Red Zone
by Avery Sam
Copyright Information
Red Zone
by Avery Sam
© 2025 Avery Sam
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Author: Avery Sam
Contact details: averysam.parachute371@passinbox.com
Book cover, illustration: Avery Sam
Editing, proofreading: Avery Sam
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Table of Contents
Lovely Couple
“You two make such a lovely couple,” said the photographer.
Instantly, I felt a shiver of pleasure run down my spine. I’d been hesitant to splurge on a professional photoshoot, but then I reminded myself that you only get to be the starting quarterback during your senior year once in a lifetime, so I’d done my research and forked over a hefty sum for a guy that everyone said was the best in the business.
And with that little comment, he’d definitely earned his fee.
“Um, actually she’s my mom,” said Kyle. He’s a fantastic looking boy with the throwing arm of a Greek god, but sometimes he opens his mouth without thinking.
“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry,” said the photographer, his face going beet red. “Perhaps you want to put your shirt back on then, Kyle?”
“Nah,” I said, gesturing for him to continue.
After all, I’d paid a lot of good money for that photoshoot, and I wanted to capture Kyle at his absolute best. Because even though I was far from being unbiased on the subject, no one had a body quite like his, strong and well-proportioned without being too bulky or stocky.
In some ways, his was almost a swimmer’s body, but he had the endurance and power of a weightlifter as he powered through tackles to get that crucial first down when his clumsy wide receivers failed to escape their coverage.
By the time the photoshoot was done, I was buzzing all over. Kyle, meanwhile, was staring at his phone on the ride home, which irked me, but not enough to dispel my high.
“So, I was thinking of making some of that popcorn you like with the protein flakes,” I said, glancing up in the rearview mirror to try and catch his eye. “Then maybe we could watch a movie.”
“Nah,” said Kyle, not even bothering to look up. “I’m gonna go hang out with the guys.”
“Aww, come on,” I said. “This is your last week of freedom, Kyle. After this, it’s gonna be non-stop practice and games right until you win the state championship, honey. Don’t you want to spend a little time with me?”
“Mom, come on,” said Kyle, his voice whiny in a way that made me grit my teeth.
“Hey, I told you!” I said, forcing myself to keep it breezy and light. “You’re a young man now. Call me Lacey. All that Mom stuff is so old-fashioned.”
“Whatever,” muttered Kyle.
God help him, but sometimes he really insisted on acting like a petulant brat. Definitely something he got from his father because there’s no way I would ever take that tone with someone, especially not someone who had put her entire life on hold to support her son’s career as a future hall of famer.
“I mean it, Kyle,” I said, tapping the brakes for the pleasure of watching him nearly drop his phone. “Calling my Mom makes me feel old. I need you to get in the habit of calling me Lacey so that you’ll do it when other people are around.”
“Fine!” said Kyle, finally setting his phone down. “It just feels kinda weird, you know?”
“Why? What’s weird about it?” I asked.
“None of the other guys call their moms by their first names,” said Kyle, now staring out the window as we inched our way through traffic.
“Well, guess what, baby?” I said. “You’re not like other guys. I know they’re your friends and teammates now, but when they’re calling out your name on national television as a first-round draft pick, they’re gonna be sitting at home on their sofas.”
“Yeah, maybe,” said Kyle, a hint of a smile on his face warming my heart.
“You’re a superstar, baby,” I said. “And you’re going to go all the way. I know it.”
“Yeah,” said Kyle, now smiling for real.
“And I’m gonna be right there with you every step of the way,” I said.
Team Spirit
The heat in August was brutal that year, just one long, hot, sticky day after another.
Even standing on the sidelines in my shortest shorts and halter top, I could feel myself getting a little misty as I watched Coach Harris mercilessly drill the boys until their entire upper bodies were glistening with sweat.
Whenever there was a lull in the action, I ran over to Kyle to ply him with cups of water and orange slices. Some of the other boys had parents who couldn’t be bothered to attend practice, so I always made sure to bring extra for them as well, which always got me a lot of appreciative looks.
Even Coach Harris, who had initially put up a fuss when I’d started attending practices during Kyle’s freshman year, had come around. Now, instead of chastising me for babying his players, he’d smile and greedily accept a cup of water from me.
Truth be told, I think he had a bit of a crush on me even though he was well aware that I was far beyond his league. But if the poor guy gets a little pep in his step as he guides my beautiful Kyle towards a championship season, then all the better.
After practice, I’d help collect the balls and other equipment. I then head into the locker room and hand out towels to the boys after their showers, laughing and joking with them.
I always took time to give each boy a note of encouragement or a positive word, even the second-string players who were never going to make it to college ball, much less the NFL, because boosting team morale was what I was all about.
There were some mutterings at first about how it was inappropriate to have a “lady” in the locker room, but that soon died down once everyone appreciated how much I was helping build team spirit.
A lot of parents are under the mistaken impression that winning games is purely about diagraming and executing plays on the field, but the truth is that football is a brutal sport, and young men need encouragement when times get tough or else they might crack under pressure.
Besides, it made me feel good to have so many handsome, virile young men call me Lacey, and I always made sure to return all that positive sentiment in spades. After my husband ran off with his secretary, a move so dumb that you couldn’t get away with it even in a cheesy romance book, I felt pretty rough there for a while.
I’d sacrificed everything to help him get his business up and running, and then he’d cast me aside for some blonde bimbo as soon as the company went public, too dumb to realize that she was only into him for his money.
Luckily, my friend Susan had turned me onto a great divorce lawyer, so I walked away with a very generous settlement. But all the cash in the world doesn’t help warm your bed at night, and so I started to drift for a bit, losing myself in bottles of wine every night in order to blot out the fact that I no longer had any compelling reason to get up in the morning.
What pulled me out of my slump was seeing Kyle race toward the end zone in his final year of junior high, and something about the roar of the crowd and seeing him pump those legs as he effortlessly juked away from the defenders’ outstretched hands awoke a new sense of purpose in me.
Sure, his dad was a Grade A royal asshole, but that didn’t mean my son had to be one, and so I started getting involved in every aspect of football until I could instantly spot zone coverage just by the way the other team was lined up.
With his father frequently out of town on business trips, it was up to me to make sure that Kyle’s potential as an athlete was nurtured. I was the one getting to my feet, cheering him on from the top of my lungs even on those freezing cold nights in January and February when the bleachers would suck all the heat right out of you even when you were sitting on a cushion.
They lost a lot ...