Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
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"There's no way that man still uses a flip phone," I say, wide-eyed, nearly sloshing champagne over the rim of my glass.
Coach Fletcher's mustache twitches. "Swear on the game. Straight-up Motorola. Has to tap it three times just to type a damn period."
I wheeze. "Please. Tell me he has to use the belt holster too."
Coach looks entirely unamused. "Wears it like it's tactical gear."
"Is he aware of what decade we're in?"
Coach shrugs, clearly unbothered. "Man can build a defense like a damn fortress. Doesn't mean he can work a group text."
I nearly drop my glass.
I'm not sure how we get onto the topic of Coach Dawkins, but we sure as hell are here.
He's the Colts defensive coordinator, former linebacker, old enough to have stories about the pre-NFL merger and mean enough to make them sound like bedtime tales. He growls more than he speaks, chews gum like it owes him money, and wears his whistle like it's blessed by a priest. But he's brilliant. The kind of terrifying genius you can only respect. And, apparently, still deep in the early 2000s.
We're tucked off to the side of the grand foyer, at one of the tall cocktail tables, both of us half-shielded by a ten-foot Christmas tree decked in silver and navy ribbon. It's the kind of tree that probably comes with its own insurance claim.
The foyer of the Stables has been transformed for the night—less state-of-the-art football fortress, more luxury winter gala.
Fairy lights drape from the mezzanine balconies like snow falling in slow motion. Every column is wrapped in garland thicker than my forearm. A six-piece jazz band plays smooth, vaguely sexy renditions of holiday classics in the corner, and the catering staff are walking around with trays full of bite-sized magic and glasses of sparkling gold.
I just ate something that I'm pretty sure was a truffle disguised as a snowflake.
It's decadent. Gorgeous. Obscenely expensive.
And I'm warm from the bubbles, maybe on my fourth glass of champagne, maybe my fifth, and I feel... really, really good. Floaty. Sparkly. Happy.
Coach Fletcher, somehow, hasn't changed at all even though he's currently nursing his umpteenth scotch of the evening.
He's wearing a clean black suit that's been ironed by someone who loves him and a face like he's already over this entire event. He's been parked at this same high table since I find him twenty minutes ago—clearly trying to avoid the eyesight of anyone currently on the dance floor.
It's kind of adorable.
"You doing alright, sweetheart?" he asks, cutting his eyes toward me like he already knows the answer.
"I'm about one flute away from cordoning off the champagne tower and claiming it as my personal property." I raise my glass in salute before taking a sip. "This just goes down so easily, don't it?"
