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Finally, the first weak rays of sunlight slant through the blinds and I give up on the idea of sleep altogether. I rise and throw on a T-shirt, gym shorts, and sneakers, then hit the bathroom to brush my teeth. Tiptoeing down the hall, I’m careful to be quiet and not wake Sloane.
I spot Coach already sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and scrolling through his cell.
“Morning, son.” He glances up from the screen. “You want to eat breakfast before practice? Toast, a banana? Cereal?”
“A banana works, thanks.” I snag the fruit from the bowl sitting on the counter, muscles already humming and ready to go.
“Glad to see you’re up. We should get going, hit the field before it gets too hot. You ready?”
“Sure.”
“There’s a jug of water in the freezer. Grab it and let’s go. We’ll take my truck.”
Coach shoves away from the table, setting his mug in the sink. I take the frozen water jug out of the freezer and together the two of us head out.
The air’s warm and thick with humidity, the low hum of mosquitos buzzing off in the distance. My skin’s getting sticky already and we haven’t even left the driveway. Coach unlocks the truck, the beep echoing along the quiet street. I climb in and try to relax, taking a deep breath and counting to three as I exhale. Coach backs down the drive and heads toward the high school, a country tune playing on the radio. He hums under his breath, fingers thumping the steering wheel in beat with the music, totally at ease. Asharp contrast to me, every inch antsy and fired up. I’m grateful he doesn’t try to strike up conversation and is content listening to the music.
We whiz through the neighborhood, the only vehicle on the road at this early hour. The sky’s streaked pink with the dawn as Thunder Creek High comes into view. I suck in a breath, a flood of emotions rolling through me—nervous excitement, nostalgia, apprehension, dread, defeat. Everything’s spinning together and I’m as confused now as I’ve ever been.
I haven’t been back home since I turned pro, right after college. Thunder Creek still looks the same—same old houses, same old buildings. The high school’s no exception, the chain-link fenced parking lot, the white two-story building with the blue metal roof, the iron statue of our mascot, a mustang bucking on hindlegs in the courtyard.
Everything about this place is the same, as if time stood still here.
The only thing different is me.
Throat tight, I swallow down my regrets. Now’s not the time to focus on my screw-ups; I’ve done plenty of reflection on those over the last few days. Right now, I need to focus on making things right, getting back to basics and finding a new team. That’s why I’m here.
We park behind the school and I trail behind Coach toward the football field. Even though I’m older, taller, and stronger since the last time I set foot on these grounds, deep down I still feel like the same high school kid as I trudge over the dew-soaked grass. Coach unlocks the gate, shoving it open for me, and we step onto the track.
“Welcome home, son.” He slaps me on the back and the tightness in my chest loosens up a touch. “Run a mile for warm-up and then we’ll do some drills.”
“Yes, sir.”
I stretch my hamstrings and quads for a minute and then get going, running along the track at a moderate speed. The air’s stagnant and sweat beads at my temple, on my brow, my low back. After the first lap, I start to relax and lean into the work. Get lost in the rhythm of my breath, finding my pace. By the third loop, I push harder, every muscle firing. The fourth feels easy and I’m all warmed up.
“Done?” Coach rises from the metal bleachers, clipboard in hand.
“Yes, sir.” I lift my shirt, wiping the sweat from my face. Thunder Creek’s about ten times hotter than Chicago and I’m out of practice dealing with the heat.
“First thing we’ll work on is your cuts. Yesterday, I watched some footage from a few of your games last season. Looked like you struggled a bit with explosiveness and direction change.”
He’s one hundred percent right, even if I don’t want to admit it. I got beat more than once last year and I sure as hell won’t get picked up by another team if I can’t outrun the competition.
“Okay, sounds good.”
He points at the cones set up in the center of the field. “Remember the footwork drill? Y’all run that in the pros?”
I nod. “I remember. And yes, sometimes we do. It’s been a while, though.”
“I figured. Thought we’d get back to the fundamentals. I’ll blow the whistle and you sprint straight toward the first cone. Maneuver around the cone, then run toward the second and cut to the right past the third. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Once you pass the third cone, cut hard to theright at a ninety-degree angle and curl back to cone number four.”
“Okay—”
“Then turn and sprint to the right, take another 90-degree cut, and sprint to the fifth cone. We’ll finish by curling around the sixth cone.”
