Page 86 of Chasing the Rush
Chelsea’s eyebrows lift sharply, and my heart skips a beat. It’s the first reaction she’s given me since our fateful conversation outside the equipment storage room. And I know exactly what’s finally compelled her unwitting movement: Chelsea’s thinking something along the lines of, “Oh,I’mthe stubborn one here? As if.”
I cross my arms over my chest and smile. “Yes, I know I’m stubborn, too. And by the way, I also know what I said about Moriarty and you was totally out of bounds and shitty. But you have to know I only said that to you for your own good. To get you to ditch your savior complex when it comes to me. But don’t worry, after you poke me three times—” I poke mychest. “My kneeling apology will fully address the Moriarty comment.”
Chelsea inhales deeply and her chest expands. But that’s all I get.
“Okay, well, thanks for hearing me out. I’ll text you the guy’s info right now. Bye for now.”
I salute her and turn away with a skip in my step. For the first time since my soul-crushing conversation with Coach Parker two weeks ago, which was followed by my heartbreaking dustup with Chelsea, I feel like me again. Like I’ve got something to work toward and live for. Indeed, after this one-sided conversation with Chelsea that wasn’t really one-sided at all, I know in my bones, without a shadow of a doubt, that Chelsea and I soon will be celebrating her new job—and the new era as a couple that will then follow on its heels—as early as next week. Two at the outside.
CHAPTER 35
Luca
Six weeks later
“USE YOUR HANDSlike you mean it, Ninety-Five!” Coach Martinez shouts at me after the whistle blows on the practice field.
I shoot him a nod and return my gaze to the turf beneath my cleats. As my head bows, a drop of sweat trickles off my nose. I’m killing myself out here. But still, there’s no denying Coach was right: My hands were sloppy that time. Coach Martinez isn’t Chelsea in terms of his ability to motivate me. But nobody could possibly get inside my head the way Chelsea does, since that girl gets me like nobody else.
Chelsea.
She’s never far from my mind these days. How could she be, when I see her every weekday on the field and in classrooms? Always from a distance, though.
She never did poke me in the chest three times, unfortunately. In fact, at this point, Chelsea barely even looks at me. Man, I want to wave the white flag and surrender, but how can I do that when everything is still the same as it ever was? I’m still a fucking practice player, and she’s still here, presumably because of me. And around and around we go.
“Daddy’s home, Ninety-Five,” Moriarty mutters, yanking me from my thoughts. He’s taking my place in the scrimmage, which is fine by me. Frankly, I could use a second to breathe.
Wordlessly, I jog off without reacting to Moriarty’s condescending dig. I can’t stand the dude, but the team psychologist I’ve been diligently working with has helped me realize Moriarty wins whenever I let him bait me. So, I don’t do that anymore. It’s as simple as that. My job is to get him ready for game days. Period. And that’s what I do, to the best of my abilities, while getting myself ready, too. Just in case.
When I get to the sideline, I head over to Coach Martinez to get whatever additional critiques and observations he’s going to give me. And, of course, he doesn’t disappoint. He spews a long list of corrections and adjustments, all of which are fair. But to my surprise, he ends his diatribe with, “Now, go talk to Coach Parker over there. He wants to chat with you.”
My eyebrows rise into my helmet. That’s never happened before. Not since Roster Day, so many weeks ago. It could mean something fantastic for me … or something very, very bad.
I glance around and spot Chelsea. Even though she never talks to me, I can still read her like a book. If this summoning by Coach Parker spells the end of the road for me at the Mastodons, Chelsea’s face would give that away. Assuming I’m able to catch her eye, which isn’t a given these days. Also, assuming she even knows about my fate these days. That’s not a given, either.
Chelsea’s not looking over here. She’s talking to the defensive coordinator about something on her iPad. And despite me staring for a long moment at her, she doesn’t feel my eyes on her and look over.
With my heart lodged firmly in my throat, I unstrap my helmet and stride over to Coach Parker in the opposite direction from where Chelsea’s standing. “Hey, Coach,” I managein a relatively calm voice. “Coach Martinez said you wanted to talk to me.”
Coach Parker looks up from his iPad. Without bothering to greet me, he says, “You’re suiting up this Sunday against the Thunderbolts, Luca. Congratulations.”
For a moment, I feel breathless, like I’ve just taken a monster hit in the chest from a big-ass tight end. But after gulping down some air, I’m finally able to push out, “Thank you, Coach. I won’t let you down.”
“You’d better not.” His blue eyes narrow. “Don’t you dare turn into the old Luca on me, or I’ll strangle you.”
“I won’t. I’ll stay laser-focused and make you proud.”
I’m not stupid. I know it’s no coincidence he’s bringing me in to play for the first time only because this Sunday is our home game against the Thunderbolts. Surely the media will have a field day with the Maguire-on-Maguire brotherly matchup thing, especially since Roman’s a quarterback and my primary job is taking QBs down. Playing that up should bring in some hefty ratings on TV. Not to mention, tickets will surely sell out at our home stadium, too—which isn’t always the case. In fact, the team might even be able to offload a shit ton of Mastodon jerseys with my name on the back, too, in the lead-up to the game, even if fans only want them due to the historic novelty of the occasion.
I know all this to be true, yes, but even so, in this moment, I don’t care if I’m their circus monkey. I just want to play in a game. Any game. For any reason. Even this one, so I can show the Mastodons organization and fans, as well as myself and my family and Chelsea, too, what the new version of Luca Maguire can do.
My brief conversation with Coach Parker ends, and I head over to Coach Martinez to tell him the great news, which he clearly already knew. After congratulating me with gusto, hetells me to shower up and go to the third floor to sign some paperwork and get some media stuff done. And off I go toward the exit to the practice field with a spring in my cleats and a buzzing sensation in my veins.
On my way across the field, I happen to pass Moriarty on the sideline, but I don’t bother looking at him. He’ll find out soon enough what’s happened to make me smile like this. But Chelsea? She’s a different story. I wouldn’t want her hearing this great news from anyone else.
Still grinning like a fool, I come to a stop in front of her, feeling like I’m floating on air. “Hey,” I say. It’s the first word I’ve spoken to her in weeks, and the intense but silent eye contact Chelsea gives me in reply causes a blitzkrieg of fireworks to explode inside of me. I haven’t been this close to Chelsea Parker in what feels like forever, and looking into those gorgeous blue eyes of hers from this close a distance again is almost too much for my mortal body to bear. Was she always this stunningly beautiful? I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time again across that breakfast area in Bloomington and totally losing my shit.
I raise my palm. “No, Chelsea,” I blurt. “Don’t speak.Please.Let me say my piece first.”
