Page 3 of Mr. Irrelevant (Rock City Renegades #1)

TWO

LIVVY

“Another interception,” my younger sister, Sydney, deadpans from beside me.

“Shocker.” We’re sitting in the Renegades’ owner’s box, watching as Maddox Dane turns the ball over for the third time today.

I thought maybe the two picks he threw last week were flukes, or that he was just shaken by the turn of events that led to him taking the field.

That would be completely understandable, considering Austin Baker is still in the hospital recovering from several broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a torn rotator cuff.

Not only was it a season-ending injury, but he’s lucky to be alive.

I can imagine that witnessing it affected Maddox on another level.

I blow out a frustrated breath, rolling my eyes. “Lay off him, Syd. It’s going to take a minute to find his groove. He’ll get there.”

“Yeah, right,” she replies sarcastically, kicking her feet up onto the window ledge in front of us.

“Too bad Dad let his team of idiots talk him into spending the rest of our salary cap on Jett Kingsley. I mean, he’s amazing, but now we’re stuck with this.

” She gestures toward the field, just as Maddox rolls back, finding an open Emmett Hayes about thirty yards downfield and firing a beauty of a pass in his direction.

I shoot out of my seat, holding my breath as the ball sails through the air, somehow finding the receiver’s hands even through the defense’s double coverage.

The crowd goes wild as he’s tackled to the ground, the referees immediately blowing their whistles to confirm the completion.

I look down at my sister, a smug smirk raising one corner of my mouth. “See,” I say, shrugging a shoulder. “There’s a starter in there somewhere. He just needs a little work.”

“Whatever you say. At least he looks hot in that uniform.” She shakes her head, tossing a piece of popcorn into the air and opening her mouth to catch it.

True to form, she misses by a mile, flinching as it hits her in the cheek and falls to the floor.

I laugh at her incoordination, grateful that I was blessed with our dad’s athletic ability and not our mom’s, like she was.

Katia Grant’s idea of a full-contact sport is going to the grocery store instead of ordering delivery.

Growing up, I was the ultimate sports fanatic.

Not only did I watch hours of NFL highlights so I could memorize stat lines and plays, but I used that knowledge to help my dad with the teams he coached.

It wasn’t uncommon to see eight-year-old Livvy trotting onto the field with her pigtails blowing in the wind before grabbing a two-hundred-pound lineman by the facemask and telling him to do fifty pushups for jumping offsides.

By the time I reached junior high, there was no questioning what I wanted to do when I grew up.

When I told my family I aspired to be the National Football League’s first female head coach, they were totally on board.

My parents have always been supportive of me and Syd, reminding us that we can do anything we put our minds to.

I spent years learning everything I could, hoping I’d be able to make my dreams come true.

But as it often does, the real world hit me like a bag of bricks to the face as soon as I arrived at Ohio State University.

My plan was well thought out. I’d get my bachelor’s in Sport Industry, maybe land an internship with the football team, and learn some valuable skills that I could use after graduation.

Then, I’d return to Cleveland, apply for assistant coaching jobs—or whatever I could get—and work my way up the ladder.

Unfortunately, nothing panned out the way I had hoped.

Not only were the internships extremely limited, but in the entire four years I was there, I only had a single interaction with one of the coaches.

I ended up working with a local junior varsity team in Columbus, and while I got a lot out of it, I had higher hopes for myself when I entered into the workforce.

I tried not to let it deter me, doing my best to stay motivated when the time came to apply for coaching positions.

But the more resumés I sent out, the more I realized the world I grew up in—where a little girl could command an entire team with a Twizzler in one hand and a whistle in the other—didn’t really exist. The cold, hard truth became slowly and painfully apparent.

Nobody wanted a coach without on-field experience—especially if that coach was a woman.

It wasn’t an easy pill to swallow, and maybe I was na?ve for thinking I wouldn’t run into these types of roadblocks along the way, but a new fire was lit inside me the day my family bought the Rock City Renegades.

I was willing to earn everything that came my way, even if that meant starting in the mailroom and working up to a position on the sidelines, but that’s not at all the way it’s going down.

I went from getting rejected by high school teams to learning how to take over ownership of a professional one almost overnight, and there really isn’t much I can do about it.

Syd and I are our parents’ only children, and with me being the oldest—and her refusing to learn the ins and outs of the game beyond how tight everyone’s pants are—the Grant family legacy rests on my shoulders.

This is my dad’s dream, and he’s been supportive of me my entire life.

The least I can do is rearrange the plans I had for myself and reassure him that the Renegades will be in good hands when he’s no longer able to work.

I still get to be around the game and have a say in everything that happens around here…

I just won’t be doing it from the field.

I look down just as the pocket collapses, and Maddox is sacked for a loss of yards.

That one was on the offensive line, which is definitely missing a few of the puzzle pieces we’ll add after next year’s draft.

That’s the thing about an expansion team—it’s a slow build, and you’re bound to have a few shitty years before it gets better.

Our center, Boomer Davenport, lifts him by the pads and onto his feet, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as they jog to the sideline.

The punting team runs out, but my eyes are glued to Maddox as he pulls his helmet off and sets it down on the bench.

He combs his fingers through his sweat-soaked coffee-brown hair, looking utterly defeated as he plops down on the hard plastic and drops his head into his hands.

For a moment, I feel bad for putting him in this situation—leading a brand-new team in front of a stadium full of booing fans who aren’t giving any of them the grace they deserve.

But I see something in Maddox Dane that they don’t.

That’s why I talked my dad into bringing him here.

None of us were expecting to have him thrown into the action the way he was, but here we are, and we have to make the best of it.

Our coaching staff is great, and I hope they’ll take the time to dig deep and pull out the talent that lingers behind his inexperience.

He’s already been written off as a career backup by the rest of the league, but I think they’re wrong—and someday, they’ll all eat their words.

The rest of the game goes by at an agonizingly slow pace, and by the time the clock runs out, almost every seat in the place is empty.

People started funneling out in the third quarter, when it was apparent we weren’t going to come back from the twenty-four-point hole that was only getting deeper.

On one hand, I don’t blame them, because it was hard to watch.

But on the other, the team needs their support, and I wish they’d have stuck around .

My mom and sister were the first to head out, leaving me with my dad, who I’ve barely even talked to since this morning, with how busy the day has been. But now that we’re alone in our otherwise empty box, we can finally catch up.

“That was a tough one,” I say, leaning against the bar where he’s pouring himself a glass of beer. He exhales a slow breath, taking a sip before looking over at me.

“I can’t help but feel like this is my fault.

I set this team up for failure. I was so concerned with getting Kingsley here after West got hurt, I didn’t even consider what we’d do if we lost Baker.

We can’t afford another starting QB, and I don’t think Dane is ready yet.

I have a rookie coming over from Dallas this week as our new backup, but he’s only seen one preseason game.

We have no real experience under center, and if we keep relying on our run game, we’re going to end up with even more injuries.

I don’t know what to do.” His shoulders slump, and he stares down at the golden liquid as if it holds all the answers to his problems.

The reality of what I’m seeing hits me hard.

The man I’ve idolized my entire life and seen as nothing less than my very own superhero, beaten and dejected, second-guessing the choices he’s made…

when one of them was believing in a player because I told him to.

He trusted me, and I have to find a way to make this better.

Even if that means taking matters into my own hands.