Necessary Roughness: 1st Quarter

"That's fine," I answer somewhat confused. "I just hope...well, here's the thing. My daughter is Crystal's best friend. They're inseparable. I just hope this doesn't split them up."

"Well, ever since Crystal's mom dropped her off here, Crystal's always been happiest to see Isabelle." Crystal is, sadly, without parents - her father's a deadbeat criminal, and her mother decided she couldn't handle having a daughter with leukemia. So instead of taking her for her first treatment and then staying with her, she dropped her off and never came back, eventually signing over her rights to the state. Yes, Crystal is officially a ward of the state. My ex-wife may piss me off, but at least Isabelle has me. I wish I could say the same for Crystal - she's a sweetheart of a girl, but what the hell can I do? I have a daughter of my own to raise and a job I pray I hold onto after this season.

At least I get my daughter for the summer. That reminds me - I have a birthday party to plan.

(July 25, Miami Gardens, Dolphins training facility)

I look at my phone as I have one eye on the guys - looks like the O-line is coming together finally, but there's just a big glaring hole. Since we cut Vickers, we have a whole lot of backups playing left tackle. Once again, Branden Albert is hurt, so I get to watch Ryan Tannehill, our franchise QB, dodge tacklers all day.

So I take a gander at my team - seems to be a lot of second-team reps right now. I just don't know what the hell I'm going to do. I'm spread thin, and Jordan's doing great at tight end, but this Deon kid - he's all over the place. One play, he totally blows his assignment; the next, he knocks a defender on his ass. It's like Superman one minute and Clark Kent the next.

The rest of the unit seems to be doing OK, so I take a gander back at my phone - the free agent wire is busy. I come across a bit of a blurb - the Texans were busy. I think we play them in Week 4 - and just my luck. Their big acquisition? Ronnie Vickers. Son of a bitch. And to make matters worse, we have a joint practice with the Texans before the season starts.

I get an email - from one Claiborne, Aisha. And the standard drivel - no, we can't free up room for a left tackle yet. We would have to do some kind of blockbuster trade, and the front office wants to hang onto its draft picks. Yeah, see how well a draft pick in two years protects your quarterback.

Thankfully, we're all finished here, and I can't get out of practice fast enough. Today is Isabelle's birthday - and Crystal's as well, and I've arranged for them to have an awesome birthday party. Thankfully Crystal's healthy enough at this point for that kind of activity, even if I know she'll get tired a few hours in. Which is why I've arranged for the evening to continue at the movies - Jurassic World is still in theaters and the girls haven't seen it yet - followed by a sleepover at our house before Crystal has to head back to the hospital. I just hope I can handle all this. Crystal is used to being hooked up to an IV for nutrients and hydration, but I guess a steady diet of Gatorade and bananas should be close enough for one day. Works for my players.

My sister Gretchen is watching the girls right now, but I want to get there fast. 'There' is Dave and Buster's, where Isabelle is undoubtedly digging into a plate of nachos with all her friends right about now. I'll be late, but at least I can be there. That is, so long as none of my players decide to pull some shit.

That shit seems to follow me to the parking lot - some idiot has a Mercedes convertible parked in the middle of the damn lot and it's blocking me in. It's really a nice car - gold, tan leather seats, beautiful trim, and not a scratch on it. The finishing touch is the license plate - 'AC MONEY'. I'm trying to think who on my team would use that moniker - I'm coming up empty.

"What the hell is this? Who parks like this?" I shout in anger. There's no one around.

Finally, I hear a female voice - I guess the car belongs to a WAG, sports lingo for players' wives and girlfriends. "Oh, sorry about that, Neil," the voice - a little presumptuous of her, I think, fuming, since most of the WAGs know me as Coach Garrett-

-well, never mind, Neil's just fine, I think as I turn around and see the car's owner for the first time. Let's just say she's a fine-looking woman. She's tall - probably just shy of six feet, nearly eye-level with me in what appears to be a pair of designer heels. I don't know which designer, but obviously an expensive one. My guess is her earrings match it, along with her purse and her sunglasses - she's very well put-together.

She's dark-skinned, like milk chocolate, and she's very curvaceous. This woman has a killer body and she wears it very well. I'm guessing she's about a DD - real, of course - and even from the front, I can tell she has a dynamite ass. I get a view of her from the side - and that thing couldn't be sexier. Her hair falls perfectly at mid-back, curls that obviously took hours to do. I just wonder who the lucky bastard is who's dating her. I'd love to have her in my car - until I remember I drive the same Chevy Malibu I bought used from my first coaching job at Auburn. Certainly nothing like that convertible she drives.

"I didn't think I'd be blocking you in," she says, walking over to me. "I thought I'd be quick."

"Yeah, I'm trying to get to my daughter's birthday party," I impatiently reply.

"Oh, cool," she answers dismissively.

"I guess I have to ask," I continue. "Which player are you dating? Or married to?"

"I'm not dating a player!" she answers, somewhat offended. I look at her with a serious glare. "That's right; we've only talked over the phone." Umm, OK? "I'm Aisha Claiborne. I'm the salary cap analyst." She extends her hand to shake - I accept it. She has surprisingly smooth hands and a perfect manicure. Not a hair out of place, not a thread missing on her jacket - wow. And the body on her - holy shit.

But at the same time, I'm not happy. "So first you won't help me get a left tackle. Now you're blocking my car. Why don't you come to my daughter's party and get hammered and make an idiot out of yourself while you're at it?" She gives me an equally serious look. "Sorry," I reply. "I take it back."

"Good," she fumes as she gets in her car - at least she's moving the damn thing. I guess I was a little out of line, but jeez, chill out.

I try not to replay the conversation in my head as I drive to Dave and Buster's. I sure as hell could use a beer, I think as I head inside - but that thought goes away as Isabelle runs up to me, followed by Crystal. Both of them greet me with a warm embrace, smiling from ear to ear.

After that, they both head straight for the basketball hoops - both Isabelle and Crystal love basketball more than life itself. In fact, when Crystal had her first round of treatment for leukemia, one of the first things she asked the doctors was how long it would be before she could play again.

And both girls are good. Like, damn good. If they were boys, they would have an NBA future, but as it is, their best option is probably Europe unless the WNBA gains some ground. I watch as Isabelle sinks about five baskets in a row - Crystal is a bit behind pace but still doing well compared to even the most advanced player - and then as time expires, I get a close look at her point total - and the tickets that just keep pouring out of the machine.

Crystal takes one look at her score - six points behind Isabelle's - and shouts, "Rematch!" The girls go again as I walk up behind them, and once again, Isabelle stakes out to a big lead, almost lapping Crystal. But then I see the timer tick to single digits - and Isabelle's shot goes wide as Crystal sinks one. Then another. And another. And Isabelle can't hit one. She's off her game all of a sudden - and with one second left, Crystal drains her last shot, nothing but net, for the win.

Isabelle turns to her and the girls exchange a two-handed high-five and look at me a little stunned. "I got her good, Coach," quips Crystal as I let her know we're ready to order food. Crystal runs ahead of her to the dining room as Isabelle stays behind.

Isabelle gives me an odd look, one that presumes my disappointment. I know where this is going. "You were killing it; what happened at the end?"

Then I see a smirk. "A magician never reveals her secrets." Then she runs off to the dining room to meet her friends - her soccer coach and several teammates as well as her friends from school and basketball. Not to mention a few kids who were healthy enough to get a day pass from the pediatric cancer ward, mostly friends of Crystal's.

I see her from across the game room interacting with her friends, glad to be home, and I think to myself - she didn't just lose to her best friend on purpose, did she? The same girl who played the same NBA 2K game for all of spring break just to get good enough to beat a classmate - let her best friend win? Nah. Impossible.

I'm glad Isabelle's coach is watching her - not to mention my sister - because my email is overflowing. And it figures - one marked urgent. From one Claiborne, Aisha. Unless she's freeing up some room to get me a big-name O-lineman to help things out, she and her icy demeanor can fuck off back to Dallas.

Nope - no such luck. It's to all the coaches. Supposedly the next in line is the wide receivers, since, y'know, those guys can keep our QB from being turned into hamburger meat. But whatever. After all, she's a serious woman in a serious business...with a seriously hot ass. And that was just in a business suit - imagine Aisha in a pair of Daisy Dukes. Yes, that body is burned into my memory permanently. And yes, I'll happily keep that information to myself.

The next thing I see, though, is the waitress walking over to me - a curvaceous Latina named Jenna. "Anything I can take care of for you, Coach?" she asks, clearly showing off her ample cleavage.

"I need another one of these," I say, pointing to my beer and seeing her smiling at me. Damn, she's got a body on her. Not as hot as Aisha, but very attractive.

"Is that all?" Well, now that you mention it. "I do mean anything."

"Really now?" I ask. "I mean, I'm here with my daughter's birthday party-"

"I love dads," she answers. She looks down at my left hand - no wedding ring, of course. "And I love coaches." And I love her accent - if I had to guess, she's Puerto Rican. "I'll have the bartender get you a beer, In the meantime, I get off in twenty minutes. Meet me over by the ticket counter."

I watch her walk away, shaking her ass - damn she's sexy. And she wants to hook up with me? Right now? Well, who can turn that down? Sure will be a long twenty minutes, though, but it will give me time to finish this beer and catch up on my emails.

Or not, as I look over - what are my players doing here? Jordan and Jamil leading the way, with Mike behind them - strange since he seems to be the leader - and bringing up the rear seems to be Deon Wright, our backup tight end who's already come a long way from the guy who dropped a pass from my daughter.

I decide to buy all of them beers - only Deon declines, opting for iced tea instead. Turns out they all came for Isabelle's birthday, no surprise - Deon must have tipped them off. He's actually kind of a cool guy, even if he seems a bit standoffish.

The guys break it off and head back to the dining room with the party - and then I check my watch. It's been twenty minutes, so I look over at the ticket counter - and there stands Jenna, dressed in a low-cut top. Today is definitely my lucky day.

She leads me by the hand to somewhere marked by an 'Employees Only' sign - soon her clothes come off. She's very attractive, her thick curves and olive skin nearly without a blemish as I see her body on display. She's not shy about showing off her best features - her bra comes off, and her breasts are all mine.

I take them in my hand as she pulls my shirt off, her fingers running along my chest. "Look at these muscles," she remarks, her accent so delicious. "Don't make me wait," she begs as I lick and such on her nipples.

Off come her panties, a pair of black boy shorts that show off her round, luscious ass. I'm hard as fuck - and she takes full advantage, undoing my pants and straddling me.

She takes my cock in her hand and grabs a condom out of her purse - it's a hookup, so I feel a bit better about this since I didn't come prepared. Skillfully, she slides it on with her mouth. "Wow, you have a big one," she comments as she leaps into my lap, my back pressed against this bench.

Jenna mounts me and begins riding my cock. I look her in her gorgeous eyes as she bounces on my cock, her pussy nice and tight around me. Yes, she's good - but I close my eyes for a moment, trying not to think.

I feel pleasure through my entire body - but I can't get something out of my mind. I moan, trying not to talk because I love listening to her. "Give me that big dick, you stud," she commands as she works me over. "How big are you anyway?" I've never really thought about it so I don't have an answer.

"Make me cum," I command as she works faster, holding onto my shoulders and moaning louder. Fortunately no one's around - this is amazing. I feel myself on edge - then it hits me.

I'm not thinking about Jenna. She's gorgeous, she's naked and in front of me, but my mental image? The cold-as-ice Aisha. That ass on her in that skirt - fuck, that thing's perfect. Even more perfect that this one - so round, so flawless, the right size and everything. Her curves in those designer suits. The way she walks - Aisha Claiborne is sex on wheels. I'm fucking Jenna, but in my mind, I'm fucking the goddess Aisha.

"Damn," I mutter as I feel myself climaxing. "Yes, fuck yes," I stammer as my cum fills the condom.

"Cum for me, damn you!" she shouts as she pushes down on me. I'm all hers.

Then I let it slip - not even thinking.

"Yes, Aisha."

I don't even know I'm saying it - until a few seconds later when I feel a sting on my face.

Jenna slaps me. Hard. The scowl on her face as she climbs off my cock - I'm not sure what I did until she speaks.

"Who the fuck is Aisha?" she demands - I'm a little confused. "Why the fuck did you call me Aisha?"

"What?" I spit out. "Do I even know an Aisha?"

"You fucking called me another woman's name!" she screams. "Get the fuck out of here! You're not welcome here ever again!"

"Fine with me," I snap. "You might have a great ass, but you're an average fuck at best." That's somewhat true - she's sexy, but I've had a lot better in bed. I simply fasten my pants, throw my shirt on, and walk out, heading to the bathroom to take off the condom. I know she doesn't have the power to throw me out, but I leave anyway, waiting on the girls to finish up their party. Besides, I don't need Isabelle to know I have my eye on that sexy salary cap analyst.

I can barely stand the woman. But damn, I could fuck her senseless.

(September 4, Houston Texans training facility)

Here we are, less than two weeks from the season opener, and once again, I'm just not sure. I know we're down to 53 tomorrow. That means cuts need to be made.

And I hate to do it to him, but after the way I see him miss a block, it's looking like Deon's a definite candidate for being cut. I just...who backs up Jordan if I cut Deon? Is it even going to be up to me? We have Jake Stoneburner, but he's kind of raw as well. Of course, I'm just a position coach who's made an enemy out of the front office staff. Well, at least I can go back to Auburn.

I look over - just what I fucking need.

For some reason, Aisha is here in Houston. She strolls up to me, decked out in a white suit with a knee-length skirt and a yellow blouse. I get a closer look at her sunglasses - the ear pieces have this C logo all over them - and then I inhale - is she wearing perfume to football practice? Who is this woman anyway?

"Neil," she greets me. "Looking great. And your guys are doing well, too." What the-is she flirting with me?

"I know I need to cut someone," I answer, somewhat flustered - her perfume smells terrific. Her lipstick - holy shit. There's no other way to describe Aisha - she's a knockout. I don't even like black women - she's a damn knockout.

"If it were up to me, I'd spend the money and get you a damn left tackle. You're right - you're working with a bunch of holes. You're doing you best here even if you're, shall we say, rough around the edges." That's a polite way of calling me an asshole. It's OK; at least I'm an honest asshole. "By the way, how's your daughter?"

"She's great," I reply - is she asking me a personal question? What the hell is going on here? "So when can I get some more presence for this O-line?" I have Mike Pouncey and that's about it in the way of really good offensive linemen.

"I'll tell you the same thing I tell everyone else," she coolly replies as I find it almost impossible to take my eyes off her. "Get in line." Fuck. "I have a meeting here; I was just stopping by. And as much as I know you don't agree," she pauses, smiling, "your unit looks pretty good."

I'm not sure what to make of that comment, since my guys are struggling. Aisha seems unusually interested in me for some reason. I don't really know what it is. I like the attention, sure, but then again, I have a job to do. Then again, I'm not sure if the 'unit' she's referring to is my O-line - I never really pay much attention to how much these shorts leave to the imagination.

"I just...I need someone in case Branden Albert never gets healthy." She seems to understand. I'm not sure I do. "We play the Cowboys in a week."

"The Cowboys," she ominously repeats. "My first season with the team and we had to open with the damn Cowboys." That's right - her former team. Who's looking fully loaded and like a favorite in the NFC. "Anyway, here's the thing - I can't help you because we're working on a trade." Great - just what we need. "The Vikings are looking at sending us Adrian Peterson." Yes, that Adrian Peterson, of record-setting and child-beating fame. "So no on the left tackle until that goes through."

"Well that's just fucking great." Good thing Isabelle isn't around. "Besides, we have Knowshon Moreno. And I thought the receivers were next in line, not the running backs. Doesn't the front office get that?"

"Don't get me started on those guys." she replies. Wow, do we have more in common than I thought? "Look, I'll see what I can do. I can try to get that under the cap a lot easier than Adrian Peterson." Yeah, isn't Peterson overpriced and risky anyway? "Anyway, I'll catch you later. I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Aisha," I dismiss - and now back to the practice. Our defense against the Texans' offense - and guess who's on the other side? Ronnie Vickers, the racist idiot we cut in June. And he really seems to have it out for our defenders - it seems like even our overpriced D-line can't handle this guy, and they just get worse with every rep. If I were their coach, I'd get in their ear - of course, I could just tell them what Vickers said to Deon, but I promised I wouldn't, and the last thing I need is a racism scandal.

Practice mercifully ends an hour later, and on the way to the airpot, I get a phone call. "Where are you?" It's Andrea - what business is it of hers? Gretchen's watching the girls. "You're in Houston? You call yourself a father? You're in big trouble, Neil. I have a court date." January 28, it turns out - so she can fly to Miami and get her ass kicked in court once again. "I'm taking back my daughter and turning her into a lady."

"Right, because you're such a great example," I snort. "How many times did you blow my money to fly to Tuscaloosa to fuck Eddie?" The answer to that is eleven, all after I started with the Hurricanes - two after I found out and filed for divorce. Damn credit card I forgot to cancel. "And look at that dipshit you're marrying - stays home drunk more often than he goes to work."