Brayden
I watch the team go through their first set of reps, my mind elsewhere. Being at the store all day long with Leleila was troubling. She actually trembled in my arms when she stumbled off the ladder, and the urging I had to find out what’s bothering her was almost impossible to ignore.
And when I found out she might be moving to Africa, of course I wanted to know why. But it’s none of my business.
She’snone of my business.
I blink as I return my attention to what’s in front of me.
“What was that?” I call out to the first-team offense as the quarterback sails another ball over the receiver’s head.
I hold the errant football in my hand and rifle a pass back to Wes. “Come on, man! Get your head on straight today.”
Wes nods and lines up again behind center.
He barks out the play call, and this time, his pass is on the money. Gordon catches it in stride and streaks down the line before Fletcher, our star safety, tackles him at the ten.
Coach Johnson’s back, and he shouts his approval before walking over to me.
“Goddamn it, Wes is off today,” he says to me in a low voice.
“Yep.” I cross my arms over my chest. “And I think we can all hazard a guess as to why.”
Everyone in Wilcox knows about Calvin Brick and the weight he’s been on his quarterback son. Father and son live in the mobile park at the edge of town; Wes’s mom died years ago, and once she was gone, Calvin’s drinking went from once in a while to pretty much nonstop. Our interventions and endless attempts to get him to rehab have failed, and at this point, we’re all just rallying around Wes as best we can, praying he can get out of town with the football scholarship he so deserves before his father takes that away from him too.
“He needs his head in the game this week.” Coach Johnson shakes his head. “There’s going to be a scout in the stands.”
“I know.”
“Talk to him, Wild,” Coach says to me with a clap on the shoulder. “The kids listen to you better than to me. You’re a hero to them.”
I grin. “You mean you’re too damn old for them to remember you, Coach? You still hold the state record for number of sacks in a season.”
He laughs and rubs his bald head. “And your total yards still stands statewide. Plus, you had to share touches with Colt. Shit, you two were competitive with one another. Dylan used to have to give out a fucking target count after games so you and Colt would stop arguing.”
I remember. Playing with my cousins for three years under the bright lights is one of my greatest memories from high school.
“It’s been years, but I still miss it sometimes,” I admit. “The playing in front of a crowd; the adrenaline rush is fucking nuts.”But…
Coach Johnson’s watching me, and he nods before I even speak. “You belong in Montana, Brayden. Always did. You’re a cowboy first, footballer second. Nothing wrong with that.”
The rest of the practice goes smoothly, and when it ends, before I can beckon to him, Wes approaches me.
“I’m having an issue with the game this weekend,” he admits, the calmness of his tone belying how his cleat is banging on the ground between us. “Going to Billings might be tough for me. I need to make sure I’m back home that night.”
“What’s up?” I walk him away from the rest of the team.
“It’s my dad.”
He doesn’t need to say anything more.
I put my arm around Wes’s shoulders and point us in the direction of the barn. “Come for a ride with me. We’ll talk.”
Wes shrugs out of his pads and throws on a Wilcox High sweatshirt. His blond head of hair that’s the same length as mine is damp with sweat, and his dark, nearly black, eyes are filled with far more wisdom than a kid his age should have. He’s been blessed with an athletic frame and the strongest arm I’ve seen in a young quarterback since Dylan. He has the talent and the temperament to go all the way, and I don’t want anyone—especially the one guy who’s supposed to be in his corner, his father—bringing him down.
We saddle up King and Blazer, and I point to the cowboy hat hanging on the post outside the stall.
“Take that for the ride if you’d like,” I say as I grab my own hat and push it onto my head.
