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Chapter 3
Amonth later, in the middle of preseason camp, Cornell realized he had recruited a mish-mosh of clowns with over-the-top egos, most of whom thought they were too good to be at Hopperville. Cornell constantly reminded them that if they were too good, he never would’ve had the opportunity to recruit them in the first place.
“I don’t need you doing a handspring and spraining an ankle,” Cornell shouted after he blew the whistle. “This is practice, not the fucking circus, Marquis. Run it again.”
Cornell flipped his baseball hat facing forward, the freshly risen sun already blasting its heat. He watched as the line of scrimmage reset, his offensive line taking position, ready to block as the center threw the snap right into the hands of Graham Jones.
But there wasn’t enough time for Graham to even take a few side-steps back and look down the field for his guy because the offensive line—his protection—stood up, and within seconds he was smacked to the ground, gobbled up by a defensive lineman.
Evan Hewitt’s voice bellowed out before Cornell’s did. “Hey! Your quarterback wears a red practice jersey for a reason. Red means stop, do not fucking touch, don’t you understand that?”
Cornell followed Evan, watching a running back offer a hand to Graham. He promptly smacked the offer away, growling out something Cornell couldn’t quite hear.
The running back held his hands up. “No, thank you, is what you say. I know ya’ heard that before. Ya’ just didn’t take her no for an answer.”
When the running back turned, Graham launched, tackling him to the ground—and all hell broke loose on the practice field.
“End zone!” Evan yelled, blowing hard on his whistle.
Cornell ran, pushing players aside and fighting his way into the mosh pit as the rest of the coaches yanked jerseys one by one. He found Graham at the bottom of the pile.
“Get the fuck back.” He shoved his chest, sending Graham, bloody nose and all, stumbling toward the sideline.
“Take him to the trainer,” Evan told Cornell before pointing at Graham. “And you get your ass in my office after you’re patched up and wait for me. The rest of you will be running until lunch.”
Cornell grabbed Graham, leading him toward the gym. “I think you better realize something. Most of those guys haven’t known each other more than a week.” Cornell opened the door and looked back at Graham, who spit blood into the grass. “And most of them just jumped your ass.”
They walked through the lobby and down the hall to the trainer’s office, Graham’s cleats clacking against the floor.
“Yeah, well, most of them can’t hit to save a girl’s life. Probably a pretty girl or two around here who could swing better than them,” Graham muttered, and that was enough for Cornell.
He stopped in his tracks, swinging his arm against Graham’s padded chest, pushing him against the wall.
“I don’t need to tell you that a lot of people don’t want you here and think you should be in prison,” Cornell snarled. “I have to give you a chance because it’s my job, not because I want to. But I promise, from here on out, you’ve got one fucking strike left.”
Graham remained silent, breathing heavily against the weight of Cornell’s body as blood continued to drip from his nose, the pocket under his right eye swelling.
It wasn’t just the idea of what Graham did that made Cornell’s stomach turn or the fact the kid didn’t even receive a slap on the wrist when that young woman would have to keep going, day after day. She would be burdened by what Cornell could only imagine was a bad memory at best and an absolute nightmare at worst.
What made Cornell’s blood boil as he looked at Graham was thinking about his sister Lucy, a college freshman out in California. He could barely swallow the outrage thinking there were men in the world who could do something to her, his sweet, beautiful, and enthusiastically trusting sister.
“Do you understand me?” Cornell growled, and he pushed Graham harder against the wall, anticipating a silent nod. “And I don’t want to hear you talking about any girls. Class. Football. That’s why you’re here.”
But Graham’s face slid into a sly, sickening smirk, as if he enjoyed Cornell’s harshness. “I understand, Coach.”
The sound of footsteps from down the hall made Cornell release Graham, and he stepped around toward the trainer’s office, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry, Coach. None of the girls around here are my type.”
* * *
“It’s handled,” Evan announced, leaning back in his chair.
“Handled? His offensive protection folded on purpose, and our defensive line mowed him over like a stampede. He slugged Jason and—”
“Cornell, when I say it’s handled, it’s handled. I’ve been doing this since you were in diapers. Graham isn’t the first difficult—”
“Difficult? It’s not about being difficult. How can we have a quarterback that our kids aren’t willing to protect?” And for a good reason, Cornell wanted to add.
Evan sighed. “Look, that’s an adversity this year’s team has to overcome. We’re going to make that clear to them. We. Me and you. I can’t have you undermining me on this, I told you that once before. If the head coach and offensive coordinator can’t be a team, how can we expect those kids to?”
