PUNT
Lucas
I HAD NEVER been one to shy away from contact.
In fact, sometimes I might have even initiated it by lowering my shoulder and barreling into oncoming tacklers, which very well could have been how my shoulder ended up dislocated two years ago, twice.
Hey, I didn’t become a football player to act like a pussy and run out of bounds.
Nerves have never been anything I had to worry about. Or at least that had always been the case. I wasn’t so sure anymore. I tried to focus on the positive as I pushed open the glass door.
This injury wasn’t that bad.
I still had a lot of time to get my arm in top shape before the season.
And yet staying positive didn’t help as I walked down the gray hallway of Chapman Hall feeling like I was headed to the gallows.
Then again, I had to remember that I was in better shape than most of the guys. My locker neighbor needed three Tylenol PM capsules to close his eyes last night. I only needed two. Another player lost ten pounds yesterday from stress, exhaustion, and loss of appetite. I only lost five.
See the trend.
Better.
Stronger.
Faster.
Then again, yesterday had been chaotic, and not only for the players. The trainers had a rough time of it as well. Even with their belts on, they couldn’t keep track of their scissors and kept running out of athletic tape. When Dallas wasn’t glued to his notepad, he was giving us all rehab tips, taping pointers, and injury prevention suggestions.
It didn’t help that the coaches were blowing their whistles on top of one another and the players were confused as fuck.
Everything was out of control.
The bottom line was we were all trying to perform at our highest level and doing the best we could to make sure of it.
I wasn’t the only one with a slight injury. Problem, I mean.
Sure we all trained during the offseason, but it took being here for it to become glaringly clear we hadn’t trained enough.
Yesterday there were countless muscle strains and sprains—hamstrings, ankles, hips, glutes, calves, knees.
So it seemed, it sucked for everyone, not just me.
My sneakers thumped noisily on the linoleum as I took the stairs and practically raced up them. When I reached the fourth floor, I paused for a moment.
A feeling of déjà vu washed over me. I’d done this once before, but that was when I didn’t have my head on straight. Now that I did, it didn’t seem fair for it all to be taken away.
Because of my actions yesterday, this mandated meeting with Coach could change my entire life. And now that I’d had a taste, I wanted to stay and wear an official NFL jersey . . . for the Bears.
The Bears.
Things had changed over the past few months, and I’d grown to realize how much I really did want to be here.
The dorm room that served as Jack’s office was closed. I stood there for a minute or two before I nervously knocked on it. “Come on in,” he bellowed from inside, his voice already intimidating as fuck.
Slowly, I opened the door and looked around.
The room was so different from that at Soldier Field. It was empty except for a desk and a few chairs. The college-sized furniture looked dwarfed with Jack behind it. He had an iPad in front of him and he was eating. “Sit down,” he said through a mouthful of food.
I did as instructed. “Those look good.” I pointed to the plate on his desk. ‘What are they?”
“Fish tacos,” he answered, pushing his food aside.
“For breakfast?” I was trying to ease into whatever this was about.
He nodded briskly. “I eat them whenever,” he paused. I didn’t say anything because he looked as if his mind had wandered far away, then he blinked and went on. “Whenever I . . . need to remember that day.”
“What’s that day?” I asked curiously, now just putting off the inevitable.
He shook his head, dismissing my question, and got up from behind his desk. “Look, Lucas, as you already know, I’m the sort of man who doesn’t like to bullshit around, so I’m going to get to the point.”
Like father like daughter, I thought, but kept that little ditty to myself. “I appreciate that.”
Coach Whitney sat in the empty seat beside me. “I asked to see you for a reason, and it’s because I have a few important questions to ask you.”
I swallowed hard. “Okay, shoot.” I tried to sound calm, but I was anything but.
His face darkened and he looked between his desk and me as if trying to figure something out. “Are you stupid?”
My fists clenched at my sides. “No!”
“Do you not understand English, then?”
“I do!”
“Then, you should comprehend, that when I said you needed an attitude adjustment, I meant it. You. Need. An. Attitude. Adjustment.”
“Coach, I—” I tried to explain I had changed. Saw the light. Found God. However the fuck he wanted to say it.
He cut me off. “Did I make a mistake taking a chance on you?”
My eyebrows popped up. “No,” I said immediately. “Why do you think that?” The confusion was evident in my voice because not only was I in top shape, but also I was throwing like a seasoned pro.
He cut a hand up in the air and glared at me. “I’m asking the questions!”
I nodded, keeping my mouth shut.
Reaching across the desk, he grabbed his iPad, which he had paused at one of my interviews from Notre Dame. It was the one where I told the sportscaster that if it weren’t for football, I’d probably have ended up in prison.
Coach played that snippet for me. It’s not like he had to. I knew it well. Knew the facial expressions I made and the mood I was in when I gave the interview. Remembered the look on my brother’s face and the regret I immediately felt afterwards, too.
When the video ended, I looked over to Coach and flat out told him, “What I should have said was that if it wasn’t for my brother, Nick, I would have ended up in prison. Nick is the one who taught me how to channel my aggression, to use football as my outlet.”
This confession caught him off guard, and it took him a moment to speak. “Look, son, football is supposed to give your life structure and meaning. But you have to want it, I mean really want it.”
“I do.”
His expression softened. “You might not know this about me, but I grew up not far from where you did. When I heard you talking about what it was like for you, I knew exactly how you felt. Shit, I was you. The only difference, I didn’t go around bad mouthing Chicago.”
“Coach—” I tried to say.
With a fierce expression, he threw a hand up again.
I shut the fuck up.
In his khaki pants, he crossed one leg over the other. “If I’m going to be honest with you, I saw a bit of myself in you. The hunger. The need. The fearlessness. I thought all that bullshit you were spewing about Chicago was just that, bullshit,” he said with a sigh.
He wasn’t wrong.
He went on. “I thought that I could be the one to change your mind. Make you realize the best way to come full circle in your life was to prove yourself in the city that tried to bring you down. Even after mini-camp, I still had hope.”
Hope?
He shook his head. “But after yesterday’s little stunt, I’m not so sure.”
I chose my words carefully. “I promise you, Coach, you didn’t make a mistake.”
He nodded, solemnly. “Another question.”
This time I nodded.
“How bad do you want this?”
This answer came straight from my heart. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted in my life.”
Setting the iPad down, he uncrossed his legs and turned his body in my direction. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Really bad!” I answered loudly.
“Bad enough to let all of your bullshit go? Put your mommy and daddy issues aside and focus on that ball?”
Had anyone said anything like that to me in the locker room, they would have gotten a fist in their face. As it was, I could feel myself getting worked up, but somehow managed to grunt through it. “Yes, Coach.”
He shook his head. “Say it, Carrington. Tell me what you’re willing to do. Tell me you’re going to stop all the whining and crying and boohooing, and make yourself the best Goddamn quarterback there ever was.”
All I could do was stare at him in fury. “I put that behind me months ago.”
His voice rose. “After that little stunt yesterday, I’m not so sure. So I want to hear it! Tell me!”
Fuck, I wanted to punch him. Punch the desk, or the wall, or window. I didn’t make a move, though, instead I stared at him stonily.
In an unexpected move, he jumped to his feet and took me with him by the collar of my shirt. “Tell me right now, or get the fuck out of my camp.”
Rage smoldered through me like wildfire, and it took everything I had to bite out each word because I wasn’t going anywhere. “I will focus on the game and put my mommy and daddy bullshit behind me, Coach,” I yelled. “I will put my team first, and I will do everything I can to bring the Bears all the way.”
His expression was still uneasy, but he was somewhat pacified because he rounded the desk and flopped back in his chair. “Now that that is settled,” he said firmly, “there’s one more thing.”
Fucking great, here comes the stay away from my daughter or I’ll have your balls for breakfast line. I heaved in a breath, ready to be sucker punched, and I wasn’t even sure why it mattered that much. There was just something about her and I knew no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t going to be able to stay away.
“I know you’ve been cleared for training,” he said.
Okay, anticlimactic or what. Not at all what I was expecting, the shock must have shown on my face as I sat back down.
He pointed his finger at me. “And I don’t want to know anything else that I absolutely don’t have to know. Do you understand me?”
Shit, Gillian had said something; then again, of course she did, but not enough to flag me. I should thank her.
I nodded.
I got it.
If my injury wasn’t severe, I shouldn’t discuss it with him because that would force his hand. Make him do something about it, like bench me. We all knew if Coach knew something that should be reported but wasn’t, and the Commissioner found out about it, the entire team would suffer.
“One more thing. I need to talk to you about training,” he said.
“What about it?”
“Johnny isn’t going to make camp.”
Frustration lined my face. Although I would never admit it out loud, I needed a coach.
Jack pushed his chair back. “His wife was recently diagnosed with cancer and she has been given less than a year to live. That means he won’t be coming back this season. He wants to spend as much time as he can with her, and then be there when the Lord calls her home.”
“Jesus,” I whispered, and instantly regretted it. Obviously Coach was a religious man. “I mean that sucks—” I attempted to say more, but just shut my mouth.
He was shaking his head at me. “That means I’m taking over his role for camp. I should have his replacement in place before the regular season begins.”
My eyes bugged out of my head. Old Johnny was a ball-buster, but he also knew when to let up and when to let us have fun. Coach Whitney, shit, all I knew was that I, no we, were in for it. “That sounds . . . great.”
This made him laugh, loud and hearty. “Get the fuck out of here, will you, I have work to do.” That was one order I wasn’t going to argue about, not that I would be arguing about anything with Coach, any time soon.
Hey, big tough guy or not, when your head was on the chopping block, you learned when to reel your shit in.
And fast.