CARSEN
I reach out of the tiled stall to grab my towel before wrapping it around my waist and stripping the shower curtain back. Today's practice was brutal; the muscles in my back ache, and my legs are sore. Getting tackled is no joke, even if I know it's coming. Though we won our first few games, we're playing against our most formidable rivals next week, and everyone is on edge.
The only time we've come close to losing our winning streak was against the Weston Cardill University—or Weston for short—and it's because of their quarterback, who also happens to have some sort of unspoken rivalry with Maverick Parker, our QB.
Stretching my arms out over my head, I sigh; the cold shower helped ease some of the pain and knots in my muscles. I smirk over my shoulder at the noisy, overexcited roars from the guys as they laugh and bask in the victory from the Homecoming game. The locker room is filled with sounds of metal lockers slamming against the frame, thick sheer steam filters out from the showers, but the putrid smell of sweaty bodies and old gym clothes still lingers in the air.
Wringing out my hair, I slip into my boots and shut the locker door, tossing my towel into the hamper. I glance to see if Maverick is ready to head out, seeing as he's my ride home—since we share an apartment in downtown Cardill.
"Blake," I hear the deep grunt from my coach. Swivelling my upper body to face him, he gestures for me to follow him into his office. The stern look suggests that perhaps we've been celebrating the win for too long, or maybe I messed up somehow in practice.
As the offensive team captain, I set an example for the guys, and a lot of the heat, unfortunately, comes down on me. The guys quiet down as they watch me shuffle towards Coach's office, and I shove my hands into the pockets of my joggers.
Football means the world to me. Not only because it's the last good memory I have of my late father but also because I'm good at it. It's my escape, my moment to shut my mind off from all the stressors of my life begging for my attention. I yearn for the next time I would be able to get on that field and play the game.
I shut the door behind me as I sit across from Coach in the tiny little shoebox of an office he's claimed for himself as the head coach for the past eight years. His office holds all the memorabilia of his previous teams, team pictures in rows on his walls, and signed footballs from each graduating class on the shelf behind him. He works hard for his team, which shows when you glance around.
"What's up, Coach?" I lean back, getting comfortable in the plush seat.
The stern glare washes away as Coach Flint smiles, the corner of his dark brown eyes crinkle in excitement. "I have some great news, Blake," he takes a long-impregnated pause filled with anticipation. He ruffles through the papers on his messy desk, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He hands it to me before sitting back, patiently waiting for me to read it for myself.
With confusion circling my mind, I unfold it, realizing it's a letter addressed to me and start reading. Coach starts laughing when my eyes widen in bewilderment, taking in the words slowly. I reread the letter a couple of times; though the words are clear and precisely typed out in front of me, I have difficulty believing them. This is exactly what I've been working for, hoping for, what I've always wanted.
But the only thought running through my mind currently is that my dad's not here to see it.
When I was younger, while my mother hated football talk, my dad encouraged me to continue pursuing it when he realized I had the skills to play. He signed me up for training camp and paid for all the out-of-state games I attended and my equipment. He believed in me when no one else did.
The fact that he's not here hits me harder than I expected. I've had a couple of years to process it, but still, at this moment, it's a lot harder to digest. I wonder what he would make of this, all the long hours, staying up to help me memorize the playbook, cheering me on from the sidelines, buying and wearing my jersey with my number and his name printed on the back at every game.
"Is this not what you wanted?" Coach asks, sitting up, mistaking my silence for trepidation. I straighten my brows and shake my head, trying to clear my head of the sudden doubt stemming from not having my dad with me right now. This is what he would have wanted for me even though he isn't here physically to offer me his blessing. Regardless, I should be happy for him and for myself.
"No, sorry, this is just, this is—" I stumble over my words, unable to express how I feel because I'm grateful for everything he's done for me. When he found out my dad passed away, he stepped up, giving me time to grieve and supporting me as my dad did, pushing me to not give up on my love for football.
"Take your time," he chuckles under his breath.
"Is this real?" I ask to first clear this up. I sound shell-shocked and mesmerized. There's a light airiness in my tone, and I realize it's because I feel on top of the world right now. A tingling sensation spreads across my chest, warming my body with excitement.
"One hundred percent," he clasps his hands in front of him and gives me a massive grin, the creases by his eyes crinkle. I can't help but mimic the grin. This is real; this is actually happening.
I have no words. The emotions within me bubble, overwhelming me. I lean forward, gripping my damp curls and tugging, not in frustration but in exhilaration. I'm stunned, and I have no idea what to do. I hear Coach get up and walk around his desk.
"I am so proud of you," he slaps my back as he sits in the seat next to me. Hearing the words that I so desperately needed to hear, even if it isn't from the one person I can't get it from now, elation courses through my veins.
I sit up, my eyes teary as I study him to see if there's any way this isn't true, "I'm invited to the draft?" Disbelief coating every word.
"You're officially invited to the NFL draft," he smiles slowly as if he's waiting for it to sink in. A little teary chuckle escapes me, followed by a broad grin. My cheeks ache, but nothing could shake the smile from my face.
I stand up and immediately pull Coach into a tight hug. The letter crumples under my fist. "Thank you," I mutter.
"This isn't a guarantee, but if there's anyone who can make it, it's you. I believe in you, now believe in yourself and show the scouts the player I know you can be," he whispers, clapping my back again. I know this doesn't mean I'm in the NFL, but it's one step closer.
I nod and pull back quickly, wiping away my tears. "Thanks again," I hold up the letter to acknowledge what I'm thanking him for as if he didn't already know and step back.
He shakes his head, "I didn't do anything, kid. This was all you." I start to correct him, but he doesn't have it. "Run along now. I'm sure you want to share the news with your friends. Just don't let this change your game on the field. I expect nothing less than 110%." He excuses me, and I stand there for a moment, just relishing in the acceptance, in everything this man has done for me.
I dip my chin and duck out to see that everyone's left except for Maverick, who's sitting on the bench with his head hung low. He glances up at me. His lips pout slightly in confusion when he hears me approaching.
"What was that about?" He asks, a hint of a South London accent trails his words. He stands up, straightening the creases in his pants before swinging his gym bag over his shoulder.
I simply smile and hand him the letter. I'm jumpy and giddy, and there's only one person other than Maverick I want to share this with.
"Bloody hell, is this for real?" He asks, looking up with excitement. When I nod, he rushes me and pulls me into a hug, "Congrats, mate, it's about time."
I lug him under my arm, "Thanks, man!" I can't contain the smile on my face. A crisp autumn breeze rustles around me. Gazing up, I suddenly feel Dad's presence. I'm not a religious man, not like my father, who attended church whenever he could, but just as a cabbage white butterfly circles around my head before fluttering off, I think perhaps Dad was with me at this moment.
Maverick pushes me off. "We definitely have to celebrate," he slaps the letter into my chest as we head out towards his car.
"Drinks on me tonight," he exclaims as he starts his Challenger. I drop my bag into the back seat and slam the door shut behind me as I text Carter to give me a call when he can. Since it's still early in the afternoon, I figure he's either still in school or busy with basketball practice.