Page 93 of Her Game Plan

I shake my head. “I know I shouldn’t, but I think I’m going to go into the office. You’re right. Something feels off about the way Hugo is pushing this. I assumed I should go along with what he said, since he’s been doing this forever, but now I’m worried I’m letting him drive the ship instead of me.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Sage asks. “I can help look over salary cap numbers. Baseball has a luxury tax rather than a hard cap, but I still spend a lot of time looking at spreadsheets.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m going to get Nelson, the VP of Football Administration, to send me the numbers I need while I’m in the car.”

Addie glances at her watch. “It’s already eight fifteen.”

“He’s sent me work texts after ten before. He’ll be fine. Hell, he might even be in the office.”

I hug my friends, grateful for the time I was able to spend with them. When I leave, the grief that has sunk deep into my veins is still there, but now, I’m almost energized with this new purpose. I might not be able to find a sponsor, or make things go back to the way they were with Callan, but I can figure out whether Hugo is up to something or not.

***

I freeze my computer screen on Callan standing in a collapsing pocket. Two defenders are already through the line, as a third breaks free. I rewind it. Play it again. Forcing myself to focus on the players, not my player.

Tapping my pen against my desk, I watch the same clip three more times, very aware that Nelson is quietly watching over my shoulder. When I called him in the car, he agreed to meet me here to help, rather than sending over the information. Luckily, he lives near the office.

“He shouldn’t be getting hit that fast, should he?” I ask. “Even if he is slowing down or getting old. The pocket is collapsing too soon.”

“It’s not really my place to say,” Nelson replies.

I glance at him, my mind trying to understand the tone he used. “But…”

“Coach and I suggested we replace the right guard,” Nelson says finally. “And Henricks is playing through something.” He points to the left tackle this time. “We felt we needed to bulk up the offensive line. Hugo made the call to strengthen the defense.”

I glance at the spreadsheet on my second screen, scanning the defensive portion of the roster. “The edge rusher.”

He pauses. “Yes.”

Looking up from the screens, I say, “Twenty-three mil against the cap this year. Am I reading that correctly?”

Nelson clears his throat. “Yes.”

“And what was his pressure rate?” I ask, thankful I sat in on a few of the defensive team meetings last month. I might know more about football than I let on, but I certainly didn’t know the name of the stat for how often a defender is able to get into the backfield and have a path to the quarterback.

He taps his tablet a few times. “Seven percent.”

I do a quick internet search of what it should be. Ten percent. I say nothing, allowing Nelson to draw his own conclusions.

I pull the cap sheet back up, scanning line by line. The names, numbers, and guarantees threatening to blur in front of me, but I keep them in focus. This is important.

“This one,” I say, highlighting a row on the spreadsheet. “Abrams. Why is this structured like this?”

He leans over to take a closer look. “It’s a backloaded deal. So it spikes in years three and four.”

I tap my pen again. “Why?” I ask finally.

“To keep the cap hit low when we signed him.”

I look over my shoulder at Nelson. “But we’re paying for it now.”

Silence stretches between us as I continue to scroll. “Paulson. The linebacker. We extended him early?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I swivel in my chair to face him fully.

Nelson runs his hand down the back of his neck. “He had a strong year.”