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LIVVY

“We’re fucked.”

“We aren’t fucked ,” my dad’s best friend, and the Renegade’s general manager replies from his spot at the luxurious mahogany conference table. I can tell he doesn’t believe the words as they come out of his own mouth, but hey—bonus points for the optimism, Tony.

“We’ve been at this all day, and no matter how we move these players around, we’re either over our salary cap or we don’t have the talent to see a single win this year.” He slumps in his chair, looking as deflated as ever. He’s normally such a happy guy, always the life of the party. But today, as we attempt to draft a brand-new roster using only the players all the other teams are willing to let go of? Well, let’s just say I’ve been to better parties.

When we got word that the city of Cleveland would be getting the National Football League’s first expansion team in over two decades, my dad was determined to buy it. He inherited my great-grandfather’s oil drilling company before I was born, but sold it almost immediately because that’s never what he wanted to do with his life. Our family lives and breathes football, and the one-point-five billion dollars he received in the sale gave him the resources to make all his dreams come true.

And now, here we are—trying to make lemonade out of lemons with all the players the other thirty-two teams in the league are ready to do without.

The rules of an expansion draft are pretty simple. Each team is required to make six players from their active roster available for us to take. Kickers and punters are not included, and we still have to make sure we aren’t going over the amount of money the NFL has allotted for us to spend. When we take someone from any given team’s draftable list, they’re allowed to take one off, keeping those who remain as choices for our next round. Currently, we’ve claimed two wide receivers, a running back, and an offensive tackle, but we’ve been at a standstill ever since. My dad has a team of professionals attempting to work out the best-case scenario, but apparently, he isn’t in love with the options.

Deciding that I’ve watched them struggle for long enough, I blow a rogue strand of blonde hair out of my face, standing from the chair I’ve been curled up in for the last hour. My dad and Tony both look over as I sidle up next to them and wordlessly slide the iPad they’ve been poring over in front of me so I can see what we have to work with. I chew the inside of my cheek in contemplation for several minutes before pushing it back over for them to see.

“The Sharks are willing to get rid of Austin Baker because they know he doesn’t have much left in the tank, and they have a backup quarterback who’s a two-time Pro Bowler,” I tell them. “I happen to know that Baker recently adopted a new training regimen that focuses on diet, pliability, and recovery. If he sticks with it, he could see at least another two seasons, and his contract would cost us next to nothing. Hilton at left tackle will protect his blind side, which should lessen the probability of an injury.

“With the money you save from taking the less desirable veteran QB, you can pick up Emmett Hayes,” I say, pointing my lavender fingernail at the face on the screen. “He’s been struggling to connect with his teammates on a personal level in Minnesota, and I think it’s been affecting his game. But his family is from around here, so maybe getting him closer to them again will help his mood. He had over eleven-hundred receiving yards his last year in San Antonio, and I honestly don’t see any signs that point to him being unable to find that groove again with a new team.” I scroll down more. “Then, you can fill in the rest of the blanks with whoever’s left, but at least the most important puzzle pieces are in place.”

Both men look up at me with their mouths agape, although I’m not sure why. It’s no secret that I’m an absolute stats nerd, and that lesser-known facts about random football players just kind of stick in my head. As a fan—and the daughter of a lifelong football coach and athletic director at various Ohio high schools—that type of knowledge was more of a party trick than anything. But now that we own a professional team, it’s coming in pretty handy.

“What?” I ask, plucking a Twizzler from the candy platter in the middle of the table and taking a bite. My sister, Sydney, always makes fun of me for eating them. She says they taste like shoelaces, but it’s fine. More for me. “It’s a solid start.”

“Alright, smarty pants,” my dad says with a resigned laugh. Let’s say Baker does get hurt. What do we do then? If I’m using that much cap to bring Hayes here, I’m going to need a backup that’s competent enough to get him the ball.”

A playful scowl mars my expression, making him chuckle as I slide the tablet back in front of me. I scroll down the list of available quarterbacks slowly, not loving the options. But as I reach the very bottom, one name stands out from the crowd.

“Okay, hear me out,” I begin, earning an eye roll from Tony, who I promptly silence with a hurried shh. He puts his hands up in surrender, pretending to zip his lips as I continue. “Maddox Dane has been sitting behind Carson Wellman for three years. I’m sure he’s picked up a few things. Plus, he looked decent during last year’s preseason games. He was an All-American in high school, and his completion percentage at Iowa State was actually pretty impressive. If he spends a couple years learning from Baker, you might just have yourself a solid QB.”

“Maddox Dane?” my father replies, his face scrunching in disgust. “Olivia, he was picked dead last in the draft. Do you really think he has that kind of potential?”

I bring the Twizzler to my mouth, biting off a chunk before giving him a sly smile. “Yep. Make the call.”

Get ready for the Rock City Renegades.