Lainey’s List Chapter 14

 

Nick

“Fuck!” I curse in frustration as I watch our Pro-Bowl safety, Tam Fluse, snatch another ball out of the air. This interception can’t be blamed on the rookie wide receiver running the wrong route, as was the case with the first interception of the day.

“That was a pick six.” Chip, the quarterback coach, states the obvious with a little too much glee. “Do I need to remind you that you’re supposed to be throwing the ball to the offense?”

“Is that what I’m supposed to do?” I retort sarcastically. I motion for the assistant on the sidelines to toss me another ball. I palm the leather ball, squeezing it tight, shaping it in my hands. I’ve got big hands. Large enough to palm a basketball, yet this damn football has been sailing out of my hands all morning.

Every time I put a touch on the thing, it’s floating instead of falling into a receiver’s waiting hands. I replay the last throw in my head. Was I gripping the ball too tight? Were the laces on the ball misaligned?

“Rook, you keep throwing me those sweet balls,” Fluse yells from his position ten yards down the field. I sigh. Seems like Rook is going to be my nickname even though I’m the starter and this is my second year.

I flick him off before settling down behind my center, Dan Fleming.

“Told you not to ball out your first week of camp. Now everyone’s ‘specting you to MVP it every day,” Fleming admonishes over his shoulder.

“That’s helpful.” I crouch down. “Everyone’s being so goddamned helpful today. Must be why we have training camp.”

“Must be.”

He turns around, and we get into position. I yell out the call, “Blue Forty-Eight, Blue Forty-Eight, Red Hut, Five, Hut HUT.” We go on the third hut. Both lines crash into each other, and I scramble back.

To my left, I see Fluse coming in for a blitz. I yell for the fullback to block him and roll to my right. There’s a giant hand in front of me—Cooksie—but just beyond him is my favorite target. John Marshall Plant can catch anything within a six-foot radius. I throw it to him and as it leaves my hand, I know it’s a perfect pass.

The ball hits Plant right in his outstretched hands. I run downfield as he twists and skates by his defender into the end zone.

My arms go straight up. “Touchdown.”

As Fluse runs by, I yell, “The Rook giveth, and he taketh away.”

“Definitely more of those than the other thing,” Coach Zupp calls from the sidelines.

My teammates pat me on the back, and we run back into position to run another play.

This year’s camp is different than my rookie year, mostly because my teammates trust me. Last year, I was in learning mode. I was one of the fortunate quarterbacks drafted who wasn’t expected to start and win. Chip had been the quarterback at the time. He had a gun for an arm, wasn’t super accurate, but did enough to eke out more wins than losses. He only played in a couple playoffs and never won one. His saving grace was that he didn’t make a lot of mistakes and had the occasional flash of brilliance.

But when he got injured, I was forced out onto the field. Okay, not forced. I was fucking thrilled. Not that Chip was injured. No one really wants to see another guy seriously injured. That’s a sure fire way to invite the worst kind of karma in to your life.

But I’ve got my chance now. Next man up and all that. Seeing Chip stick around as part of the team, even though he’s not on the roster, has done a lot to make my transition painless. He doesn’t seem to hold an ounce of resentment toward me.

The rest of the practice goes smoothly. I don’t throw another interception, and coach is generally pleased.

We’ve got a lot of talent, but we’re young and mistake prone. In the next six weeks, we’ve got to eliminate the mistakes and capitalize on our athleticism.

“Good practice,” Chip praises as I shed my red jersey that marks me as untouchable and scrape the turf off my cleats on the metal grate just inside the door.

“Thanks. Monty and I need to work on our timing on those deep routes.” I give the equipment boy a nod of thanks as I take the Gatorade bottle full of water from him.

Chip snags one too, even though the bastard hasn’t a speck of sweat on his face. There are some benies to the coaching gig. “We’ll get some reps in tomorrow on that. I noticed that when you were dropping back, you gave a shoulder twitch before you threw the slant route. Try to get rid of those tells or the defense will be crushing both you and your receiver.”

I make a face. “Didn’t realize.”

“I’ll send you some film.”

“Thanks.”

“Or I can bring it over,” he offers.

I think about who’s home tonight. Probably Charlie, unless she’s out with Reese and/or Lainey.  Shit, Lainey. I haven’t talked to her since our fight. I wonder if she plans to kick me in the nuts. I probably deserve it. Worse? I’d probably still be hard enough to dent a soup can.

“Or not. It’s no big deal,” Chip says, and I realize I’ve been meditating on this too long.

“Nah, it’s fine. Come on over.”

“And over is where?”

I give him the address to my condo.

“You there alone?” He quirks an eyebrow up.

A trickle of sweat rolls down my spine, and I shift restlessly. What’s with the twenty questions? I want to shower and hit the road, but this is Chip and he’s been good to me, so I deal. “I live with a friend.”

“You still hooking up with that trust fund girl?”

I sigh. No guy ever seems to believe that I view Charlotte as my sister, not a bangable lass. “Never hooked up with her in the first place. She’s just a friend.”

Chip smirks and slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah, I got those friends too.”

“Nah man, she’s like my sister. I’m more interested in her friend,” I find myself confessing.

“Who’s that?”

“Lainey. Maybe you know her? She used to wait tables over at Stacks and now is managing it? About so high.” I raise my hand to my collarbone. “Brown hair.” Hot as sin.

He rears back. “No way. You gotta be careful, boy. She’s a pussy trap. The 18 years kind of pussy trap. Yeah, she’s got a rack that won’t quit and an ass as thick as three day old porridge, but there’s plenty of her around the facility that doesn’t come with a ton of baggage.”

I bristle in annoyance. “Lainey’s not like that. She’s hardworking—“

“Got a kid, don’t she?” Chip interrupts.

“So?”

“So, she tell you who the baby daddy is?”

“No.” Lainey is very tight-lipped about that and given that the deadbeat hasn’t once come around in the year I’ve known her and Cassidy, I can see why. “Guy’s an asshole. Total deadbeat.”

Chip rolls his eyes. “Not everyone wants to be hooked for life to a chick who pokes needles in a condom.”

I shrug out of Chip’s grasp and start toward the makeshift training camp locker room. His careless words are making my blood boil and clocking my quarterback coach isn’t the way I want to launch my first full year as starter for the Mavericks.

I settle for, “I didn’t know Lainey when she was eighteen but I highly doubt she sabotaged a guy’s condom. Raising a kid by herself hasn’t been easy.”

“Is that the line she’s selling to you? Because I wondered how she got her hooks into the trust fund babe.”

“Let’s just agree to disagree on this, ‘kay?” I ask, and I marvel at the evenness of my tone. As it is, I think I’m going to have to go to the dentist and get caps put on because if I stand here talking to Chip another minute, I’m going to grind my teeth to dust.

Chip winks and claps me on the shoulder. Again. “No problem. I’ll be over in an hour.”

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