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“Yeah, Coach?” He eyed me nervously as he approached. Couldn’t blame him, I guess. Everyone was eyeing me nervously this week. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. That was good. Just make sure you plant that back foot with more weight on it, okay?”
Richards’s brow furrowed underneath his helmet, and I sighed audibly. “Do you understand why he’s saying that?”
Richards shook his head.
I jerked my chin up. “Stand like you’re lining up.”
He did, spreading his legs one in front of the other and bracing his body to push forward.
Coach motioned for the imaginary play to start, and in one surge, I had Richards flat on his back.
I stood over him, gripping his jersey before I hauled him up to a standing position. Then I got right in his face.
“You’re thinking about going forward, yeah? You’ve got all your weight on your front foot, and when you go up against someone bigger and meaner and angrier than you, it doesn’t take much for me to knock you on your ass.”
He was breathing hard, hands on his hips as he listened.
“You plant that back foot. Like this.” I stopped and showed him, digging my toe into the turf. Then I grabbed the bottom of his helmet and tugged him even closer. “You be immovable, do you hear me? There is no one out there who can push you around, or take you down, or put you on the ground unless you let them. How often do you see me down after we line up?”
He swallowed. “Not very often.”
“That’s right. Because in my head”—I tapped my temple—“I am a stone fucking wall, and no one is strong enough to push through it. You remember that.”
I shoved him backward, and he nodded resolutely before heading back with the rest of the team.
When I turned around, our head coach—a grizzled, no-nonsense guy by the name of Freedman—had joined, and he was watching me curiously.
“What?” I asked.
“Walk with me, Davies.”
“I was just about to line up for the next play.”
The defensive coach cleared his throat.
Coach Freedman held my gaze. “Now, Liam. Let’s go.” It wasn’t a request.
When we were about twenty yards away from the team, he stopped and turned, his playbook tucked underneath his arm and a wad of chewing tobacco bulging inside his cheek. “You’ve been a giant prick all week.”
All right, then. No fucking around today. I blew out a slow breath. “Yes, sir.”
“What was that meeting with the lawyer about?”
“Am I obligated to tell you?” I asked.
His interest sharpened even further. “Of course not. But there’s been a marked difference in you since that afternoon. Normally, every guy on the field views you as an extension of the coaching staff. You could step into my shoes tomorrow and no one would blink, because you’ve always been one of the most natural leaders on this team. Since day one, it’s been that way.”
I held my breath, waiting for thebut.
“But,” he continued, “it’s been different the last few days. You’re unapproachable. Snapping at everyone. And I have to worry just a bit about how hard you’ve been working yourself in the weight room. WhatI don’t need is one of my captains injuring himself in the offseason because he’s not willing to talk about what’s going on.”
I slicked my tongue over my teeth, dropping my gaze to the field for a moment.
“Chris did something stupid,” I said, voice raw and low. “And I can’t make peace with it.”
Coach took a deep breath. “What’d he do?”
