Page 31 of The Game We Played

Coach blows the whistle. “That’s what I want to see. Precision and timing. Do it again.”

Notice he doesn’t praise me. Coach Knox doesn’t do much praising. Not a problem. I can praise myself.

“You’re welcome, Coach Cha-Cha.”

I can practically hear his teeth grind at the use of his nickname. He hates it. It’s not my fault he decided he could cha-cha at a teammate’s wedding.

“Do you want to jog circles around the field?”

In this heat? My legs already feel like jelly. “I’m good, Coach!”

“Then, line up.”

I salute him before lining up.

We repeat the drill for another twenty minutes. Routes. Cuts. Hands. Again. Again. Again. By the time Coach finally calls for a water break, my shirt is soaked through, and my legs are feeling more like lead than jelly.

The pain, the heat – it’s all worth it. The only way to get better is to run drills until my legs feel as if they don’t belong to my body anymore.

And I will get better. I don’t have many years left of playing. And I want a Super Bowl ring. I will run drills until I can’t remember my name. I will pass on beer and moonshine and drink water and eat cabbage. Whatever I need to do to reach my dream.

My parents think I’m lazy. They think I took the easy way out. They have no idea how hard football is. How much work being a professional athlete is. They think I play a game for a living.

I shove those thoughts away as I step off the field. The mood shifts as soon as we’re on break.

Gage grabs a water bottle and dumps half of it over his head. “I’m dying.”

I snort. “Dramatic much?”

“I’m realistic.”

Brock drops onto the bench with a grunt. “Food.”

“You just ate,” Corbin points out.

“Breakfast was hours ago.”

I grin as I lean back against the bench. “Mr. Grumpy’s gonna waste away before the season starts.”

Brock glares at me. “Call me Mr. Grumpy one more time.”

“Mr. Grumpy.”

He lunges. I dart out of reach, laughing. “You gotta be quicker than that!”

“For a big guy, he’s fast,” Gage says.

“For a small guy, you’re annoying,” Brock shoots back.

Gage growls. He hates being reminded of how he’s the smallest of us. No matter how many times he reminds us he’s two inches over six feet, he’s still not tall in this group.

I grab my water bottle and take a sip, scanning the field. Coach is talking to the defensive guys. Excellent. He’s not paying attention to us.

Now. What can I do to liven things up around here? I glance at Gage’s helmet sitting on the bench next to me. Perfect. I twist open my water bottle, glance around, and casually pour a small amount into the crown of his helmet before setting it back exactly where it was.

Brock glares at me. “You should know better.”

What’s the fun in knowing better? I press a finger to my lips. “Shh. This is a team-building exercise.”