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“You trying to throw the stats, Crawford?” Daltonscowls at me over his water bottle. “Or do you just suck this bad?”
Hot anger rolls through me. This kid and his piss-poor attitude’s really starting to grate on my nerves. That, and the fact that I’m taking my eye off the ball – literally – with thoughts of Sloane muddling my brain. The exact thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do.
“How about you worry about your throws instead of my ability to catch them?” I grab my towel and wipe the dripping sweat from my brow, trying to keep my cool with this little shit.
“I would, if I thought you were playing fair.” He takes two big steps forward until he’s crowding me, his teenage chest invading my personal space. “Know what I think?”
I couldn’t care less what this high school twit thinks, but I humor him.
“No. Not a clue.”
“I think you got cut because you’re over the hill. Your career is over. Done-so. I mean, you can’t catch a high schooler’s passes. How are you going to go back and play with the big boys, old man?”
Now my hackles are up, fiery anger surging through me. I’d love nothing more than to shove this kid away from me, take him down a notch or seven.
But that wouldn’t be very mature. And the last thing I need is any negative social media attention, with this sorry little punk ass whining all over TikTok about how I beat him up at his high school football practice.
Instead, I take a deep breath, pushing all that aggression away. “We’ll see about that. How about you bring your A-game now, huh?”
Dalton shakes his head, glaring at me. “Whatever, geezer.”
Throwing his empty water bottle down on the grass, he swaggers away down the field. I inhale again, breathing in calming air and exhaling all the pent-up negative energy. A hot tip from my woo-woo sister Ansley, and I’ll never admit to her that it actually works. But my muscles relax, tension seeping from the knotty ropes in my traps. Rolling my shoulders a few times, I run back out to the field.
I don’t drop another pass the rest of practice.
“Time!” Coach shouts. The sun’s sinking and the temperature’s finally dropping, although the humidity’s still thick as pudding. “Huddle up, boys.”
I stride over to the bleachers, joining Coach and the rest of the team.
“Great practice today, boys. I’m happy with the effort most of y’all are putting in.” Coach glances around the circle. “If we keep it up, I feel real good about our chances next season. Make sure to drink lots of water when you get home, eat right, and get some sleep. Don’t be staying up all night watching videos on YouTube or any of the other apps y’all are into these days. I’ll see you boys in the weight room tomorrow, bright and early.”
“Yes, sir, yes, Coach!” A chorus of male voices sounds out and I’m transported back to my own high school days, a wave of nostalgia washing over me.
Playing in the pros is great, don’t get me wrong. But there’s something special about your high school team that can never be replicated. Maybe it’s the innocence of youth, maybe it’s the fact that everyone’s intentions are pure — not yet tainted by money and sponsorships and real adult responsibilities. Or maybe it’s Coach Carter and how he runs his team like a family, treats you like one of his own.
“Hands in and Thunder Creek on three.”
Everyone thrusts their hands into the circle and chants, “Thunder Creek, Thunder Creek, Thunder Creek, go-o-o Mustangs!” before breaking the huddle and dispersing.
“Crawford.” Coach pats me on the back, getting my attention as I’m gathering my gear and shoving it into my bag.
“Yes, Coach?” I glance over my shoulder, tension creeping back into my body.
“You okay? That ball hit you pretty hard out there.” His eyes crinkle in concern and guilt gnaws at me as I meet his gaze. He and Sloane have the same eyes, and the resemblance makes me feel even worse about the conversation I’m about to have with the man I so deeply respect and admire.
“I’m fine. The pass wasn’t that hard.” I swallow, clearing my throat. “But I, um, need to talk to you about something.”
“Yeah?” He shoves his stopwatch into his pocket, leaning down to grab a mesh bag of footballs.
“In private. If that’s okay.”
He shrugs, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “Come with me to the office then. You can carry the cones.”
I do as I’m told, lifting up the stack of orange cones. Coach waves to Mack and the other coaches, wishing them good-night before we trudge off the field toward the offices. Dusk is upon us, the air still as the sun sinks lower in the sky. Coach doesn’t speak, doesn’t bother trying to kick up any small talk. Instead, we move in synchronized silence, the only sound our footsteps on the pavement.
He unlocks the metal door leading into the school and reaches inside, clicking on the bright fluorescent lights. We trudge down the long hallway, passing by the line of empty blue lockers, doors opened wide to air out for thesummer. My sneakers squeak on the linoleum and I feel sixteen all over again.
Coach kicks open the door to his office, tossing the mesh bag to the floor before crashing into the rolling chair behind his county-issued faux wood-and-metal desk. Likely the same one he had a decade ago, when I was officially his athlete.
