Page 75 of Her Game Plan

***

“So this is Nan, huh?” Chris murmurs, giving me a hug in the foyer of my parents’ house forty-five minutes later.

“She said, and I quote, ‘So interesting to see you’re still around’ to me when we picked her up.”

Definitely not the apology Callan thought I was getting. And from the not-at-all-subtle cough he made after her statement, it wasn’t on her preapproved list of behaviors.

“I kind of respect her for it, though,” I admit as we walk toward the dining room. “Someone is going to have to protect him after—” I cut myself off, but I know it’s too late. Chris’ eyes are wide.

“Don’t tell me,” he warns.

I’d cautioned my mom that Nan wasn’t likely up for the standing cocktail portion of our usual family dinner, so after hugs and wishing everyone merry Christmas, we immediately take our seats. Fortunately, Mom put Nan next to her, Callan between us, and directly across from Marlee. It’s hard not to be jealous of my favorite little person when I see how much Callan loves her. Dinner is a festive affair, conversation and wine flowing as everyone studiously avoids talking about the game—the usual Christmas topic of conversation. Instead, Marlee is telling us every single gift Santa brought her that morning. I raise my eyebrows at Chris, silently reprimanding him for the absurd number of toys the mythical man brought. Hopefully, she doesn’t compare with the kids at daycare.

Nan and Mom are deep in conversation about Mom’s charity work around the city and the keynote she attended in October about the silver tsunami and the challenges Colorado is facing with its aging population. Not necessarily a Christmas conversation, in my humble opinion, but they’re both leaning forward, completely locked in.

When he finally finishes demolishing a plate of prime rib and twice-baked potatoes, Callan places his hand on my thigh. Holding his decaf coffee in his left hand to maintain the contact, he offers me a small smile before being pulled back into conversation with Chris and my dad about their car collections. I zone out, admiring the muscles in his face move as he talks. His cheeks bunching as he laughs at something Chris says. He catches my gaze and smiles, his eyes softening in the way they only do for me. In my peripheral vision, I catch Nan watching us, the look on her face something between worry and confusion.

My attention is pulled away by Dad’s phone buzzing on the table. None of the rest of us are allowed to have devices at dinner, but Dad has always been the exception to that rule. He stares at the screen for a moment before looking at me. “Charlotte, would you join me in my office? Hugo needs a few minutes.”

I nod. “Of course.” Football teams wait for no holiday. It’s a truth I’ve been raised with since birth.

Callan squeezes my leg once before I stand, offering his silent support for whatever is about to happen. I’ve told him how frustrated I am with Hugo blocking me and undermining me at least once a week, but I also haven’t been able to tell him the majority of it, since it’s all confidential.

And it’s mostly about him.

I follow my dad into his office, taking a seat across from him as he dials. “Hugo,” my dad begins from his large office chair, his cell phone placed between us on his desk. “You’ve got me and Charlotte.”

Hugo clears his throat, the sound loud through the speakerphone. “Oh. Great.”

It’s clear by the way he says it that he hadn’t asked for me to be brought into this meeting. Too bad, Hugo.

After a moment, he starts in on what sounds like a pre-prepared speech. “After the loss today, we need to seriously consider working on a trade deal for Devine.”

I want to object, but I know that in this call, my disagreement means nothing. Hugo sees me as a girl playing at being the boss. One whose emotions are too involved to make a rational decision. And that’s not speculation. He told me that exact thing last week when I suggested we needed to invest in our offensive line.

“I don’t know, Hugo,” my dad says, his hands steepled beneath his chin. “He’s still playing at a high level.”

“We’re 9–7 with him playing at that level. That’s the problem. We’re not a contender. We need to cut our losses and free up some more cap for next year.”

Dad shakes his head, his gaze darting to mine briefly before focusing on his phone screen. “How far away are we from being a contender for the championship in your mind?”

“At least three years,” Hugo declares, not pausing to consider the question. Maybe he was ready with an answer because he’s good at his job and has already anticipated what my dad’s going to ask. Or maybe he’s a snake and is building a story to achieve the outcome he wants.

Though I’m not sure why he wants Callan gone, if not to benefit the team.

“I disagree,” I cut in, and Hugo snorts derisively before the line goes silent, clearly having muted himself. Taking advantage of the silence, I continue, “I’ve talked to the coaches and trainers. The general consensus is that we can be there next year.”

“And how much money are you willing to bet on that, Charlotte?” I don’t know why I didn’t notice how nasal Hugo’s voice was before I started working with him. “Because if we trade him now, it’s $30 million this year. If we wait, dead cap jumps to $50 million, and far fewer teams are going to be able to afford him.”

I pop my knuckles, earning a disapproving glance from my father. Yes, yes. I’m quite aware of my bad habit. “But what’s the cost of the fan reaction? The team’s reaction? They all love him.”

Hugo releases a frustrated sigh that even has my dad’s eyebrows lifting. “Just because you love him, Charlotte, doesn’t mean the rest of the world does. There will be some backlash if we trade him, there almost always is with quarterbacks, but he hasn’t won a championship in two years.”

“We were there last year, though,” Dad chimes in.

“Which doesn’t help his case,” Hugo responds. “There’s lots of talk that this year’s record, coupled with last year’s failed attempt, proves Devine is on a downhill trajectory. Finally aging out. I’m not sure how many more sacks his body can take. And sure, the fans and a few players might be mad for a minute, but give it a year under a new quarterback, and everyone will have forgotten about him.”

My skin crawls as we talk about Callan like he’s some test dummy out there to be pummeled until he finally falls apart or is upgraded. Especially since he’s here, in this house, having Christmas dinner with our family. Hell, he’s probably having a tea party with Marlee right now.