Page 43 of Her Game Plan

To be fair to me, it was more of an “I’m thinking of you” text than a “please tell me everything about the history of football reffing” text.

The volume from the crowd rises, and I look up to see the visiting team has made their way out and is standing along the opposite sideline. Then, the lights shift, flashing around the seats as the music sharpens. Something is said throughout the stadium, and a player in black and gold bursts out of the tunnel, jogging as he waves to the crowd. The announcer keeps going, calling out the Stallion players one by one, the crowd reacting each time a name is said: sometimes it’s a huge reaction, the entire place cheering; sometimes the players’ names barely register.

Finally, they announce number eleven, quarterback Callan Devine, and the entire stadium erupts. The cheering is louder than it has been for anyone else, and I can’t help but watch, riveted, as he jogs out, straight to the sideline, after only a quick wave to the crowd.

The coaches around me start talking, final decisions made, and ready.

“Got yourself a headset, I see.” Callan’s deep voice calls my attention, and I whirl to find the man towering over me.

“You’re fucking huge in your gear, Ball Boy.”

“I’m fucking huge out of my gear, too.” He winks, and I let out a laugh loud enough to attract the attention of the team members around us.

“Sure.” I draw it out so he knows I’m being sarcastic. Then, I tap the headset sitting around my neck. “Thank you for your help with this. I was getting stonewalled by the coaching staff. They suddenly had a change of heart.”

“They’re good guys.” His attention isn’t truly on me, but it’s okay. I’m surprised he’s talking to me at all right now. The man, like all professional athletes, loves his routine.

“It helps when the star quarterback makes a—and I’m quoting here—very convincing argument as to the importance of transparency, accountability, and making sure the new acting owner has an accurate understanding of everything going on.”

“Must’ve been talking to someone pretty smart, then.” The helmet almost hides his smirk, but I know it’s there from the way his eyes are scrunching at the corners.

I groan. “Good luck, Devine.”

He turns, taking a step backward as his eyes dance in amusement. “You’re welcome, Princess.”

Callan joins the rest of the team as they line up for the national anthem. The crowd settles as the song starts, and I swear the “Star Spangled Banner” has never lasted this long before.

Is this what it’s like to be a player? Is there a shift in the time-space continuum that makes it feel like these two minutes are actually an hour? Finally, the music ends, and the stadium breaks into applause. The captains get called out for the coin toss, and Callan gives me a backward glance as he makes his way to the field. He looks like the fucking American dream in his uniform: all muscles and height and football.

And football pants. God, I love football pants. The way they make a man’s thighs look stronger and their ass perfectly round. Yum.

The referee talks to the players, and I wish Callan’s helmet had a microphone so I could eavesdrop on the coin flip. What is there to explain at this point? Does the coin toss ever really change?

I type a quick note on my tablet, reminding myself to either look it up later or ask Callan. Unfortunately for him, he’s become my new search engine for all things football. Turns out, there’s a stark difference between the knowledge needed to be a fan (or barely willing spectator, as it were) and knowing what’s happening, and I’m displeased to find I’m still on the fan-side of things.

The kickoff team is on the field, the special teams coach in my ear as they prepare to start the game. The crowd is at full volume, and before I have time to process it, the players snap into motion as the ball is kicked.

The first quarter flies by, everything faster, louder, and harder than it was during any of the preseason games. I barely keep up with the coaches in my ear, but I can’t ask any questions because I’ve very specifically asked to be given a headset without a microphone. Mostly because I’m worried it would accidentally turn on when I was saying something dumb, but also because it’s not the vibe I’m trying to set. I’m not doing their job. I’m making sure they’re doing it.

Late in the second quarter, Callan throws a pass deep to Pitt, the gold-lined number 84 on the back of his jersey flashing as he stretches to catch the ball.

“Touchdown Stallions!” The announcer’s voice is almost lost amid the celebration. Callan points to his friend and wide receiver as the man dances in the end zone before being jumped on by his teammates.

When Callan jogs off the field, I can’t help but watch him. The way his pads make his shoulders look like they could carry the weight of the world. The way those damn pants hug every curve of his ass, gliding along his muscular frame like God’s gift to womankind. The way he curls his hands into fists, the cords on his arms popping seductively. The way his eyes—

Shit. His deep green eyes are locked on my own, even as he heads to the bench between us, and there is no mistaking the amusement glittering there. The man knows I was checking him out. Which shouldn’t be embarrassing, since literally every man and woman in this place is paying attention to either him or Pitt, but it feels like I’m admitting a secret. A secret that, until this moment, I might’ve been trying to keep, even from myself.

Halftime comes and goes, and when the players come back onto the field, I do my best to keep my eyes pointed anywhere but at Callan. Which only seems to make me more aware of him. Of every move he makes.

And fuck, does he look good today. The coaching staff is constantly shouting commands into his helmet. While I can barely decipher what they’re saying, he somehow decodes the random string of words they’re shouting to lead the Stallions to a 21–3 victory. When he runs off the field, after what is likely to be our last offensive push, he pulls his helmet off, running his fingers through his sweat-coated hair. It should be disgusting: it is decidedly not.

I pinch my arm.

Athletes are selfish in bed.

No need to jump aboard that train. The last thing I need is another picture of us looking couple-y together during a game. The press has had a field day with me taking over as acting owner and it leaking that Callan and I are together. But since he’s here on a four-year contract that isn’t up until the end of next season, it’s not like they can really claim favoritism or anything. At least we won’t be together then.

I’m not sure why the thought has my stomach dropping, an uncomfortable chill crossing the back of my neck. Sure, I’ve had way more fun living with him than I ever thought I would. And yeah, he has been a major help with making sure I understand what’s being said around the practice facility and offices. But it’s not like we’re actually dating. I just like spending almost all my free time with him. And I find him attractive. And that’s completely different from being in a relationship with someone.