Chapter 2: Talon

So that was Leni. 

She’s charming in a sweet, innocent way. Like the girl-next-door, she has no idea how beautiful she is. 

Damn. I shake my head. 

The last woman I need to be thinking about is Coach’s fucking daughter. 

I met his other daughter, Lincoln Strauss, after the Super Bowl last year and while I caught a glimpse of Leni when Lincoln pointed her out, it was from a distance. All I saw was her blonde hair and a bit of the blue dress she was wearing. 

Lincoln’s gorgeous and she knows it. She brims with confidence. Older, wiser, and smart as hell. 

Leni’s softer. Sweeter. Lovelier. 

Lovelier? I shake my head. 

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Coach adores his girls. It was one of the first things I learned about him, from the first time I entered his office and saw a framed photo of his family. His stunning wife, Vicki, and their two bright-eyed, blonde girls—Lincoln and Leni. 

And then, the pieces of them he shared with me during my first year as one of his players. 

I pause in the stairwell, gripping the banister to pull in a breath. 

I haven’t thought about that year, those stretch of weeks that were so short, yet etched in my brain for eternity, in a long time. 

I only had my mother in my life for a handful of years. The first three—which I barely remember save for the sound of smacks and the silhouette of her cowering on the bathroom floor—before Child Protective Services intervened and I ended up in the foster care system. And a five-and-a-half week stretch when I was a rookie for the Coyotes, my mother was dying, and Coach Strauss intervened to help me say goodbye. 

Then, he helped me organize her funeral and stood by my side, squeezing my shoulder, as her casket was lowered into the ground. 

To my knowledge, he never told anyone. And neither did I.

But the long hours he kept me company at my mother’s bedside, he shared snippets of his personal life. His family life. 

I learned about his family’s immigration from Germany to America. Then, the found family he sought in football—not unlike my own experience. The woman who captured his heart—a sweet debutante from a prominent Tennessee family, Victoria, affectionately known as Vicki. And the two little girls who made him a dad—Lincoln and Leni. While he shared stories of both his daughters, the ones about Leni made me laugh. 

The way she colored her doll’s faces with markers and pretended it was makeup when she was six. How she continued to host a wedding reception that all her dolls, stuffed animals, and family were forced to attend. 

Another story, about when Lincoln dared Leni to slide down the banister at a country club and she ended up with eleven stitches along her hairline. 

There was the time she cut bangs at twelve because some punk told her she had a fivehead and she cried herself to sleep, holding the chunk of her cut hair. 

The first time she got drunk at a lake house and called Vicki, begging to pick her up. But first made her swear not to rat out any of her friends to their parents. 

From the stories Coach shared, I deduced that Leni is trouble adjacent. She never intends to find herself in a sticky situation but because she’s Lincoln’s sister and some girl Marlowe’s best friend, she’s usually along for the ride. She’s loyal and loving. 

I enjoyed listening to Coach’s stories about Leni. They were wholesome and sincere. They were so unlike my own childhood, they almost sounded made up. 

In fact, if it wasn’t Coach telling them, I would have called bullshit. 

But during those confusing weeks when I had to find closure with a mother who never wanted me, grapple for my footing with a team that was my ticket to a future, and perform on the field—the stories about sweet, quirky, sunny Leni made me smile. 

They made me believe in a type of goodness I’ve only caught glimpses of over the years. 

She made me realize that there are women out there who aren’t after a player because of the job title or the money or the social status. There are women who just believe in love. 

Imagine that? 

Shaking my head at my wayward thoughts, I bound down the steps, and swing by the cafeteria for a shot of espresso. I have one more meeting with Coach Stevens before I head home. 

Training camp has kicked off and I can’t afford distractions. Or missteps. This team—Coach Strauss specifically—has taken me under their wing and molded me into the player I am today. 

A kicker who helped win the Super Bowl last season. 

It’s a legacy I’d like to uphold. It’s the only thing I truly have to my name. Without football—who am I? What am I? 

I’m a kid from Indiana who grew up solo, with a chip on my shoulder, and found an outlet in a game I love. That game bought me an education and a career and a team. A family. 

I can’t sacrifice that for anything.

I take a sip of my espresso and check my Apple Watch. Ten minutes left. 

“Yo,” Gage Gutierrez calls out. 

I glance up and flip my chin in his direction. Sauntering over to the cafeteria table a few of my teammates are seated around, I drop down. 

“What are you still doing here?” Jag Baglione asks. 

I lean back in my chair. “Meeting with Stevens in a few.”

“Hey,” our wide receiver, Cohen Campbell, glances at our QB, Avery Callaway. “You think Leni showed up yet?”

“She did,” I confirm, before I realize he wasn’t asking me. 

The guys at the table swing their gazes my way. I take another sip of espresso. Clear my throat. “Coach asked me to meet her at the main entrance and bring her up to his office until he finished a call.”

Avery shakes his head at me. “Don’t get any ideas, Miller. Leni Strauss is off-fucking-limits.”

Cohen scoffs. “He wasn’t getting ideas. Talon’s not that stupid.”

West Crawford tilts his head, pondering this assumption. “You sure?”

I flip him the middle finger. “She seems like a nice girl.” 

“Ah, Len’s the best,” Cohen says sincerely. “Lincoln too. When they were in high school, Coach made them come to every home game.”

“Every pep rally, every charity event,” Callaway tacks on. 

“He pointed out how smelly and gross we are.” Cohen laughs, gesturing around the table. “The stench of our pads—” 

“The piles of dirty towels,” Avery adds. 

“Anything he could to steer those girls away from football players,” Cohen continues. 

“Hell, athletes in general.” Avery nods. “Not that I blame coach. If I had a daughter, I wouldn’t want her anywhere near us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Leo Quincy quips, sliding into a chair next to West. “Crawford’s got a kid and—” 

“Nope,” West interjects. “Callaway’s right. I don’t want my baby girl anywhere near a football team when she grows up.”

The guys laugh and I force a grin, but something pulls tight in my chest. 

I know they’re joking around—with a modicum of truth. But it’s the truth that cuts. Because no dad would want me around their daughter. Especially not a father like Coach Strauss. And definitely not a daughter like sunny Leni. 

* * *

“More time in the swimming pool,” I repeat Coach Stevens’ words. 

“It’s good for resistance training. Not to mention, recovery,” Coach Stevens explains. “As we segue from training camp into preseason, I want you to make it part of your conditioning routine. You don’t always have to come out this way. It’s fine if you want to hit a pool in the city.”

“Got it,” I confirm, feeling a headache forming. 

Today was a long day and while I don’t expect any less from training camp, incorporating additional pool time and strength-training exercises is another thing to stack into my routine. 

“All good, Miller?” Stevens presses, looking at me curiously. 

I rap my knuckles against the edge of his desk and stand. “Great.” I flash a smirk and shoulder my bag. “See you tomorrow.”

“Bright and early.”

“Yep,” I say, leaving his office.

By the time I drive home and collapse onto my couch, I’m beat. And I don’t know why. The physical intensity and demanding rigor of training camp is nothing new. I’ve stayed in shape and continued my conditioning since the season ended, not counting a month or two that I spent reveling in our Super Bowl win. 

There were parties. Wild events. And willing women. 

It was chaotic fun. A high I’d never experienced before. 

But now it’s over and…there’s a mental toll that’s hitting me. I wasn’t prepared for it but I’m tired. Drained. 

Lonely. 

I pick up my phone to scroll through some social media accounts. Weddings, puppies, newborn babies, and cute toddlers with pigtails. Most of my teammates from the University of Oregon have settled down. They’ve found jobs coaching or in broadcasting. A few became finance or tech guys. They’ve purchased homes with expansive properties and swimming pools. Some of them have gotten married and started a family. Others have adopted rescue dogs and spend their weekends hiking or mountain biking. A handful have scattered across the US, or gone abroad, for employment. 

Hell, even the guys on my team are moving forward.

West has Nova and their sweet baby girl. 

Cohen’s tied up with Raia. 

Avery’s got a new flavor of the week nearly every week. 

Quincy is dating some single mom he’s had the hots for since high school. 

Who knows what the hell Jag does but he’s not around often. 

And Gutierrez is tight with his family so even if he’s not actively dating, he’s also not sitting on his couch alone ninety-nine percent of the time. 

Sighing, I tip my head back and drop my phone. 

I hate how melancholy I feel. I hate that the highlight of my day was meeting Coach’s daughter and finally putting a face to the quirky girl who tried to paint Coach’s nails in team colors before his first coaching gig. 

I detest the way my body reacted to seeing her. The lightness that spread through my limbs. The hope that expanded in my chest.

Damn. I squeeze my eyes shut. There’s something wrong with me. 

Forcing myself to stand from the couch, I make my way to the kitchen and microwave some chicken breast and broccoli I meal-prepped on Sunday. 

Then I sit down and eat dinner alone—the way I do most nights. I prepare my bag for camp tomorrow. I look up the free swim schedule at the city pool. 

And I go to sleep. Even though I’m physically exhausted and mentally screwed up, I can’t fight the thoughts of a sweet blonde I have no business thinking about.