Fuck. I don’t even want her manipulating Finn’s image. I don’t want anyone looking at it again.
“Okay, sure,” she says, clearly trying to bring things back to the light and easy level we’d been on before.
I need to get a hold of myself.
On my second monitor, I pick out a shot of Rolondo laughing as he holds a football over his crotch. I move the image over so that it shows up on our chat room. “This is a good one for publicity,” I offer. “Rolondo’s smile is infectious, and he’s playing really well right now.”
Thank you, James for your constant football prattle.
“Love it,” Meghan says. “But back to Manny’s shot. Maybe we should lead with that one.”
I’m not bringing it back on screen. No one else is seeing the unedited version again. I shake off the possessive feeling that’s clinging to my neck. “It’s up to you, obviously, but I think it’d work much better as a surprise. Everyone is going to want to see Mannus. He’s your star quarterback and team leader. Keep him under wraps and you feed the need.”
Part of me is internally laughing at all the bullshit I’m spewing, and wondering if they’ll see right through me. The other part hates that I’m even in a conversation that revolves around how to best use Finn’s fame.
But Megan makes an agreeable noise over the phone. “I like it. Let’s go with Dex and Rolondo for now.”
“I can send them over in about an hour,” I promise. “I’m just going to touch up a few shadows.” Shadow’s being a set of balls, but she doesn’t need to hear that.
“Great. I’ll plan to get them out with a press release today.”
Thankfully, the call finishes fairly quickly. As soon as I hang up, I let out a breath and hold my head in my hands. What the fuck is wrong with me? I just hissed and swiped over Finn like some territorial she-beast. I have the horrible suspicion that, if I had been in the room with Dani and Meghan at the time, I’d have bared my teeth at them.
Total she-beast.
Finn isn’t mine, and he can take care of himself. Then again, he didn’t want to be seen as some piece of man-ass. You were right to protect him.
Running my fingers through my hair, I flip the heavy mass back over my shoulder and take a long, cleansing breath. I have work to do. Thinking about Finn Mannus isn’t part of that job. The sooner I remember that, the better off I’ll be.
The thought barely settles when my phone digs and my stupid heart gives a happy leap. It’s embarrassing how fast I grab for the phone. Maybe even more so when my grin wavers, as I see that it’s James texting.
JamesTTwerk: You almost done for the day?
CC: Just finishing up
JamesTTwerk: Cool. You want me to pick you on Friday?
It takes me a second to remember what the hell he’s talking about. When I do, I sigh. James is back from New York, and we’re supposed to go to our friend Malcolm’s annual “Cocks and Cocktails” party. I slump against my chair. Same people, same conversations. Why that has suddenly lost its appeal, I can’t say, but just the thought of going exhausts me.
I’m tempted to tell James don’t want to go, but I know he’ll just nag and cajole me out anyway. And I clearly need to get out of this loft and out of my own head for a while.
Chapter Six
Finn
* * *
Things some people might not know about my job. I am a chess player. You might think I’m just standing there in the huddle, or on the line of scrimmage, shouting out instructions passed down to me by the coach. In reality, it’s more than that. I’m reading the defense, arranging my guys like pieces on a board, reacting and plotting. And I’m given about five seconds to do it.
I am a cheerleader. I don’t have pom-poms, and while my ass is admittedly cute, I don’t shake it—much. But I am absolutely cheering my guys on. Pride is a powerful motivator. So is loyalty. I create both when I tell them how fucking brilliant they are on good plays, for them to keep pushing, never let up.
I am a leader. They look to me to set the tone, to take the game in hand. Even if some of them will never admit it.
And I am an actor. If I fold, if I show fear, it’s game over for my men. There isn’t a play in which I’m not faking the defense out, putting up a good front, and playing mind games.
On the field, it’s mind, body, sprit working in perfect harmony.
As I said, best job in the world.
And then we have the other days of the week.
I suppress a sigh and flip through the massive binder on my lap. In the armchair next to me, is my backup QB, Dillon. Wooster, the third string quarterback, is sprawled on the couch. Not sure why that fucker gets to lie down. But house rules regarding seating has always been first come first serve. Somehow Wooster always get to the couch first.
Altman, our offensive coordinator is droning on, explaining the new play calls that I can read for myself if he’d end this meeting and let me. One hundred and thirty new play calls, to be exact.
Did I mention I’m also a student? Every week, I study, learn, memorize. Playbooks are my life. I read over them at night, during breakfast, whenever I get the chance. But right now?
I want out.
My head isn’t in it. It’s past five on a Friday, I’m fucking tired, and we’ve have been here for hours, reviewing footage and now the playbook.
Fingers snap, the sound catching my attention. Altman’s cold blue eyes drill into me. He’s about fifteen years older than I am, once a backup quarterback who got traded around towards the end of his career. It’s the thing we fear most, being tossed aside, scrambling to find work, and finally realizing no one will pick you up.
But Altman made the most of it. He’s an excellent offensive coordinator and will probably be a coach one day.
“You got something to share with the class, Manny?” he asks now.
This is my second year working with him. I can read him well and know he isn’t pissed. Yet.
I give him an easy smile. “Yeah, I’ve gotta use the can.”