Maverick
The next day, I’m on the way to the field to dress out for the scrimmage.
I was up late thinking about Delaney, and I’m beat. At least Eminem is blaring on the radio, and I crank it up. The lyrics to “One Shot” blast out as I tap the beat on the steering wheel. The song feels prophetic. The NFL scouts will be sitting in the stands getting a tight view of me as I manage the defense, and whatever happens will definitely set the tone for next year.
I pull into the parking lot and make my way to the dressing room. Most of the guys aren’t here yet, and more than likely won’t be for another hour. I like to come in extra early, get dressed, and get myself mentally prepared for the game. Every hardcore player has a few game-day quirks, and mine is running my hands along the turf or grass before any other player steps on it. Ryker likes to tell everyone I actually eat the grass, but that’s a lie. Still, I go along with it, let them think I’m crazy. As for Ryker…his is getting bitch-slapped by one of the coaching assistants while I hold his hands behind his back. Says it gets his adrenaline going.
Coach Alvarez comes out of his office and meets me in the hallway. A few inches shorter than me with a bald head and bright blue eyes that don’t miss a thing, he’s in his forties and stocky. A former WU player, he lives and breathes the game. His face is grim most of the time, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders, but today there’s an extra bit of downturn at the corners of his mouth. Known for his profanity and booming voice, he scares the shit out of most people, and no one wants to get on his bad side. He can rake you over the coals faster than a quarterback sneak.
I nod. “Coach. On my way to the locker room.”
“My office first, Monroe.” He juts his chin in the direction of his door.
My first thought is Shit, he knows, and a wave of dread washes over me. He’s been nothing but kind to me, a good coach who saw right away that I had no father figure at all, and freshman year, he made sure to check in with me from time to time.
My second thought is that this is a pep talk. He knows how much I’m hanging on to the fact that the scouts are interested in me, especially since I didn’t go out early. They want to see if I’ll live up to the hype.
I follow his broad frame into his office. Boxes of equipment, helmets, and padding are stacked against the walls, and a white board and a projector sit in the back surrounded by several desks and chairs. This is the coaching headquarters where the assistants meet to decide how we’re going to be playing the game. He leans against his desk.
“Shut the door.”
I close it as quietly as I can, suddenly a ball of nerves.
“Take a seat.”
His voice is hard as nails—the usual.
His eyes bore into mine, that deep frown on his face, making his chin triple as it digs into his chest. A long stretch of ten seconds goes by as a myriad of emotions cross his face, ones I can’t read…don’t want to read.
My hands shake as I clasp them in front of me. “Sir? Is everything okay?”
“No, Monroe, everything is not fucking okay.” His voice is deadly quiet.
That’s when I know it’s bad. He’s not yelling, and this is even worse than if he were.
“I want to know why the motherfucking hell I got a call from the athletic director this morning about an anonymous tip that you’re somehow involved in gambling.”
It’s not just my face that pales—it’s my entire body. I feel my skin grow cold. I lick my lips.
“I don’t know anything about that, sir.”
“Don’t fucking play with me, son. Have you been gambling?”
I feel faint.
I tell the truth. “Sir, I have not been gambling. I would never gamble on a game or throw a game. Winning—this team—means everything to me.”
He squints at me, a scrunched up look on his face as if he’s tasted something sour. “Then where the hell is the AD getting this from?”
“A girl, Coach. She thinks she knows shit and she doesn’t.” I grip the edge of my chair. Part of me wants to tell him everything…
Tell him, my inner voice screams as nausea washes over me. Let out the guilt you’ve been carrying.
But…I’d never play for him again.
“Son, are you sure you’re telling me everything? The AD says I’m supposed to question you, but if you got nothing, I’ll let you play today. It is a big fucking day.”
I feel the weight of his stare and it makes my heart jerk.
What I’ve done is so goddamn wrong.
I should just quit football and get a job and support me and Raven. I can live at the trailer with her and take care of her. I can get a job.
I exhale. I don’t want to hang on to this any longer. “The truth is—”
“Al!” It’s the quarterback coach at the door, and his eyes go from me to my coach. “Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting anything?”
Coach Al moves off his desk, sticks out his hand, and hauls me up to my feet. “We done here?”
“Uh…”
He gives me a nod and a shove toward the door. “Get the hell out of here, get dressed, and hit the field. I want you out there shining today for the scouts—no matter what. You’ve told me everything I need to know right now. You got me?”
His gaze brushes over me, dismissing me as he turns to talk to the quarterback coach, but there’s a question in his gaze. I realize he likely knows there may be some truth to what was reported to the AD, but he doesn’t want to know. If he knows, he’s culpable. If he doesn’t know, I can play today—and I have to play today.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it.
Maybe I’m just paranoid.
Maybe I’m just fucked up.
I picture what things would look like if I didn’t have football, and I want to run as far away from Coach as I can.
I can’t tell him.
I give him a brief nod and slide out the door.