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Coach takes a long swig of his drink before tipping his head to the side and studying me. The furrow between his brows is deeper than before, the skin around his eyes crinkled from the sun, but other than that, the man’s barely aged since I last saw him back in high school.
He waits, comfortable letting the silence between us stretch, long and loud. I kick my toe at a patch of dirt, a puff of dust rising into the air. My throat’s dry and tight. I take a swig of beer, but it doesn’t help much.
“Coach said I had an attitude problem. That it wasn’t worth dealing with my shit because I wasn’t scoring. So he cut me.”
My voice is low, my face burning with shame. This is worse than calling my mother and telling her the bad news.
Because Coach knows football. He understands exactly what those words mean. And just how badly fucked I am right now.
“All I know is ball, Coach.” The familiar feeling of panic claws its way through my chest, gripping my throat, strangling my voice. I can’t breathe, every muscle in my body tight, ready for action.
Except there is no action. Nowhere to run.
This is my new reality and I have no idea how to dig out of the pit I dug this past season.
Coach doesn’t say anything, doesn’t offer up weak platitudes about how everything will work out or things always get better. Instead, he reaches over and rests his large hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly.
A sense of calm radiates from my deltoid all the way down my arm. Through my biceps, my forearm, until my fingers tingle, the pressure built up in my muscles releasing. Heat pricks behind my eyes and I blink hard, pretending to be sensitive to the bright sun. My chest opens up and oxygen surges into my lungs—it’s the first deep breath I’ve taken in days.
“You sure there’s nothing else? Besides a shitty attitude and a few fumbles? Now’s not the time to bullshit me, Crawford.”
I nod. “Yeah. That’s the gist of it. I let my emotions get the best of me this season. Took my eye off the ball.”
Coach sets his empty bottle down, scrubs his jaw. “That doesn’t sound irreparable then. I think with a month or two of hard work, we can get you back into shape. You can train with me—we’ll do two-a-days. Privates in the morning, then workouts with the high school team in the afternoon. Weight room most days of the week on your own.”
A fire, hot and bright, lights in my gut as I digest his words, process the plan.
Yes. I can do this.
I’m going to make it back.
I can fix this.
“I’ll expect you to help with the afternoon workouts. Show those kids how it’s done in the pros.” Coach narrows his eyes at me and I shoot him a wan half-smile.
“Sure, no problem,” I say. Even if I’m none too sure I’mthe best man for the job at the moment. But it’s not like I can say no.
“Where you staying, son? Your parents moved out West, right? You still got friends in town?”
I shake my head. “Not really, sir. I planned to rent a room, maybe stay at the inn.”
“Nah. Don’t need you wasting your hard-earned money on accommodations. You can stay here, with me and Sloane. There’s an extra bedroom, no sense having it sit empty. Go grab your stuff. We can start training tomorrow. Have you back on the field by pre-season.”
Coach slaps my back, his face set with determination. I’m torn between the rush of cool relief that Coach still believes in me and a fluttery panic at sharing close quarters with Sloane.
Sloane Carter.
The perpetually off-limits good girl of my teenage dreams and dirtiest fantasies.
And now we’ll be spending an entire summer together under one not-all-that-big roof.
I’m not sure if I should be ecstatic or scared shitless.
CHAPTER 4
SLOANE
It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to hover in the kitchen, ear pressed tight against the screen door, hoping to catch snippets of the man-to-man my dad’s having with Cam.
