Page 10 of Running Play (Gods of Campus #1)
Christian
Catching a look at Seth, his eyes are studying me closely as I discreetly flip him the bird. He couldn’t know what, or more specifically who I was thinking about. He’s a genius, not a mind reader. He reinforces those thoughts when he grins back at me, scratching at his tattooed neck. Fucker.
I’m the man, I’m the man, I’m the man…” Aloe Blacc’s voice blares through the room, yanking me out of my stare-down with Seth.
The ringtone earns a chorus of groans and theatrical hisses as Coach spins from the whiteboard, his glare sharp enough to cut tape.
He’s pissed because another of Coach’s rules is no phones when he’s speaking, and in class he is always speaking!
The class stops as we all turn to watch Reilly frantically search around in his gym bag. “Stephenson!” Coach booms,
“Sorry, Coach. Fuck. Sorry. Shit. One second,” he panics as the ring tone sounds around the room. Reilly finds it and quickly powers it off. We watch as Coach rounds the desk in his intimidating manner.
“Are you a pediatric cardiologist?”
Reilly cowers as he sits up in his chair. “No, Coach.”
“So, you’re not on call to perform a life-saving operation on a child?”
“No, Coach.”
We all try to hide our smiles with our hands knowing if we so much as snicker, or shift the wrong way, we’ll be next in the line of fire.
His eyes are wide and fierce. “Then turn your fucking phone off while I run over these plays.”
“Yes, Coach. I have, Coach.”
I watch Mitch a couple of seats across from me reach into his pocket to get his phone; he quickly puts it on silent and places it back where it came from.
Coach’s long finger points toward Reilly. “You’re running suicides with me after practice tomorrow,” he says, turning back toward the front.
Reilly groans in anguish as he slumps back in his chair. Coach’s eyes shoot straight back to him. “Problem?”
“No, Coach, that sounds perfectly reasonable,” he replies with a roll of his head.
Coach’s eyes dart to Mitch, never one to miss anything. “McDonald!” he yells. “You too.”
“Fuccckkkk,” Mitch groans out, raking his hand through his hair.
“I don’t want you guys distracted when I need you focused on our upcoming game. I would confiscate those bloody things, but God knows I don’t want to be in possession of whatever shit you have on them.” Coach’s eyes dart to Randy.
“Hey, what did I do?” Randy shoots back as innocently as he can muster, then shrugs in acceptance of the accuracy.
Placing his hands on the back of his head and stretching his back, he admits, “I can’t help what they send me, Coach; plus, I don’t think you need to worry about Mitch…
he still hasn’t learned that it’s supposed to be hard before you take the photo. ”
The whole team burst into laughter as Mitch shoots him his middle finger.
Coach shakes his head. “Shut the fuck up and pay attention to what’s on this board and not what’s in your fucking uniform!” he continues with the play he wants us working on.
God, I love this team.