“All right, men. Get out your playbooks. We’re watching game film from last season, study what worked. And yes, there will be a quiz at the end.”
A collective groan went up from the front two rows, and I thought I saw the ghost of a smirk flit across Coach Ellis’s face before he schooled his features back into what I figured out was his usual unreadable blandness. In the very short time I’d been observing him, I’d decided Coach was one guy I’d never want to play poker with.
For the next two hours, we watched highlights from last season—offense, defense, and special teams. From what I saw, the Wildcats played hard and played to win. Though the film session had a serious purpose, the starters’ enthusiasm for excellent performances had everyone in the room cheering by about ten minutes into the session. The support each unit showed for the other two impressed me the most. Every man on the team had a job, every man contributed, and every man’s work on the field merited a positive response from the rest of the team. The cohesion I sensed in the film room ratcheted up my desire to play for this team on Saturdays.
As promised, at the end of the session, the coaches handed out a ten-question quiz: three questions about offensive plays, three questions about defensive plays, and four questions about special teams. The specificity of the questions favored the starters sitting in the front rows, but I loved the game: had been a student of it since I could remember. As I read each question, the play it referenced formed in my mind’s eye. When I finished and raised my hand for a coach to take my paper, I was surprised to see I was the only player in my row ready to hand in my work.
A tiny grin ghosted across Coach Wiley’s mouth as he took my quiz from me, and I wondered if I’d fucked up. I sat back in my seat, crossed my arms over my chest, and reached inside myself for the discipline a lifetime of living with the captain and four years in the Air Force had insisted I develop. Keeping my eyes open and focused on a pinpoint of red light at the top of the film screen, I meditated on my goal of becoming a starter by the playoffs.
A while later, Tamatoa reached across me to hand his quiz to Coach Wiley, then he too, sat back, crossed his massive arms over the barrel of his chest, and stared straight ahead.
It took longer for all the guys in the back rows to finish their work and hand it to the coaches. The starters obviously knew the drill, so most of them had finished their quiz faster than I did, which was to be expected, but the true freshmen, the seventeen and eighteen-year-olds, seemed to have a rougher time of it. I’d managed to play every offensive play for an entire game in my mind’s eye before the last guy handed in his work.
“All right, men. We’ll see you back on the field at five o’clock sharp,” Coach Ellis instructed. “Stragglers do burpees after practice. The number is based on the mood of the coach who’s missing dinner with his family to put up with your late bullshit.” Though his expression remained bland, no one could miss the fire in his eyes. “Dismissed.”
My stomach had been trying to turn itself inside out for the past twenty minutes, so I wasted no time in heading up the aisle to the hallway and outside. Tamatoa was apparently of the same mind as he fell into step beside me.
“You headed to the cafeteria?” he asked.
“You know it.” I flattened my hand over my abs. “My stomach feels like I haven’t eaten in a week.”
His laugh boomed down the hallway as we made our way to the parking lot outside the facility.
Out of nowhere, Callahan O’Reilly, Finn McCabe, and a third guy who I recognized as another defensive player fell into step with us.
“You headed to grab some chow?” Finn asked.
“Yeah,” Tamatoa and I said in unison.
“Come with us,” Finn said.
We piled into the crew cab of the third guy’s pickup. Callahan rode shotgun while Finn and Tamatoa squished me between them in the back seat.
The driver extended his hand over the seat to Tamatoa. “Wyatt Baxter, but everyone calls me Bax.”
“Tamatoa Hall.”
“Good to meet ya,” Bax said before angling himself to shake my hand. “And you?”
“Danny Chambers.”
“Coach Wiley likes you two,” Callahan said as Bax put his truck in gear. “He likes guys who never take plays off.”
“I had the idea that was the entire coaching staff’s mentality,” I said as Bax wheeled his truck out of the parking lot.
Beside me, Finn snorted a laugh. “Facts. Ainsworth was on a tear today, and practice has barely started.”
Bax drove us across campus to the cafeteria on the other side of the quad from the dorm Tamatoa and I were staying in. The two of us exchanged a shrug and climbed out of the truck to join our teammates.
When we stepped into the chow hall, we saw where about a third of the team had arrived ahead of us. We lined up for trays and plates before fanning out to the various stations set up near the front of the room. Each station offered something different: burgers, Mexican, Asian, and vegetarian food. The options ensured even the pickiest eater wouldn’t go hungry.
After waiting for my two double cheeseburgers to cook—I could get used to having my lunch made to order every day—I loaded up on fries, salad, and a chocolate shake from the milk bar, which meant I was last to the table.
“You’re a military vet, huh?” Bax asked as I settled in to enjoy my meal.
After chewing and swallowing, I said, “Had to pay for school somehow.”
Callahan shot me an incredulous stare. “Are you saying no one picked you up out of high school?” He shook his head. “You run some of the best routes we’ve seen around here in a while. Pretty good hands too,” he added with a smirk.
