By 6:59am, everyone had arrived for the offensive planning meeting—everyone except that dunderhead Campbell. Guerrero pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d gotten on the table for Campbell on draft day—twice. The kid was an enigma, annoying as hell one moment and an inspiration the next. Captain Kumbaya, his college teammates had called him. Only the initials stuck. He played with enough fire to burn down stadiums, but he’d have to focus to survive the pros.
Alejandro Guerrero glanced again at his wristwatch. The gaudy timepiece was his personal statement against the bandwagon sorts who jumped on every new technology to come along, like the recent Google Vision implant everyone was wearing. Besides, he liked the bling. Currently, the timepiece displayed 7:00am on the dot. That meant the quarterback Guerrero had foisted on his coaching staff was late.
The head coach, Sam Costa, put down his coffee and clicked on the psuedo-holographic projector. It’s blue light filled one end of the room. “Thanks for your timeliness.” He allowed his steady gaze to wash over the only empty seat at the u-shaped table before addressing Guerrero with a nod. It was a slight jab. Overall, Costa was a level-headed peacemaker, able to grease the inevitable squeaky wheels from boardroom to locker room. Adding the controversial CK Campbell to the instability inherent in an expansion team had been the first friction point between head coach and owner.
“As you’ve all likely noticed, Mr. Guerrero has asked to sit in on our final game plan prep this morning due to the importance of this week’s contest.” Costa sipped his coffee before turning his head toward Guerrero who was seated at one end of the U. “We’re glad to have you.”
“Please,” Guerrero conceded the floor with an open handed gesture, “continue as you would. I’m not here to interfere.”
“Right then, if you princesses are done with the niceties, might I ask where the hell Campbell is?” The Offensive Coordinator and play caller, Diesel Shatz, interrupted. “His crappy car was in the lot when I got here.”
“The car’s driver is apparently otherwise occupied.” Costa woke his tablet and flicked a file onto the holographic display. “So let’s get down to business. Here’s the call sheet as it stands. Diesel and I made some changes to the opening sixteen plays last night.”
The starting quarterback, along with most of the coaching staff leaned forward, elbows on the table. Guerrero reclined. He was assessing the staff, not the game plan. His coaches knew it, and it pissed them off.
Assessing leadership was Guerrero’s specialty. Whether in Vegas, where Guerrero’s family had made their fortune, or in Silicon Valley where Alejandro had considerably grown that wealth, or in San Antonio where his team’s stadium had been named as a symbol of glorious obstinance, winning was winning. And winning always followed true leadership.
“You’ll notice it’s a bit heavy on the run,” Costa said.
“I’ll say.” Coach Swisher, the quarterbacks coach, spoke up. “I realize this is a big game, but it’s not the first rodeo for these guys.”
Costa nodded. “There’s gonna be a lot of jitters.”
“A lot of adrenaline.” Diesel crossed his arms across his barrel chest.
“This comes across as an insult. It’s a lack of confidence in our man.” Swisher punched Lucas Henderson, the starting QB, in the shoulder. “Throw in your two-cents. It’s now or never.”
Henderson cleared his throat. He was a seven year veteran—a starter for three. His former coaches had labeled him a game manager while excluded him from game planning. “While I want to do what’s best for the team, I also don’t wanna dig ourselves an early hole by coming out timid. This is a statement game, right?” Henderson reflexively looked to Guerrero then quickly looked away.
Noting the awkward glance, Guerrero gathered the coaching staff had pinned the phrase “statement game” on him.
“Your point, son?” Diesel prodded.
“We should make a statement—get the fans into the game, right from the start.”
“And if that statement is a quick turnover?” Diesel jabbed a finger into the table.
“I’m not sure exactly how many games I’ve started, but it’s not hard to tally how many of my opening drives have ended in turnovers.” Henderson scratched his head. “Zero is always zero. I’ve never turned the ball over that early in the game, and I’m not going to this Sunday either.”
Diesel grunted while studying the projection of the call sheet. “Your thoughts, Sam?”
All eyes rested on the head coach. Sam Costa had been in the league in one form or another for 30 years. During that time, he’d held a dozen coaching positions and been a player. This was his first HC gig. He and Diesel had defected together from the Houston Texans where they had helped lead the 2002 expansion team to its first championship ring in 2026. If there was one thing Costa didn’t like in his game plan, it was glitz.
“We all respect your consistency, Lucas. Your turnover ratio is one of the reasons I want you to lead this team.”
The door buzzed, interrupting the meeting.
Costa was the only one who didn’t turn his head. “CK, take a seat.”
Guerrero glanced at his watch, noting Campbell was five minutes late. He wanted to punch the kid in his chiseled jaw. Worse yet, he wanted to believe in him as the future leader of his team.
“Sorry to interrupt sir, but I’m afraid I need Mr. Guerrero.” Lonni Fasano, not CK Campbell, poked her head into the room.
Guerrero frowned. “It can’t wait ten minutes?”
Lonni tapped her foot impatiently before blurting out, “There’s been a security breach.”
Guerrero rose. “Pardon me, gentlemen.” He exited the room swiftly, but with the grace of an athlete. He closed the door behind him. “What do you know?”
Lonni handed Guerrero his earpiece before taking off at a jog. “I would have filled you in five minutes ago if you believed in modern technology.”
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