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He’d done his job, and then he’d stood there, useless as hell, while Tariq took the game right back.
The visiting band started playing as Tariq’s teammates poured onto the field. Their whole section was jumping and screaming, and the Drayton fans just sat there, so quiet that the other side sounded even louder.
Drew wanted something to blame. Before he could stop himself, he was going back over each possession, searching for a play he could’ve changed, even though he knew one play hadn’t lost them the game.
The perfect season was gone, and their national-title chances might have gone with it. By morning, every sports page in the country would have Tariq’s name above his own. People who hadn’t taken one snap all year would decide what this meant for the Heisman and his future. And somewhere in Boston, his father had watched the ball hit the ground.
Drew could already picture his old man shutting off the TV and just sitting there in the living room, not saying a word. His father wouldn’t call tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either.
Dayshawn touched his shoulder. “Come on.”
Getting to midfield meant cutting through guys celebrating on one side and guys walking off with their heads down on the other. Tariq was standing near the fifty with his helmet under his arm. Drew grabbed his hand, and they pulled each other into a quick one-armed hug.
“You did your thing out there,” Tariq said.
“You too.” Drew stepped back. “That last throw was crazy.”
Tariq gave him a tired smile. “Had to be.”
“Go enjoy it.”
“Fa sho.” Tariq clapped him on the back. “I’ll see you around.”
Drew headed for the locker room. Inside, most of the team still had their helmets on. Cash hadn’t unstrapped his shoulder pads, and Tanner sat bent forward with his forearms braced against his thighs.
Coach waited for the last player to come through the door, then slammed it hard enough to make Drew look up.
“Get your goddamn heads up.”
A few players straightened. In the middle of the room, Coach glared at them, his face red and his jaw tight.
“You hear that shit outside? They’re still out there celebrating. On our fucking field.”
The noise carried through the walls, and Drew had been trying not to hear it.
“We had that game. We had every chance to walk out of here with a win, and we let it get away from us.” Coach’s voice rose. “Now I’ve got a room full of guys staring at the goddamn floor. Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
Drew lifted his eyes from his helmet.
“I don’t give a fuck what we were ranked coming into today. I don’t care who’s got us picked for what bowl, what trophy, any of that shit. None of it helped us finish that game, did it?”
Nobody answered.
“Did it?”
“No, sir,” came from around the room.
Coach shook his head and took a few steps toward the door. For a second, Drew thought he was done, but then he turned back.
“We were better than what we put out there today. And that’s what pisses me off. I know what you can do. I’ve seen you do it. So don’t sit there looking like there wasn’t a fucking thing we could’ve done about what just happened.” He smacked his palm against a locker. “And nobody puts this on one guy. You hear me? Nobody. This shit’s on every one of us.”
Drew’s fingers tightened on his face mask. He wanted out of his pads, out of that room, but Coach was still standing between them and the door.
“Get cleaned up.”
Coach walked out before anybody moved. After a while, somebody unsnapped a chin strap, and somebody else started peeling the tape off his wrists. Pretty soon everybody was doing it, and still nobody said a word.
Drew didn’t get much time to stew over the loss before the media came looking for a story. Coach took the podium first, and when he was done, Jed, the sports information director, walked Drew into the press room and pointed him to the center chair behind a long folding table.
