“Temporary brain injury.”
“Report it to medical.”
I flipped him off and went to get dressed.
Practice was sharp from the start. Reid didn’t waste time with speeches. He gave the drill, gave the reason, gave the standard. Three lines. No fog.
“First pass has to be available before the pressure arrives. Holloway, don’t curl out unless Lowell is under control. Lowell, if he leaves early, you eat the wall and that’s on both of you.”
Clear.
I ran it once and caught myself trying to jump the route anyway, the familiar itch crawling through my legs. Go now. Create speed. Beat them before they know you’re gone. But his instruction was still sitting there, solid and specific.
Don’t curl out unless Lowell is under control.
So I stayed.
Lowell made the play. We broke clean. I hit Milo through the middle and he buried it.
Reid blew the whistle. “That. Again.”
Not good job. Not finally. Not see what happens when you listen, Holloway?
Just that.
Again.
It worked better than it should have.
Which meant I got irritated.
At the boards, while we waited for the next rep, Milo bumped my shoulder. “You and Coach have some kind of mind-meld thing going?”
“No.”
“He gives you weirdly exact instructions.”
“He gives everyone instructions.”
“Yeah, but with you it’s like he’s defusing a bomb.”
Roman glided past the crease. “He is.”
“Everybody’s a comedian,” I muttered.
But I felt it too.
Reid wasn’t easier on me. If anything, he watched me closer. He caught every cheat, every drift, every moment I lost patience and tried to turn structure into speed. But he didn’t make it a moral issue. He didn’t act like my brain trying to sprint ahead was proof I didn’t care.
He just brought me back.
“Stop. Start again from the hash marks.”
“Why?”
“Because your feet left before your eyes finished reading the play.”
That shut me up because it was exactly what had happened.
