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"This it?" Coach Nicks asks in his gruff voice. It seems more like a simple question than a judgment, but my hackles raise anyway.
"Yeah, what of it?"
The coach turns to me and crosses his arms over his wide chest. He’s a big dude, wide across the chest and shoulders, tapering to a lean waist. His dark hair and short beard make his hard, hazel gaze feel almost menacing. The room gets considerably smaller and warmer with his influence, but I'm not about to let on that I'm intimidated. Not backing down or shrinking even a millimeter, I raise an eyebrow at him.
"When you're answering me, you'll do so respectfully and intelligently, and refer to me as coach or sir."
I snort. "Yes, sir," I say sarcastically. I turn away to pull a few books out of the box and come across a small football trophy I’ve held onto all these years. It's dumb, and pathetic, but football was the one good thing I had going for me back then. This is the last trophy that hasn't gotten ruined by a random drunken purge of my things when my mother would decide to kick me out again. I push it to the side of the box and pull out an old, faded football.
"Game ball?" Coach asks, grabbing it and turning it in his hands, my disrespect momentarily forgotten.
"Yeah."
He glowers at me, a stern darkness in his eyes that would definitely intimidate a weaker man. My issues with him aren't that I find him intimidating on an authoritative level, it's more that standing next to him makes me feel warm. Too warm. It's confusing, and it's starting to piss me off the longer he's in my personal space.
With a deep, angry sigh, Coach Nicks tosses the ball back in the box and gets right to the point. "Where's the contract?"
Narrowing my eyes, I pull the creased papers out of my duffel. I've read everything he handed me that night so many times that I've memorized it all. Which is exactly why I'm so apprehensive about this contract.
"Is this even legal?"
"It's enough to make sure that you couldn't sue us if you got injured or got your panties in a twist. We have good lawyers," he says, and it sounds like a warning. "But what's more important is that when you sign your name on that line, you know exactly what you're in for. There are no surprises, and I don't beat around the bush. I'll tell you exactly what I want from you, when I want it, and how I want it. I tell you when to jump and how high. You either don't speak or you say ‘yes, Coach,’ and you fucking do it. Simple as that."
"And all this bullshit about what I eat and wear, what I do with my free time?"
"Watch your mouth, boy."
"I haven't signed shit yet,” I challenge him.
He doesn't look impressed, but allows me my moment of victory. I'm sure I'll pay for it later. Why does that prospect feel exciting?
I think I just want to prove that he's not as tough as he thinks he is, that I can't be broken in the way he expects. We can both pull a win out of this. We share most of the same goals. But this battle of wills between us? I'll give him a hell of a lot more fight than he is expecting.
"You need to give yourself over to me entirely so I can shape you into the kind of man that will thrive in the environment you think you're destined for. It's not an easy road—it's hard fucking work, every single day, and there are expectations of how you carry yourself if you want to be truly successful. Nobody wants to interview an idiot or an asshole, and no one is going to pay to sponsor or endorse someone they don't respect. Good looks and decent stats are only going to get you so far before the system spits you out on your ass."
"You think I'm good lookin’?"
Coach Nicks smacks me on the back of my head, but I can tell he's trying not to crack a smile.
I'm going to break you, old man.
CHAPTER 4
BRYANT
After a tense afternoon of explaining that nothing in my plan is negotiable, I finally got that hot-head to sign my contract. I walked out of there more satisfied than ever before. I'm raring to own his ass.
There's something about this kid that gets under my skin. I feel like he knows whenever my thoughts start sliding sideways, which is happening way more often than I want to admit to even myself, and he's feeling cocky about it.
It's the first day of training. All one-hundred-and-ten players and around fifty support staff are milling about the field, shaking hands and introducing themselves. They're all in their practice gear and ready to go, most of them sweating in the already uncomfortable Texas heat. But it's early and we're just getting started. They're going to have to get used to it real fast. I've got a full class of sports medicine students and a bench full of water and sports drink dispensers, cooling towels, and whatever else we might need to combat heat stroke. But it's time to man the fuck up, and they know it. The second I start walking out to the field, everyone stops talking and turns their attention to me. The coaching staff joins me at midfield, forming a line behind me.
This is my least favorite part of the job. I never was one for public speaking, so I keep it short and sweet.
"Listen up, Jackals! Today, we embark on a journey. It won't be easy. It won't be fun. But it will be an accomplishment that you will carry with you for the rest of your lives. Today we start the hard climb to a championship season!"
The players let out whoops and cheers, the coaches behind me clap. I start to walk amongst the crowd as I talk, searching out the opportunity to look each player in the eye, if only for a moment.
"If you were with us last season, you know what you're in for. Summer training with me makes boot camp look like a vacation. It's going to be hot, and it's going to hurt. You're going to arrive here every morning at the crack of dawn and you’re going to bust your asses until you are dismissed, well after the sun has gone down every night. You will have no social lives outside of swatting each other in the locker rooms. You will eat training and you will breathe football. And you'll come out of it ready for the best season this team has played in twenty years."
