The look on his face would suggest otherwise.
“With all due respect, sir. I don’t have the first clue how to fire a t-shirt cannon.”
“It’s harmless, Cruz.” He holds up the portable cannon for inspection. Because that’ll really help. “You just point and shoot.” He chuckles like he’s just made a hilarious freaking joke. “It’s not like we’re giving you one of those triple barrel Gatling guns Wisconsin uses.” He pauses, giving me a once-over. “Shit. That thing would be bigger than you are. I hear it can shoot 114 t-shirts a minute.” His eyes glaze over like a kid on Christmas morning and it’s all I can do to not roll my eyes. But since I’m not trying to get sent to a disciplinary hearing, I suppress the urge. “Can you imagine?”
No, I really can’t.
That’s hardly the point.
“I’m a gymnast, not a…whatever you call a person who shoots t-shirt guns.”
“Pay attention, Cruz.” He flashes me a pointed stare before returning his attention to the cannon. “I’m only going to show you this once because we’re running out of time.”
All the more reason to delay.
“Maybe I should practice with it this week and unveil it at our next home game. What’s the rush?”
Sharpe makes a sound halfway between a hum of agreement and a grunt of disapproval. “If I had my way, that’s exactly how this would go down, but it’s not up to me. The manufacturer threw in some kind of sweetheart deal that expires this week.” He swipes the back of his hand across his shiny forehead. “The deal’s already done, so today it is.”
Just my luck. The football program has millions of dollars to spend on everything from custom Wildcat rugs to nutrition bars and they’re pinching pennies over a freaking t-shirt cannon.
Waverly has a lot of cool traditions—white out games, fan chants, even the Wildcat pushups—but a t-shirt cannon isn’t one of them.
“You just stuff a t-shirt down the tube,” Sharpe says, pulling a rolled-up t-shirt from one of the cardboard boxes. “Then you point and pull the trigger.”
It looks easy enough, but…
“How am I supposed to manage the gun and the cart?”
“A couple members of my squad will push the cart and refill the cannon as you go. All you have to do is fire into the crowd.”
Oh, is that all?
“Relax, Cruz.” He pats me on the shoulder and smiles for what feels like the first time since this conversation started. “If I didn’t think you could handle it, I’d have figured out a workaround.”
I appreciate the vote of confidence more than he knows, but it does little to boost my self-confidence as I take the cannon and try positioning it in my arms. It’s heavier than it looks, and getting my finger inside the trigger guard is no easy feat with my furry gloves.
If only they were real paws instead of furry hands.
Then I could foist this task on one of the cheerleaders. But they’re not real paws and I can’t afford to shirk my duties, so it’ll be my furry ass shooting t-shirts into the crowd today.
“You’ve got this,” Coach Sharpe says with a quick nod.
Right. I’ve got this.
How hard can it be to shoot t-shirts into the crowd, anyway?
23
PARKER
Not to brag,but we’re destroying Michigan State and for the first time all season, our defense is playing like a unit. It’s exactly the caliber of performance that’s expected of us. By Coach, our fans, the conference. It’s only week five, but we’re starting to look like a championship team on both sides of the ball.
The chatter around town is getting hard to block out, and it’s like everywhere I turn, all people want to talk about is the odds of Waverly going undefeated, which bowl game we’ll land, and whether I think the team’s got what it takes to bring home a national title.
It’s fucking exhausting.
Between football and classes, I don’t have much energy to spare and I’d rather not spend every waking moment obsessing about what-if scenarios and stressing the game.
