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September
One
Junior
“Cary Pierce?!”
Ty nods, his eyes never leaving the road in front of us. “That’s what I heard.”
I blink, forcing my vision to focus but my head still spins. “No way. That’s impossible.”
“Before he retired, he said he’d like to coach a college team.”
“Most professionals say that on their way out,” I argue. “They usually don’t. There’s no way Cary Pierce is our new coach. Why would he even bother with a shitty school like ours?”
Ty grins and tilts his head, taking his eyes off the road for several dangerous seconds to glare at me. “Wanna bet?”
I’ve known Ty for two years now, ever since our freshman year. This is his gotcha face; his I know something you don’t know face.
“What do you know?” I ask.
“Make a right turn,”his phone speaks, highlighting an upcoming road on the GPS map.
Ty barely slows down in time and makes a hard right turn. The car lurches and my guts shift as I grip my seatbelt a little tighter.
“I know,” he begins, “that my cousin, the real estate agent, just sold a big house just outside the city —” he points the map, “this big house — and had to sign a non-disclosure agreement before he met his client.”
I pause. “Really?”
He nods. “But we went out for drinks last night and he said he’d fucking kill to be in my cleats right now because our new coach is a retired, four-time pro football champion—”
“You are so full of shit, dude,” I scoff.
“Hey…” He holds up his hands and the wheel curves gently left, sending the car along with it. “Don’t believe me if you want but you’re gonna be sucking my dick later.”
“Just watch the road, man,” I urge, shifting in my seat to get a little more comfortable.
A suit and tie isn’t usually my style but the invitation the team received insisted on us looking our best to meet the new coach in order to pay respect to the last one — Marty Duncan. He’d been the university football coach for the last two decades until he finally keeled over last week — just two weeks before the first game of the season. The gentle, relieved sighs of the school board could be heard throughout campus for days as they celebrated the idea of bringing in some new blood after begging him to retire for years.
But Cary Pierce blood? Not a fucking chance.
Still, a bit of doubt seeps in as we round the dirt corner and the house comes into view. Scratch that — it’s not a house, it’s a damn mansion with a large, black gate surrounding it.
“Holy shit,” I say. “I didn’t even know this was out here.”
“Me neither,” Ty mutters.
We come to a stop at the front gate where a security guard emerges out of nowhere. He grins at us as Ty rolls down his window, flashing a pair of old, stained teeth. “Welcome, boys!” he greets. “Come to meet the new coach?”
“Yeah,” Ty says, scavenging into his back pocket for his invitation. He holds it out and the man waves us through.
“Have fun!”
The gate slides open slowly, adding even more annoying anticipation towards finding out who this mysterious new coach is. As Ty drives forward, his smug grin dances a little more on his face. Could he be right? Could we be driving towards professional football royalty right now?
I shake the thoughts away. We’re smack in the middle of a damn fly-over state. Cary Pierce is from New York City and he probably retired there as well, along with his millions.
“Whoa-o-o!” Ty laughs as we swing into the circle drive. His eyes flash around, taking in the perfect lawn and the huge fountain at its center.
