“How do you think Brickmore’s looking?” Hank taps his pen on his desk as we review some tapes of practice. We do this in the afternoon almost every day, while the earlier practices are still fresh on our minds. “Think he’ll be ready to step into the starting position next year?”
I rub at the mild sunburn on my arm. Only in Texas do you still need sunscreen in late October. And only I forget it every single day, despite its necessity. “He’s been really solid as the second string QB. I know he’s young, but it sure would be nice if we could start him for three years. Right now, I don’t see anyone ready to come up after him.”
Hank nods absentmindedly. “I’m right there with you. We finally have momentum on our offensive line, but that’s not gonna mean shit in three years if we don’t have a QB.”
“I just hate scouting the high schools for fresh meat so far out.” I lean back and stretch my legs when he turns off the screen. “Those fourteen-year-olds are such scrawny little shits when they first hit high school.”
“I’m not sure we have a choice at this point. We don’t have to start tossing names around yet, but make a mental note to look when we start scouting in a couple months.”
Rubbing my hand down my face, I sigh. “Yeah. And I’ll put in a call to my buddy, Ryan Lennox. See who his competition is this year and if anyone is standing out.”
“He still coaching high school 5A?”
“6A now,” I correct him.
He whistles through his teeth, clearly impressed. “Holy shit, that’s a big school.”
“Yep.” I stretch my arms over my head to relieve some of the tension from sitting in this chair. I wish Hank would upgrade to something beyond the metal-folding variety. But he never does. My guess is because these make a lot of noise when they’re thrown, and Hank’s all about being loud when he gets riled up. “Chicago area keeps growing. Pretty sure three thousand kids per school isn’t unusual over there.”
“Three thousand high schoolers? I’d put a bullet in my head,” he snarks, making me chuckle. “College freshmen are hard enough to deal with.”
“Speaking of college freshmen . . .” Hank groans before I finish my sentence. “Now don’t start that. I’m just reminding you Randy Whitman from the boosters will be here soon to go over the preliminary numbers for next year’s scholarships.”
He shakes his head at me. “Don’t scare me like that. You know I can wine and dine with the best of them, but I like to dumb down my brain cells before candidates get here.”
“Those are our future starters you’re talking about.” I chuckle. “You’re such a dick, you know that?”
He looks back at the screen, treating my dig like a compliment. “It’s what makes me a good coach. Now watch Reynolds’s footwork on this next play.”
Before he can start the video again, a noise from outside the office catches our attention. “What the hell?” We both jump up when we realize what we’re hearing sounds an awful lot like a scuffle. As we race through the door, sure enough, we find Stevens and Anderson being pulled apart by a few other players, while they continue to spout shit back and forth.
“I didn’t even do anything, asshole!” Anderson yells as two other players pull him back and force him to sit on one of the benches. “I said I like her. What the fuck is the matter with you?”
“What the hell is going on in here?” Hank bellows, and the room goes silent, except for the sounds of people shuffling around. No one answers so he yells again, “Someone wanna tell me why there’s a fistfight happening in my locker room?”
Still no response.
“Stevens?” Hank challenges, but all the kid does is look at the floor, two of his teammates still flanking him in case he charges again, which it looks like he wants to. So Hank turns his attention to the other half of this clusterfuck. “Anderson? Wanna tell me what the fuck is going on here?”
The kid spits some blood onto the floor and wipes his split lip. “All I said was that I thought it was cool that his mom was dating Coach, and he fucking charged me.” My eyebrows shoot up, and my body runs cold. I glance around the room to see what their reaction is about to be, but no one even looks my direction. Either they all already knew about Joie and me or they just don’t care.
Until I catch Randy Whitman’s eye. Well, isn’t that fantastic timing on his part? But I don’t have time to worry about what he’s thinking. We’ve obviously got bigger issues right now.
“That’s what this is about?” Hank hollers, turning to look at Stevens, whose machismo suddenly seems to deflate. “You’re throwing down with one of your teammates because your mother might have a sex life?” Stevens winces but doesn’t say a word when a few people snicker in the background. No one has the balls to actually laugh, though. Smart move.
“Well, get over it, son, because I’m pretty sure everyone on this team has a sex life, except maybe that weird looking water boy. What’s his name?” He snaps his fingers as he tries to remember. “Peter? Is that his name?”
“I can hear you,” an irritated voice yells from across the room, but Hank isn’t done with his rant.
“Pretty sure that boy is still a virgin.”
I stifle a laugh as I hear “Hey!” come from where Peter is standing. Hank doesn’t even notice.
“Hell, I myself got a piece of ass last night. Twice.” A few of the guys grimace at Hank’s proclamation. “But what the fuck does any of that have to do with football, huh?” He looks at each player individually as he speaks. “Nothing. Not a damn thing. We are here for one reason and one reason only—to win football games. And I will not have some stupid shit about who your momma is dating tear this team apart.” He stalks over to Stevens and gets right in his face. “And you ever attack one of my players again, your ass will be benched so hard you will waddle when you walk. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Stevens says quietly, never looking up from the floor.
Hank backs up and turns in a circle as he calls out commands. “Now that you pussies have done your best to piss me off, get those running shoes back on and give me a mile.”
“Aw, Coach. I already showered,” someone complains.
“Then you’re gonna smell pretty for the clean-up crew when you run by,” he counters. “Now get out there before I change my mind and make you suit up first.”
“You stay.” I point to Stevens, who sighs and drops to the bench, the room clearing out quickly with Hank’s threat looming. This shit needs to be hashed out, and I will stay here all night if that’s how long it takes to come to an understanding with this kid.
Once the door closes behind the last person, I begin. “How long until you plan on letting this go?” He shrugs. “That’s not good enough. You have let a personal issue cause you to lose focus on the game. You damn near got yourself hurt on the field this past weekend. And now you’re attacking your teammates. You can be angry at whatever and whoever you want, but the minute you step into this room, you better check that attitude at the door.”
He continues looking at the floor, elbows on his knees.
“As your coach, I’m telling you don’t ever pull this bullshit again. This is not your team. This is not your locker room. This is not your field. I am responsible for it, and there is no room for people who cause problems. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” This time, when he speaks, it’s with humility. Looks like we’re finally getting somewhere.
“Now since you started this whole mess, you’re about to suit up. And you’re gonna give me five hundred up/downs and two miles. With pads. Got it?”
“Yes sir,” he says again without hesitation.
“But before you go, you need to know a few things.” I walk over and sit down next to him on the bench. He doesn’t look at me and that’s fine. It’s time to stop pussyfooting around the elephant in the room and lay it all out on the line. “Your mother spent seventeen years putting her life on hold for you. Seventeen years. You seem to think she was happy just being your mother and working, and yes, she’s always been happy. But she’s also had dreams and goals of her own that she set aside. For you. And now, when you’re finally an adult, when she can finally have a life of her own, you pull this self-centered, entitled bullshit.”
He winces, but I’m not done.
“I have talked to her every single day for the last two weeks, and you know what she’s talked about more than anything? You. How much she misses you. How many times she’s texted you and called and has gotten no response. I’ve watched her suck back tears because of how much your silence has hurt her, and as your mother’s boyfriend, it makes me want to take your ass down to the floor. But let’s get one thing clear, for as much as you’re worried I’ll break her heart, take a look in the mirror. The only one hurting her is you. You think you’re the shit? A big deal because your driver’s license says you’re an adult? Then man up and let her find happiness. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” he says, surprising the shit out of me. Maybe he’s scared he’s gonna lose his starting position. Or maybe I’m finally getting through. Either way, this is progress.
“Good. Now when you’re done with this practice, you’re gonna take your happy ass to the store and get your momma the biggest bunch of flowers you can find.” He nods. “You’re gonna drive over to her place, hand them to her with a smile on your face, and thank her for giving birth to you and for every day since that moment. And your gonna apologize sincerely for acting like a spoiled jackass. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now suit up.”
I stand up and start to walk away, but before I make it across the room, he calls after me. “Hey, Coach?”
I turn to look at him, surprised he’s finally speaking to me, but pleased he seems to have snapped out of his attitude problem. “Are you just sleeping with her or do you really like her?”
I take a breath as I figure out how to put my feelings into words he can understand. “I like her more than I’ve ever liked anyone. And I never thought I’d say that again after my wife died.”
He nods and rubs his lip as he looks away and turns toward his locker.