Just f**k.
I could probably live the rest of my life only using that word and it would sum things up fine.
I step into the office and every coach inside turns to look at me. I nod at the first few, but then I’m stuck doing this stupid head bob that makes my headache worse. So, I give it up and head straight for the door to Coach’s private office. The door is half open, so I poke my head inside.
“Sir?”
He looks up from his computer, looks back at the screen, and types for a few seconds longer.
“Come in, Silas.”
And . . . another f**k. Coach only uses first names when shit is serious. I sit down, and the silence freaking swallows me. He takes a sip from a coffee mug, sets it back down, and waits another few seconds to look at me. Then he just stares. Straight face. Blank. Almost expectant. This must be what it’s like to have a parent around to piss off all the time.
“How was your weekend?”
Damn. Who told? I start running through the names and faces of who was at the party. No one saw me high that I know of, but they could have just told him about the party in general, and it was at my place.
“Fine, sir.”
“Fine.” He repeats, nodding. “Fine.” He draws the word out a little longer the second time. “Then explain to me why I heard from a friend in the sheriff’s office Saturday morning.”
I close my eyes and drop my head back. I didn’t even think about that. I’d assumed since Levi didn’t press charges that I was in the clear.
Wrong.
“It was all taken care of, Coach. They only held me for a couple of hours or so. Nothing will show up on my record.”
“I don’t care about your record. What the hell were you thinking, kid?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Levi just got under my skin, I guess.”
He stands up and plants a hard fist on his desk. “Then get thicker skin.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
He stands straight and paces behind his desk.
“You’re a good football player, Silas. And I see it in you when you play . . . I know what this team means to you. But your grades are mediocre. You have a temper. You have a tendency to make poor decisions.” Goddamn it, talk about a broken record. I get it, world. I suck. It’s pretty clear now.
Coach continues, “I want to trust you . . . I do. You wield a great deal of influence over this team, and I want to make sure it’s a positive one.”
“I understand. I want that, too.”
“Then stay the hell away from Abrams. He’s banned from school property, but I don’t want him poisoning this team from the outside.”
“Done. I promise.”
He surveys me, almost like he doesn’t believe me.
“I need you to step up. I need you one hundred percent in this.”
“I am. One hundred percent.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and continues studying me.
“Then you won’t mind proving it by getting a head start on practice. Get dressed. Coach Oscar will meet you on the field for sprints while I meet with the rest of the team.”
Of course. Just what my body needs right now. Something else to make me feel like vomiting.
“How many, sir?”
“Until I feel confident that there will be no more calls from the sheriff’s office.”
In other words, until I damn near die of exhaustion.
THEY CALL THESE sprints suicides for a reason. You start at one end zone, sprint to the first ten-yard line, and back to the end zone. Then the twenty-yard line and back. Thirty. Forty. And on and on.
Coach Oz even has a little special twist he likes to add, in case you weren’t already tempted to spill your guts all over the grass. He’s one of the youngest coaches on staff, and as such feels the need to be a complete hardass so we take him seriously. So being the sadistic bastard that he is, he makes us do twenty push-ups every time we return to the end zone.
I’m already exhausted by the time I get to the fifty-yard line, and it feels like I still have an eternity to go. As I approach the end zone, Oz yells, “Pick it up, Moore! Looking slow today.”
That’s because I feel like I’m going to throw up my lungs, Coach.
I drop to do my push-ups and the constant up and down makes my nausea double. My arms are burning when I finish and drag myself to my feet.
“Move your ass, twenty-two!”
I’m still running when the rest of the team comes out on the field, and Coach Cole lines them up along the sideline to wait and watch as I finish.
I try not to get angry. I really do, but the humiliation gets to me. Might as well make me hold a sign that says I can’t do anything right. Not even on the first day of practice.
I grit my teeth so hard I expect my jaw to break as I finish my last sprint from one end zone to the other. I drop for my push-ups and growl my way through them. When I’m done, I stand and face Oz. It’s a dumbass move, but I’m pissed and not thinking straight, so I raise my eyebrows and ask, “Should I keep going?”
It’s Coach Cole who answers. “That will do for now.”
As I walk over to join the rest of the team on the sideline, I try to keep my breathing steady, but it feels like one of the linemen has been using my chest as a trampoline.
“Mr. Moore has just helped demonstrate our new discipline policy, gentlemen. When you skip a class, when your grades drop below the line, when your actions reflect poorly on this team, that’s an infraction. For the first infraction, you run.” He gestures back toward Coach Oz, and a few players groan quietly. “If you commit a second infraction or the problems persist, your entire position group runs with you.” People start looking around at the players around them, the guys who now determine whether or not they’re subjected to the will of Coach Sadist. “And if one of you is stupid enough to get in trouble a third time, you, your position group, and your position coach will run.” He shoots his staff a sly smile, and I can tell this is news to them. And when they fix their eyes on the players, they definitely aren’t screwing around. “We are a team,” Coach yells. “We win and lose together. So, we’ll screw up and get better together, too. It’s not just your own ass on the line, it’s everyone’s.”