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“Wish I could,” Graham said, his eyes on Julian. “Talks too damn much. Even when he’s down in Houston, he’s somehow always in my damn ear. Texts me a hundred damn times a day. Haven’t told him that Julian’s getting the start on Friday.”
It clearly wasn’t lost on Graham that Julian had been getting more reps during practice.
Cornell gnawed on the bottom of his lip. Both quarterbacks had solid arms, good accuracy. Julian might have been faster if they needed him to run the ball, but Graham had more muscle, more of a drive for slicing tackles. But the biggest difference had nothing to do with skills. It all came down to the fact that Julian had the full respect of the team, and Graham none.
“Why don’t you come by my office after practice. Let’s talk about it.” Cornell tried to keep an optimistic tone. “Go in. See if you can make that corner-post.” He blew the whistle and let Graham have the rest of the reps before the team cleared the field and he headed back to his office, Mowgli in tow.
He shot Ali a text since they had driven to work together in the morning.
Going to need an hour.
Cornell pocketed his phone and headed to his office. Mowgli hopped on his bed in the corner, returning to his well-loved, well-chewed football. At his desk, Cornell busied himself with practice plans for the next day, reviewing upcoming scout visits now that the season was about to begin.
“Have a seat,” Cornell said when Graham knocked, skin still red from both practice and his shower. He looked over at Mowgli, who he expected to be on all fours, like he did whenever he greeted a visitor. But the dog remained on his bed, frozen mid-chomp, his light eyes merely following Graham’s movement from the door to the couch.
Graham whistled and clicked his tongue softly at Mowgli, but he didn’t move. He turned his attention toward Cornell. “So, you wanted to talk?”
Cornell closed a copy of the playbook. “Look. I want to keep it real with you here. I know you’re in a shitty situation.” That’s your fucking fault. “I know you’re doing your best. And I’m starting Julian not because you aren’t doing good work. I just need more. On and off the field, but mostly off the field.”
Graham laughed.
“Was something I said funny?” Cornell asked.
“You said it yourself,” Graham reminded Cornell. “They all jumped me. I don’t know what you expect me to do. Braid their hair? Have a slumber party?”
Maybe I should’ve asked Ali for some ideas.
“You could start by mentoring Julian,” Cornell offered.
Graham raised an eyebrow. “You want me to mentor the guy starting? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
“Graham, I can’t start you because you’ve got ten other guys you need to play with who might be willing to move out of the way so the opposing defense can run you over.”
“And that’s my problem? Sounds like it’s their problem.”
“You’re right. What they did is inexcusable. It’s immature.” But what you did was immoral. “But I’m going to say there’s not one person at this place willing to drop ten other guys for one who won’t make an effort to be a part of the team he’s supposed to lead. You’re on campus for classes, weights, film, and practice. You scoot the minute you’re done.”
Graham shook his head. “My dad didn’t want me living on campus.”
“You eat alone in the cafeteria.”
“Maybe I hate the sound of other people chewing.”
Cornell groaned. “Man, I’m trying here. Meet me halfway. You want those guys to respect you on the field. You’re going to have to show them who you are off it first. They think they already know.” And maybe they do.
Graham’s eyes narrowed. “What? You want me to prove that I didn’t rape that girl?”
Rape that girl.He said it so easily, like that word—rape—was just like any other, something to merely skim over. Graham didn’t stumble or stutter when he said it, his mouth didn’t grimace. His voice didn’t leave a hint that he understood what that word even meant.
Cornell’s job was to be a coach, not a teacher of moral authority. He cleared his throat and changed the subject.
“You could start by showing up at my house on Wednesday. I’m expecting to see you there.” Cornell didn’t leave much negotiation for Graham. “Have a good night,” he said, opening the playbook again, reaching for a pen.
Cornell waited until Graham had left to lean his head against his chair, shutting his eyes and sighing. Mowgli came over, ramming his head into Cornell’s arm.
“Let’s get mama, Mo.” He reached for his phone to call Ali, telling her to pack up and meet him in the parking lot by the fieldhouse. Closing up his office, he headed out, Mowgli nearly running ahead of him, as if he could smell Ali on the path outside, even through the building.
“I don’t feel like cooking. Let’s pick up a pizza on the way home,” she said, walking toward Cornell. “None for you though,” she told Mowgli, scratching his ears.
