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“Got it, Coach.” I roll my shoulders, shake out my calves and ankles, and get ready to run. Coach pulls his stopwatch from his pocket, thumb hovering on the start button. The whistle blows, high and shrill, and I take off toward the first cone.
The sun’s bright rays shimmer on the turf as I race through the cones, running the drill I’ve practiced many times before. My lungs burn as I make the cut and curl back to the fourth cone.
“Good hustle, keep it up,” Coach yells, his voice carrying across the empty field. I turn the burners on, forcing my legs to move faster, knees to rise higher, arms to pump harder.
“And—time!”
I lift my arms up over my head, expanding my rib cage to get more oxygen into my burning lungs.
“Decent. Ten seconds.”
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head.
“Just the opening time, son. Two minutes and we’ll run it again.”
I take a deep nose breath, cracking my neck to the right, then the left before lining back up at cone one.
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The whistle blows again and I sprint off toward the first cone, repeating the drill. Once, twice, three times. I run those cones so many times, I lose track.
“Time!” Coach shouts across the field and I bend down,hands on my knees. I’m sweaty and tired, and we’re still on the first drill.
“That’s better, Crawford. Eight seconds.”
For the first time in weeks, I feel marginally better about my career.
“Not too shabby. We’ll keep working on it. Let’s move to the sit-up and catch. Grab some water—don’t want you passing out on me here on day one.” He tips his head at the bleachers and I glance over at the risers for the first time all morning.
There’s Sloane, sitting about halfway up, long, tanned legs outstretched in front of her. She’s wearing a Thunder Creek ball cap, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and I swear I haven’t seen anything near as sexy in a good, long while.
Seeing her here takes me straight back to high school, when she’d come and do homework on the bleachers during practice, waiting for her dad. Other girls would show up, but they’d all sit around giggling, flirting with the players.
Not Sloane.
She barely poked her nose out of her books—except to say hi to me.
She waves at us now and my heart pounds double-time, racing faster than it did during the cone footwork drill.
How long has she been watching? Did she see my first ten runs? Or just the last few that were actually fast?
“You coming, Crawford? Or you going to dawdle the morning away?” Coach taps at his watch and I take a big chug of water before jogging back over to him.
“I’m sure you remember this one. Take a seat.” He gestures at the turf and I sink down onto the ground, kneesbent. “You’re going to lay down, then when I say go, do a sit-up. I’ll throw the ball and you catch it as you sit up. Simple, but effective.”
I nod, laying down on the hard turf. The sky’s a bright blue now, the sun fully risen, and I stare up at the cloudless morning and wait.
“Go!”
I crunch up and the ball flies straight at my chest. Catching it, I toss the football back to Coach and lay back down.
“Go!”
We repeat this drill over and over, Coach sometimes throwing the ball, sometimes not, just to keep me guessing. I try to forget about Sloane watching from the bleachers and focus on catching the ball. By the time Coach calls the end of the drill, my abs are on fire, my back itchy from the turf and drenched in sweat.
“Pretty good. We’ll keep working on it, but that was respectable. Your reaction time up close is fine. You have your eyes checked regularly?” He peers down at me, tossing the ball from hand to hand.
“Had an eye exam at the start of last season. Wish I could blame it on failing eyesight, but no such luck.”
