If games are battles, then practices are duels.

No one goes easy on the opponent in a duel, and the same is true for a practice. Especially after a tough game like last weekend, when we eked out a win by a mere three points, and especially with a coach like Mike Greenhaven. He’s the living, breathing manifestation of the word intensity. You know how Tommy Lee Jones looks all the time? As if he’s doing math every second of every day?

That’s Greenhaven. He only cracks a smile when we’ve won the Super Bowl.

Correction: when Jeff Grant won him the Super Bowl.

Those two were as tight as coach and superstar could be. They were the unbeatable NFL combo. Double G. Grant and Greenhaven. G squared. Sometimes, I wished they had last names starting with D so their nickname in the press could have been Double D. That would have amused the hell out of me. But it probably wouldn’t have fazed the man who sets our agenda.

Greenhaven presides over practice from his post on the sidelines, arms crossed, his unflinching eyes missing nothing. He might even have eyes in the back of his head, as well as his knees. Toes, too.

Our game this coming Sunday is against Dallas, and he’s putting us through our paces. We work harder, and longer, and later. Just like we did earlier in the season after we choked the first two games. Or really, after I lost them for us, when I threw a whopping total of three interceptions between them.

Man, those were two of the worst games of my life. The fans let me have it. The sports talk radio guys tied my noose and were ready to hang me. The local reporters lamented the retirement of Jeff Grant all over again, calling me the Big Flop, the Multimillion Dollar Bust, and The Insurance Plan That Didn’t Pay Out.

I found my footing after that, adjusted to the speed and intensity of the game, and stopped googling myself. That’s when we won nine of the next eleven games, putting us in playoff contention. Our biggest rivals, the Los Angeles Devil Sharks, already secured the division, and that’s why we’re hunting for a wild-card slot.

This morning at the training facility where we practice, we run through the playbook, and since Greenhaven graduated from the school that favors the passing game, that means my right arm is in motion all morning long. Throwing to one of our wide receivers. Firing long bombs to the tight end. As the fog starts to break, I gun a pass to Jones. He reaches high while on the run and grabs it, as if he’s poised to win a leaping competition, but the ball spills from his fingers when out of nowhere, the cornerback slams into him.

I curse, frustration crashing into me. But the offensive coach barks orders for us to do it again. There’s no time to be pissed. No space to be annoyed.

“Do it better this time.”

I bear down, focusing on the perfect timing, and when I launch the ball, Jones snags it and gets out of bounds before the cornerback can hit him. He pumps a fist subtly.

Greenhaven doesn’t like self-congratulatory gestures.

We go again, running drills, running routes, ten more times, twenty, thirty. Run it till you can do it from muscle memory, till it feels like taking a breath. That’s what the plays should be. So damn natural and easy. By the time the sun shines high overhead, peeking through the fog that’s burning away, Greenhaven grabs his megaphone and tells the team to run a few laps. I’ve jogged twenty feet when he pulls me aside.

“Armstrong,” he says gruffly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Dallas is tough. Their line is the fiercest in the league.”

I nod, knowing that from observing them, and all the other teams, over the last few years. I studied every second of every game I didn’t play in. I’ve been assembling a plan of attack against every defense in the league for years. I know how to read coverage pre-snap and make split-second decisions. With Dallas, that also means moving at the speed of sound.

“You need to get rid of the ball quickly. Think fast. Think on your feet. Nothing less.”

“Yes, sir.”

He clamps his hand on my shoulder. “One more thing. I already told the Mack Trucks. I don’t want to see you sacked.”

He means the Renegades offensive line, the guys whose job it is to make sure I have time in the pocket. Greenhaven convinced Jasper Scott to strengthen the offensive line several years ago, trading for many Mack Truck men. “You’re only as good as your quarterback, but the quarterback can only be good if he has a great line,” Greenhaven had said.

Jasper had listened to Greenhaven, approving every request to shore up those positions. When Greenhaven wants players, chances are he gets them, since the man knows what it takes to win. There’s another reason Greenhaven despises sacks. He wants his legacy to live on not only in the number of rings he wears, but also in the number of concussions his men don’t suffer. That works for me. Fewer sacks equals fewer chances for my skull to whack against the inside of the helmet.

“That sounds good to me, sir.”

He nods, a sign that I’m dismissed. But he doesn’t let go of my shoulder. “By the way, congrats on the nice haul last night,” he says drily.

I didn’t expect the coach to give a flying rat’s ass about the auction, or to know final tallies. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised, because this is the man who sees everything. He has a photographic memory of every play in every game. “Thank you, sir.”

“Glad to see you men raising money for a good cause,” he says in that solid, steady tone that reveals nothing. And yet, his words say everything. He has a zero-bullshit policy. He’d rather his players be upstanding citizens, giving back, representing the city proudly, than driving drunk, smashing cars, and knocking up underage chicks. A few of the teams in the league have racked up some pretty impressive stats in all of those areas. Greenhaven wants the opposite. Cool, calm, stable soldiers of the game.

“We’re just doing our part and grateful to be able to,” I say, Crash-Davising it all the way.

He lets go of my shoulder, and perhaps now I’m truly excused. I make a move to rejoin the guys, but Greenhaven adds, “And it’s always nice to see a woman provide a stabilizing effect on a man.”

I stop in my tracks, my muscles tightening.

Holy shit.

He doesn’t just see everything. He has an opinion on it, too.

“Yes indeed, sir. I couldn’t agree more,” I say in my best cool and calm tone. I blow out a long stream of air and trot back to the field. As I join the guys, I try to figure out what it means that our coach knows the finer workings not only of every opponent’s offense and defense, but also of our fucking love lives. What’s next? Is he going to know if I jack off in the shower tomorrow morning?

By the time we finish running, my muscles are sore and my lungs are spent. We watch game film for an hour, and when the practice mercifully ends midafternoon, all I can think about is doing a whole lot of nothing the rest of the day. Maybe take a nap. Cook a good, clean dinner with protein and vegetables, then watch game film to work on a plan of attack for the field, and study the playbook once more.

But when I turn on my phone after I’m showered and dressed, it’s clear none of that is on the agenda for this evening. I swear it feels like my phone has been weighed down with calls from my agent. I stare at the screen, scrolling through one message after another from Ford Grayson. The dude is one relentless motherfucker. I’m surprised he doesn’t jump out of my mobile device like a goddamn jack-in-the-box. In the midst of his notes, a voice mail notification pops up, but hell if I know how to work that thing. Does anyone even know how to retrieve voice mails anymore? It’s probably a credit card spammer anyway. I spot a text from Violet asking me to call her later.

I text back letting her know I’ll do just that, then I call Ford as I leave the locker room, hair wet and sticking up from the shower. “What’s going on, Ford? You lose your balls and need me to find them?”

“Oh,” he says with a hiss. “I am so going to make you pay for that comment.”

“You’ll make me pay and you’ll take your three percent.”

“Damn fucking straight I will. I might even ask for special dispensation to raise my rates to five percent for you on account of you being so goddamn hard to reach,” he says, firing off each word like a bullet. “It’s like getting an audience with Ethan Hunt once he’s gone rogue.”

“Please. Ethan’s got nothing on me. Anyway, what’s going on?” I ask as I walk down the hall.

“What’s going on? What’s going on?” I can feel his frustration radiating off him in fumes. His voice climbs an octave. He already speaks at the speed of light.

“Aww, you’re still upset with me. That’s cute,” I say, since I love to yank his chain.

“Don’t fuck with me, Coop. Don’t fucking fuck with me. Also, speaking of losing shit that matters, did you lose your ever-loving mind?”

I rap my knuckles against the side of my head, so loudly I’m sure he can hear. “Still here. Anyway, you need to relax. Want me to take you to the duck pond to settle you down?” I tease, since I know that’s where he goes when he’s ready to blow his gasket over whatever dickhead move whatever dickhead GM he’s dealing with is trying to pull.

“I’ve already been. It’s duck mating season, and even that didn’t make me less pissed at you. I need to see you right the fuck now.”

“What is duck mating season like? Are there feathers just flying everywhere?” I ask as I near the heavy doors that lead to the player’s lot.

He ignores me. “You didn’t return my calls last night.”

I stop in my tracks as I reach the end of the hall. “Shoot, man. I’m sorry. Last night was crazy. The auction and all,” I say, but the truth is, I wasn’t in the mood to chat after what went down.

“When the whole town is buzzing with you suddenly being attached and your contract is coming due, that is shit I need to know.”

I laugh. “Everyone seems to know. Greenhaven even mentioned it.”

It’s like a teapot whistles on the other end of the phone. I hear Ford suck in his breath through his nostrils. He might start to hyperventilate. “I’m a tree. I’m a calmly rustling tree. I’m one with the universe,” he says, in a deliberately placid voice.

“You okay, Ford?”

“One with the universe . . . mmm.”

“Ford?”

“Oh, sorry. Excuse fucking me. I was practicing my yoga mantras so I don’t whack you upside the head when I see you in two minutes.”

I glance at my watch. “You’re ambitious. Did you have jetpacks installed on your feet?”

“I drove. I’m outside the field.”

“You’re here?”

“You say that like it’s a surprise I tracked you down. Did I or did I not track you down in the first place?”

“You did.”

Ford Grayson is a determined bastard. We give each other a hard time because this man has my back completely. He sought me out during my final season of college ball. I swear, the second I walked off the field after our bowl game—we won, thank you very much—he was waiting for me. He made sure I signed with no one but him. I love the man. A few months later, I went in the first round of the draft, and he landed me a sweet deal with the Renegades. That deal is the reason my mom lives in a beautiful three-bedroom home overlooking the water in Sausalito with her dogs and boyfriend.

Oh, and that deal is why I never have to work again if I don’t want to.

But I want to.

I love what I do as much as I love breathing. It’s life. It’s sustenance. It makes my bones hum.

“And I did again. I’m at your car,” Ford tells me. “My assistant, Tucker, is here. He’ll drive mine home since you and I are going somewhere so we can have a little chitchat right now.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Ominous doesn’t even begin to cover it.”