Football players are assholes. I know; I'm related to their king. My older, and annoyingly overprotective, brother Jake is the star quarterback at Santa Cruz High School. I love him but hate living in his shadow. Everyone worshiping the air he breat...
"Fuck." I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. My head shook so many times, dizziness filled my brain. "It's not... No. This is a different kind of personal."
Her blue eyes blinked. "What other kind is there?"
I ticked my jaw with a hard clench. "Revenge personal."
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One by one, my teammates stepped off the bus. We carried the excitement of a new season, expectations not to meet our past success but triumph further, and the electric anticipation in our veins...
... to an empty parking lot.
"Ehh, better to be too early." Coach Williams shrugged. At our collective unamused expressions, he shrugged. "What? You wanna stay out there and wash the bus for warmups? Get inside."
"We beat the groundskeepers and concessions workers," Josh muttered as he stepped in line with me.
My scalp warmed under the early evening sun. I dipped my head and tracked the sidewalk cracks under my feet. The forty-nine of us, two wide, resembled a giant caterpillar that marched en route to the locker room.
The dominant smell of bleach cleaners greeted us under the flickering buzz of yellow bulbs. Every guy slipped back into his pregame prep mode, unique for every jersey number.
"Not surprised," Josh's eyes took in my number ten as I hung it on the corner of a locker door.
I shrugged. "It was the only one that fit."
He hung his number twelve in a similar position and plopped on the wood bench. His rock music muffled through his speakers as he tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
My fingers fiddled with my earbuds, a deterrent against conversations. As I cycled through tonight's game plan, play-by-play mapped out in Coach's X's and O's, I eyed his staff huddle. Every single season brought change, but the Knights were 2-8 last year. I pushed down my ego with a single focus: We were not going to be that two this year, not with me and not with their weak-ass right guards.
"Hightower!" Coach called out with a flick of his fingers.
I walked past the snickers and smirks and met his expectant eyes. Crinkle lines edged them, identical to the ones that framed his mouth. "No funny shit tonight. Run first – Landon and Javal, not you, and short, sharp passes. Nothing fancy, nothing flashy. Grind down their line and secondaries in the fourth quarter, then you can have your fun."
"Got it," I replied with a stiff nod, appreciative he didn't mention Brent. Four days of pushing mentoring shit on me were enough.
The pregame prep vibe was relaxed and loose, both in slumped postures and casual smiles. We waited with the excitement level of a joint dentist appointment, but with less comfortable seating.
Most guys thumbed through their phones. I yanked Bryce's away, deleted yet another game spreadsheet, and deleted his google account. That should buy me another two weeks.
