foot in your room, and you’ll never step foot in mine.”
“Okay, we’ll meet somewhere else. I want to hear all about this stuff you’re doing for me.”
“I’ll show you everything later, in a week or so, after I’ve observed you in some full-pads-and-tackles practices and scrimmages.”
“Awesome. It’s a date.” When she flashes me a warning look, I add, “Coach.”
Man, our chemistry feels even more scorching than ever. Back in Bloomington, I had a hard-on for Chelsea’s big ol’ math brain and incredible sense of humor, along with everything physical she had going for her. But now that I know she’sa football genius, on top of everything else, and also ferociously good at sticking up for herself when required, well, damn, I’m so insanely attracted to her, I can barely keep it together in her presence.
Chelsea’s nostrils flare. Suddenly, she looks like she can read my mind.
“Enough chitchat, Ninety-Five,” she says. “Watch your teammates and try to learn something.”
With a smirk, I wrench my gaze off Chelsea and direct it toward the field, just in time to see the rookie outside linebacker who replaced me getting stonewalled even harder than I did earlier.
“You want me to learn fromthat?” I tease.
Chelsea stifles a giggle. “Yeah, whatnotto do.”
Our glances furtively meet again, and the mere inches between our arms suddenly feels magnetic. Like I’m being physically pulled to brush my skin against hers, if only briefly. I refrain, of course. But all that does is ramp up the heat I’m feeling for her; so much so, I’m surprised our chemistry hasn’t singed the turf beneath my cleats.
“Stop doing that, Luca,” Chelsea whispers sternly.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that. You’re being too obvious.”
I look away from her, red-faced and dumbfounded. I’m having some dirty thoughts about what I’d like to do to the coach’s daughter, that’s for sure. But I know full well Coach Parker is standing mere yards away down the sideline, along with the general manager and everyone else with my fate in their hands, so I was making a conscious effort to keep my dirty thoughts under wraps.
“How did I look at you?”
