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I give each player my most intimidating stare down, daring them to oppose me or punk out.
"I demand sacrifice, discipline, and unwavering commitment. I won't listen to your bitching and moaning, and I don't give a fuck who your parents are and what they think of my methods."
Finally, my eyes land on Jack, standing towards the back in his white and green practice uniform. His dark buzz-cut makes his jaw look more square, his cheekbones chiseled. The jersey he’s wearing is cropped above his waist, showing off his cut abs. His grey eyes watch me intently, and I see something there that both irks and pleases me—determination. Hunger.
"I will push you to your limits. I will knock you down again and again, until the only thing you recognize is my voice telling you to get the fuck up and get back in the game."
I tear my eyes away from Jack and walk back to the front of the crowd.
"Embrace the challenge. Embrace the pain. And eventually, you'll embrace victory."
I don't stand and wait for them all to finish cheering before I turn around and gesture to my coaching staff.
If the players thought they were going to get a moment to fuck around on my time, they're about to learn differently.
Tuck Sanders takes over and yells out assignments. "Alright! Shut up and listen! We're going to split up into five groups—freshman offensive and defensive lines, you're with Coach Mans, follow him and he’ll explain your schedule to you. Second string offense, you're with Coach Lee, defense with Coach Blane. First strings, you're with me and Nicks."
There's a moment where no one is moving, so I pull my whistle and blow it hard. "What the fuck are you standing around for? You're burning training time—let's fucking go!"
I notice Jack marches right up to the first-string group as Sanders gets them started on stretches, not even questioning that he'll be a starting player. First string has the run of the field every morning at the beginning of practice while the other groups are getting in their gym time and agility training. Then after lunch we switch it up, and at the end of the day we'll run scrimmages until I'm satisfied. I expect improvement every single day, and no slacking.
We run the players through the schedule while they stretch, and then I call out to Jack, who is chatting with Lane Masters, the first-string quarterback, while they stretch. Neither of them looks happy about whatever they're discussing.
"Yes, Coach?" He says, jogging over to me.
"That's not the uniform I gave you yesterday," I say, looking down at the exposed skin on his stomach.
"I thought you said you weren't going to pick over my workout gear," he says, trying to throw our conversation from yesterday in my face.
"When you're wearing my jersey, you're representing me. Fix it or take it off. And then you can start running laps, get those legs moving."
With his eyes boring into mine, Jack pulls the shirt over the back of his head and removes it. He throws it at my feet, quirking an eyebrow before he jogs off towards the track.
By the time we have the rest of the first-string players joining him, he's been running for well over half an hour. He's drenched in sweat. We all are—it's only just past nine o'clock in the morning and it's already close to ninety degrees out. To his credit, he doesn't complain or slow his pace. Other than the sheen of glistening sweat over his body, you wouldn't know he was working at all. It doesn't take long before he's not the only shirtless player running, although he’s the only one I notice.
After a few miles of running, I have them all take a water break and request the student equipment managers spray down the shirtless players with sunscreen. I watch a little too closely as the young woman helping Jack smiles and runs her hands over his shoulders to rub in the sunscreen. He seems to be enjoying the attention. I think a few sprints would help him warm up, and when the same student manager brings him a cooling towel, I assign her elsewhere. We don't have room for distractions, and I want to watch him struggle before I let some simpering girl coddle him.
We spend the rest of the morning doing strength and conditioning exercises before it's time to go inside to eat. The sports complex has its own cafeteria, and it's the only place these players will be eating their meals for the next eight weeks. Even if they were leaving for more than just sleep at night, nothing else on campus is open yet and they're all under strict orders not to leave. The last thing I need is my players filling up on greasy fast food and stopping by the liquor stores.
Jack jogs by me as if he hadn't spent the last five hours doing strenuous exercises in the blazing sun. I grab his arm and pull him to the side.
"I've gone easy on you so far, son. Don't test me and do not disrespect me in front of my team ever again."
"Yes, sir," he says in a way that heats my blood. His eyes watch my throat bob when I swallow, and his lip quirks. "I'll make sure to keep that for our special alone time." I don't even get a chance to knock him over the head before he's running off to eat.
I don't typically join the team for meals, and today is no different. My lunch times are my hour of silence that I get in the middle of the day, where I get caught up on my emails and eat whatever lunch I brought from home. Instead of opening up my email, however, I find myself opening my access to the security cameras and watching Jack join the throng of players that are loading their plates with sandwiches, potato salad, and chips. I roll my eyes at the offerings. Menu options were something I had to give up control on in exchange for taking a firmer hand with workouts. My staff felt I was being a little too controlling, and providing three meals a day without a full staff was already hard enough. So I let go, mostly. I'll be making some firm suggestions about chips and desserts.
Jack picks up a couple sandwiches, and I mutter to myself as he moves through the rest of the line to make his selections. We have a meeting later to go over more specific guidelines for his training, and I have a full dietary schedule for him to follow as well as a study routine so he can stay on top of his classes. He'll have no time for anything outside of football and studies for the year that he is here, but for what he's receiving in return, he should be grateful. He doesn't seem to have made any friends yet. I sensed some thinly veiled animosity from the other first stringers during their training this morning, and Jack has chosen a seat at the end of a table of freshman players. He doesn't seem to be attempting to converse with them at all, and I don't notice how long I've been watching him eat until he stands to throw his tray away and stalk out of the cafeteria. There's almost a full hour before the next leg of training begins for the day. Where could he be headed?
CHAPTER 5
JACK
I can't decide if I want to tell Coach to fuck all the way off, or push myself even harder to prove myself to him.
The dynamic between us is shifting as the weeks go on, and I no longer feel like it's all about football. It's like there's a game of cat and mouse between us, and I'm enjoying it more than I'd ever admit. Coach Nicks tells me what to wear, what to eat, how long to study and when to sleep—and it pisses me off to no end. I’m finding tiny ways to assert myself around those guidelines, though, and I’m not ashamed to admit I’m getting a sick joy out of it. My favorite way to push back is with my clothes, often choosing to remove my shirt or wear shorter shorts than he’s prescribed, just to get a rise out of him. Whether it's out of pure frustration or something more, I can feel his eyes on my bare skin and it gives me a thrill knowing I've thwarted him.
The controlling bastard even prepares my meals for me, expecting me to eat stuff like unseasoned grilled meat and spinach instead of what the other players eat. I signed the contract, begrudgingly because I had no actual choice in the matter, so I eat what he gives me. But I'll grab a handful of grapes and eat them while looking dead into the camera, letting him see. Letting him know that I know he's watching me like some kind of stalker. He punishes me by making me workout harder, do more reps, run more sprints. Joke's on him though, I like the pain of pushing my body to its limits.
