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“Baker and I will be watching you both all summer.We’ll make the decision at the end of camp, before school starts. Got it?”
“Yes, Coach.” All four of us respond in unison and then Coach pulls out the playbook, reviewing the list of plays. Langley listens intently, drawing the various routes on his hand with his index finger while Coach talks. Dalton stares off into the distance and looks bored.
“Hit it, boys. Dalton on the left, Langley on the right.” Coach points the two quarterbacks to their respective spots and then blows his whistle, the sharp tweet signaling the beginning of the first play.
I jog to mid-field and spin, ready to receive the pass. Langley rockets the ball in my direction, but overshoots by at least ten yards.
“Shit,” I mutter, landing on the turf empty-handed. Kid definitely has some work to do.
“Again!” Coach shouts. The whistle blows and the ball flies in my direction. I jump into the air, the ball slamming into my hands this time.
“Nice one, Crawford.” Coach shoots me a thumbs-up and Langley grins.
“Next play! Corner route, go!”
The whistle shrieks and I take off, running straight before cutting forty-five degrees toward the sideline. Spinning around, I spot the ball but can’t get there before it tumbles to the ground.
“Again!” Coach screams and I jog back to mid-field and repeat. Then repeat again and again, Langley overthrowing or underthrowing every damn time.
“Son, respectfully, what the hell are you doing out there?” Coach calls out to Langley.
Langley drops his head, staring down at the turf and shaking out his throwing arm.
“Take five, boys. Get a drink of water and regroup.”
I take the opportunity to head over to the bleachers and grab my water bottle, squirting the cool liquid into my mouth before swiping at the sweat dripping off my face. I forgot how freaking hot it is here.
“Lang, that the best you got?” Dalton calls out to Langley. The poor kid’s standing near me, his lanky arms folded across his sweaty chest.
“Piss off, Dalton,” Langley hisses, brows scrunching together.
I watch for a second as Dalton grins before ducking his head and chatting with his receiver. I’m impressed Langley doesn’t flip Dalton the bird—guess that’s one of the main differences between the pros and high school. That and the fact that Langley didn’t just deck him, I suppose.
“Ignore him, Langley. We’ll get it figured out. Come on.” I motion him back onto the field, then hustle to take my position. We run the drill five more times, and I only fumble it once.
“See? You got this!” I shout, pumping my fist high in the air as I make the completion.
“Time!” Coach calls, waving his arms in the air. “Good practice today, boys. Go home and rest up. I’ll see you back here tomorrow.”
The team grabs their gear and heads toward the locker room. Langley lags behind, chucking his stuff into his duffel bag one item at a time.
“Hey—” I call out, shuffling up to him. “Keep your chin up. You’ll get better.”
The kid shrugs, his shoulders rising and falling, defeat etched on his face. “Sure.”
I reach out, squeezing his shoulder. “Trust the process.If Coach thinks you can do it, you can. He picks winners. Consistently, year after year.”
“Yeah. But he didn’t pick me yet for a reason.” Langley zips up his bag, avoiding my gaze.
“But he thinks you have it in you. That’s what matters right now.”
“Sure. Dalton’s gonna get the spot, I know it. He’s bigger than me, throws harder and farther. He’s a sure thing.”
“With that kind of attitude, yeah.”
Langley stands, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his Thunder Creek T-shirt.
“That’s easy for you to say, coming from the pros. You don’t know what it’s like being here, not getting picked.”
