“Nope. She’s right here in town.” I tossed my phone aside on the table between our beds. “But she might as well be worlds away for how she’s acting.”
“Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise? Better not let it fuck up your game tomorrow,” he intoned. “You gotta impress the coaches right out of the gate.”
“I’m aware.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed, stood, and stretched. “Gonna hit the head then grab some sleep—if you can keep your mirth to yourself.” I smirked.
Closing his laptop, he set it on the table next to my phone. “Sleep’s gonna be a bitch on these beds. Good thing I got a place lined up already. Soon as my bed shows up, I’m outta here.” He shot me an apologetic glance.
“Don’t blame you, man. I’m working on finding something else too.”
I ambled down to the showers, brushed my teeth, took care of business, and wandered back to the room. As instructed, I’d come with my own set of sheets, a blanket, and a pillow, so at least I had a touch of comfort on the barely-there slice of foam covering the springs on the single bed. As I settled in, flipping this way and that to find a comfortable spot, a thought flitted through my head. No way could a guy bring a girl back to his dorm room—he’d wreck his knees on the bedsprings.
I needed to find a place. No way could I ever bring Taryn here. Even if she’d entertain the idea, I didn’t want to subject her to a bad bed and the possibility of a roommate “accidentally” interrupting us.
But I was getting way ahead of myself. Before I could come close to talking her into my bed, I needed to talk her into talking to me again. Something was going on with her that was causing her to avoid me. I couldn’t fix it until I knew what it was, which meant we had to talk.
Pulling up the map on my phone, I located the Coffee Kiosk and smiled. It was within walking distance of the dorms. Perfect.
“All right, men. All of you returners know we have a target on our backs. For those of you who’ve joined us this season, that target is massive. Not only will every team in the conference be gunning for us, but so will every nonconference foe we meet.” Coach Ellis made eye contact with all fifty-plus players seated in rows on the plush seats of the film room. “We can’t take a single play off—not in practice, not in games, not one player on this team. We’re in a race to repeat as conference champions and contend for the national championship. Every man in this room needs to commit to excellence. If that’s too much for you, don’t bother to suit up.”
When he paused his speech, a pin hitting the carpet would have echoed through the room. Once again, he scanned the players seated in the theater-style space, giving extra attention to those of us seated toward the back. I noticed both Finn and Callahan sitting in the front row and figured the starters and team leaders made sure to bag the best seats.
Sliding a side-eye to my new friend Grant, seated to my left, I caught his avid attention on the coach. The kid was practically vibrating with his need to prove himself. To my right Tamatoa slouched a bit in his chair—not that the casual observer would notice with his height and size. I set my sights on that front row, determined to be one of the players sitting in it. I’d made staff sergeant by the end of my third year in the Air Force. I planned on being a starting receiver on the Wildcats by the end of this season.
Coach Ellis nodded to a tall bearded guy with a mane of wavy hair pulled back in a ponytail, who stood and joined him. “Coach Ainsworth will meet the defense in the south end zone.” Next, he nodded to a broad-shouldered Black man who stepped up beside Ainsworth. “Coach Wiley will meet the offense in the north end zone.” A rather nondescript White guy with a bit of a paunch stepped up beside Wiley. “Special teams will meet with Coach Newman on the fifty. You have ten minutes to be at your assigned area ready to play.”
On that parting directive, the coaches filed out a door near the massive film screen at the front of the room, while the front-row players stood and headed up the aisles to the back doors that led to a hallway and the locker room. The rest of the guys followed the leaders. No one horsed around or traded jokes. Instead, the locker room was nearly silent as we all dressed in shorts, T-shirts, cleats, and helmets. In ten minutes flat, the entire team had assembled in our designated areas on the field.
Once outside, the leaders of each unit took their places and led the team in warmups. None of the new guys were told anything other than to do the exercises the leaders did. My military service had set me up well for the first test: following directions and leadership. By the time we’d finished with warmups, I noticed Coach Wiley talking to one of the other offensive assistants, their eyes on me.
Good.
We started with cones and footwork followed by running some basic routes. Since I was a walk-on trying to earn a spot on the team, I ran drills with the freshmen and second and third-string players. The backup QB had a good arm and threw a tight spiral, making it easy for me to track the ball. By the time we were finished with an hour or so of route running drills, I think I’d maybe dropped two balls, three tops. By the end of our first practice, I’d noticed Coach Wiley and the receivers coach, a guy named Ripley, with their heads together and their eyes on me on more than one play.
Excellent.
I had zero doubt I’d make the team, exactly like I’d made every team I’d ever walked on to. But I’d set my sights higher. I wanted a starting position, and from what I’d seen in our initial play, I had a better than even chance at earning one. The starting quarterback, Mick Patterson, needed some targets. As advertised, Callahan O’Reilly was a stud at tight end. In the game film I’d watched, he’d needed some receivers to catch a pass occasionally to take the pressure off. So far in practice, I’d seen I could be the guy to help him.
Another receiver, a tall, skinny Black kid named Harris, had speed and good hands. He liked running posts and out routes and judging by Coach Wiley’s comments, he was a player he wanted to coach up. That left slots and crossing routes available to someone else. I wasn’t afraid to take a hit, so I set myself up to run those routes so well that Wiley would have no choice but to line me up on those plays.
When practice ended for the morning, I was sweaty, pleasantly winded, and so damn happy to be back out on a football field I could barely contain myself. My new friend Grant’s enthusiasm at dinner last night when he’d talked about playing for the team couldn’t touch my excitement for being on the field in a helmet running routes and catching balls.
Back in the film room following drills, Coach Wiley pointed at me to take a seat in the third row—a big step forward from the seventh row, where Grant, Tamatoa, and I had started the day. A minute later, with a nod from the coach, the warrior child joined me. I’d taken care of business to open my tenure on the team, but I wasn’t so cocky as to draw attention to myself off the field—at least not yet. Apparently, Tamatoa was of the same mind since we acknowledged each other with twin chin tips and nothing more as we took our seats.
Though he didn’t raise his voice, Coach Ellis jumped right into it.
“If we all do our jobs like the winners we are, this is going to be a long season—July to January. I plan to be coaching Wildcat football in January.”
The starters in the front rows launched into a rowdy chorus of, “Go! ’Cats! Go!”
“Starting today, we’re building stamina to play our best football in the worst conditions in the playoffs.”
The front rows erupted again. “Go! ’Cats! Go!”
“It’s going to take an entire team, offense, defense, and special teams, to achieve our goals.”
This time, the rest of us figured out the drill. “Go! ’Cats! Go!”
I hid a grin at Tamatoa’s booming voice beside me.
