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CHAPTER 32: LINCOLN
Yeah, we won our first preseason game. But mistakes were made, as I said to Jolene, and now we course correct so we don’t make them again next week.
Most players have Monday off since we won. But those who racked up penalties each have appointments with me today to go over film and discuss what happened.
First up bright and early at nine in the morning is my very own little brother.
“Coach, Asher’s here,” Megan says when she calls into my office. She never mentioned what went down with Jolene, but I have to think she did it on purpose. She’s been her consistent and efficient self with me, though, so I have no reason to believe there was foul play involved.
“Send him in.”
Asher walks in a minute later, and my nose wrinkles as I take in his appearance.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” I ask.
He glances down at his clothes. “You don’t like the fit?”
“The fit?” I repeat.
“The outfit,” he clarifies.
He’s wearing saggy pants, crocs on his feet, and a shirt with flamingoes all over it. One is larger than the rest, zoomed in on its face, and I feel like it’s staring at me.
“It’s certainly…unique,” I say, not one to judge my brother’s sense of style. Or lack thereof.
“Did you call me in to criticize my clothing choices today?” he asks.
I clear my throat. “Not at all. Wear what you feel good in. That’s what I always say.”
“And you feel good in another pair of chinos and an Aces polo shirt?” he presses.
I glance down at my own fit. “It’s comfortable,” I say a little defensively. It’s also professional, but I have a feeling the dude in the flamingo shirt won’t really care.
“So are the flamings.”
“The flamings? Oh, do you mean the flamingoes? Are we just…shortening all the words now?”
He sighs. “You’re so fucking old, dude.”
“Right. Well, anyway. What the fuck was with your false start call yesterday?” I pull up the footage of his penalty and run it on the screens in my office—one behind me so he can see it, the other behind him so I can see it.
His eyes don’t watch the screen. Instead, he’s looking at me. “Sorry Coach. I’ll do better.”
“You’re damn right you will. It cost us five yards.”
“So?” he says a little flippantly, and I can’t say I appreciate his tude right now.
“So that could’ve been the difference between winning and losing. We scored a field goal on that try. We might’ve gotten a touchdown if you hadn’t set us back a down. Every yard counts.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s fucking preseason, man.”
My brows shoot up. “You’re new to this team,” I begin, ready to tell him that the culture here is to play our fucking hardest even when the games don’t matter, but he interrupts me.
“So are you,” he points out.
His words only serve to pulse my anger. “Correct, but if you want to continue starting for me, you need to do better. Plenty of guys want your spot, and you earned it in camp, but if you don’t play like you want to keep it, I’ll bench you faster than you can abbreviate another word.”
“You know I play better than those guys.”
