Lainey’s List Chapter Thirty-Five

Nick

Week 11

“How’s the thumb?” Coach Kittle, the offensive coordinator, asks as we settle in for our pre-game planning session.

“Hurts like hell,” I say cheerfully. During Sunday’s game, the damn thing got dislocated as a three hundred and eight pound lineman tried to pile drive me into the turf.

“Gotta remember to fall on your shoulder.” He pats me on the right side. “Not your throwing hand.”

“Yup.” I’d give him a thumbs-up but the thing’s taped to the side of my palm.

“Or the O-line could keep those linemen off his back,” Chip chirps up.

I toss him a disapproving glare. We’re on a playoff run here which means there’s no blame spreading. We stand, or fall, together as a team. Chip’s always looking out for his own skin though. The only downside to winning is that assholes like Chip get to keep their job. They get credit for the win, regardless of whether they have jackshit to do with it.

Lately, Chip’s “me first” attitude has really been grating on my nerves.

“O-line did a great job. We won down there in the trenches. They got us the first downs necessary to win the game,” I remind him.

His thin lips nearly disappear at my gentle admonition. He doesn’t like being challenged in front of a coach. On the flip side, Mike Breslin, the O-line coach, gives a grunt of approval.

Kittle’s chair scrapes the floor as he leans back and flips on the projector. “Next up is the San Fran Golds and Williams so we’re going to need to work extra hard in providing protection to Jackson. The game plan is going to be quick releases, short passes, and screens to take away some of the speed of Williams.” He points a finger at Breslin. “Double team on Williams at all times and you,” Kittle turns to me, “No heroics. Lay down in the backfield if you see him coming. Williams has already taken out two starting quarterbacks this year. We don’t need you to be his third casualty.”

I nod at Kittle, pretending that I’m taking his advice, but there’s no way in hell I’m laying down in the backfield to avoid Williams. Yes, he’s the best defensive end in the league and two-time Defensive Player of the Year, but you don’t win any kind of respect in this league unless you pass on that sucker’s ass. I know this and by the slight eye rolling of Moss, my backup, he knows it too. Hell, Kittle does as well, but his job is toast if I get injured, no disrespect to Mossy.

The quarterbacks’ meeting goes on for another two hours as we run over the new plays. Later today, we’ll run through them on the field with the wide receivers and running backs. But this morning, it’s all textbook stuff.

The one thing no one tells you in college about the pros is how many goddamned plays the NFL coaches think up. The playbook is enormous and every week, they try to think up something new to foil the other side.

I appreciate the distraction, though. I’ve spent way too much time looking at my phone, wondering whether Lainey is coming to the game this weekend. I haven’t heard squat from her since our night together a week ago other than one text yesterday that said, “Congrats.”

“Hey, your ticket for the Golds’ game, you still have that?” Chip asks as we exit the meeting room. It’s mid-morning, and I need a snack.

“No, gave it to a friend. Why?”

He makes a weird face. “Got an Insta-model on the line for the game, and I already gave my game tickets to Shanna and her mom.”

“Dude, that’s a dangerous game.” Shanna is a girl he’s been seeing the last couple of months. “How’re you going to handle both women?”

Chip laughs. “One at a time. I’d prefer both,” he waggles his eyebrows up and down, “But Shanna’s a little uptight, but fuck, what do you expect from a Junior Leaguer, right? Girl’s legs are fused together until you pop the question.”

That’s info I don’t really need about his girlfriend. “Good luck, dude. Maybe try Moxy? He doesn’t have any family out in Cali as far as I know.”

“Who you got going to the game? Chick?”

“Left a ticket for my bro.”

“Oh right, Navy Seal dude.” Chip winks. “Awesome. I bet he gets so much pussy, huh?”

It’d probably blow Chip’s mind to find out that Nathan has had only one woman in his life. Although, I wonder if he’d even believe me if I told him.

I settle for, “I haven’t heard him complain.”

“Between you and him, who do you think gets more play? NFL quarterback, right? Like I would’ve beat your brother in that department.”

I start walking because this is such a fucking ridiculous discussion. Chip follows right along, still flapping his jaw. “We should go out Friday, you, me, and your brother. We can hit some of his places. See what kind of talent there is. Is he drawing 9s and 10s? Let me show you this chick on Instagram. Look at this.” He holds his phone an inch away from my nose. The girl looks like any other girl on Instagram—big boobs, big lips, big ass.

“Looks good,” I say and push his hand away.

“Good?” he cries. “She’s at least a nine, other than her nose. Maybe her nose drops her down to an 8 or so. After I hit that, I might leave some extra cash for her to get her nose done. Anyway, I’m meeting with her Saturday night. Good thing for me, I don’t need the extra sleep for Sunday.”

If I have to listen to another word of Chip’s word vomit, I might end up slapping him, so I stop at the training room. “I’m going to get my hand re-taped before the throwing drills. I’ll see you out on the field.”

“I thought you wanted to get something to eat?” Chip says.

“Nah, lost my appetite.” I push open the door and leave him behind.

The most damning aspect of the Insta-model isn’t her features but that she has any interest in Chip at all. Any chick that’d let that asshole stick his dick in her has a screw, or ten, loose in her head.

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