Outside, I tug my hood low over my head and scan the yard for anyone who’s decided today is the day to enjoy the great outdoors, but from the look of things, I’m all clear. Careful to keep my face tipped down to the ground in case anyone comes outside and sees me, I jog across the small concrete patio toward my Escalade. Turning the ignition, I back out of the parking space and head for Suncrest U’s football stadium.
If I’m lucky, Coach will be too busy with the rest of the team to ream my ass about being late to practice. If I’m unlucky, I’ll be running a shit load of laps.
I hate fucking laps.
* * *
Sweat poursdown my face as I circle the field for the sixteenth time, marking my fourth mile. Coach barely even looked my way when I arrived. Just pointed at the track and told me to get moving. Roman and Emilio are enjoying the shit out of this. Both those fuckers have pointed and laughed in my direction more than a few times already.
Hunt is standing in as QB while I run, and I’ve got to give it to the kid, he’s come a long way this season. I still think he’s an asshole, and I sure as shit don’t want him anywhere near Kasey, but he’s getting better. If he pulls his head out of his ass, he’ll be a great starting quarterback next season after I graduate.
“Price!” Coach shouts my name.
I veer off my path and sprint across the field, coming to a stop in front of him.
“How’s the shoulder?” he asks.
Using the hem of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face, I tell him the truth. Mostly. “Better. Tight when I overdo it, but the pain is minor and Doc gave me the all clear to throw.”
He grunts. Not sure if it’s a happy grunt or an angry one. You never know with him. “We've got PacNorth coming up.”
I nod, as if we didn’t just have this conversation the other day. “You’re playing the first half, but if that shoulder gives you any trouble, I want you to call it and Hunt can finish out the last two quarters. Am I clear?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Now get your ass on the field and warm up with your receivers.”
Giving him a salute, I grab a ball and jog to the center of the field. Today the team has been running drills, saving the practice plays for later on. Catching Roman’s gaze, he gives me the all ready and races down the field. Ignoring what else is happening around me, I pull back and shoot the ball through the air, the laces spinning in a perfect spiral.
A sharp zing arrows into the point where my shoulder connects with my chest and I roll my arm to chase the ache away.
Roman tracks the ball, head lifted to the sky as he races toward the end zone. Jumping in the air, he makes the catch at the ten yard line. His momentum throws him and he tucks into a backward roll before springing to his feet. Holding the ball, he lets out a triumphant cheer and tosses it to the sidelines before jogging back, readying himself for me to throw again.
“Now it’s your turn to run,” I jest.
“Hey. I wasn’t the one who showed up late.” Even through the guard on his helmet, I can see his smirk. “Where were you, by the way?”
I retrieve another ball from the bag Coach keeps on the field, buying myself time before I answer. “Overslept. Guess I didn’t hear my alarm go off.”
He tilts his head to the side, not quite believing me. I’m a light sleeper. Roman knows that. But I don’t give him time to question me. “Go wide,” I call out, arcing the ball across the field and shooting it long and to my far left.
Like a bolt of lightning, Roman takes off. His fingers kiss the leather and for a second I think he’ll fumble, but he dives forward, saving the catch as his chest collides with the turf.
“Hell yeah!” he shouts, hyping himself up, and I have to give it to him. That one was impressive.
The rest of practice goes much the same way. Me throwing uncatchable throws and Roman landing them anyway. Half way through, three of our other receivers join the mix, tapping Roman out so he can take a slight break before going to catch for Hunt.
I don’t have as good of a system in place with the other guys as I do with Roman. I’ve played with Wilmos and Bedford since sophomore year, but Caulder is a recent addition this year like Hunt and we haven’t found our groove yet. The guy never seems to know what my signals mean, nor can he anticipate my throws, which makes him useless to me on the field.
Thirty minutes later, Coach calls time and sends us all to the locker room. Last night’s sweat and fluids cling to my skin beneath today's fresh layer of grime. I go straight for the showers, eager to wash it all away. Like silent wraiths, Roman and Emilio follow me.
Sensing the impending interrogation, I try to head them off. “How’s the baby?” I ask E, turning the water on and stepping under the spray.
“Perfect,” he says, following suit. “But fuck, the little devil never sleeps.”
Roman and I chuckle. “Ain’t no rest for the wicked.”
“Then how the hell did you get so much shut eye and still wind up late this morning?” he asks.
