Page 118 of The Play

“And we’re gonna take this week of practice,” Coach K announced, continuing his pre-game speech, “and we’re gonna tell it to go fuck itself. Okay? I don’t care how shit it felt all week, I know you’re capable of more. I know you’re capable of moving the ball. Capable of defending the ball. You’ve shown it to me, in every game we’ve played this season. Even the games we’ve lost.”

“Yeah!” Carter yelled, and for a split second Deacon considered telling him to pipe down, to let Coach talk, but the mumbles around him grew louder after Carter’s outburst, and he realized that maybe it was a good thing.

Good that not just their coach believed in them, but that they believed in them.

“We’re gonna fly,” Landry called out, and the noise became deafening, Coach K smiling as the team took over for him.

Maybe, Deacon thought as he gathered himself from the bench in front of his locker, it would be enough to turn things around.

For them to leave behind the worst week of practice he could remember the team having all year. Even the week Nelson Perez had blown out his knee and they’d had to practice with the backup hadn’t been this bad. Even the week after Jem had been injured, they’d managed.

But this week they hadn’t managed to do anything right, and instead of playing an easy game at home, they’d had to head up the coast to Baltimore, to play the Ravens in their own stadium.

That was never going to be an easy task.

But it was even harder now.

Five minutes later, they jogged onto the field to a whole chorus of boos, and after the anthem, out of the corner of his eye, Deacon watched as Micah and Beck did their special pre-game routine.

He and Jem hadn’t had anything that official. But still, before every kickoff, they’d found each other and said, “good game,” like they could manifest it, no matter what happened.

Deacon hadn’t really missed hearing it until today.

But right now, he wished he could turn to his right, and Jem would be standing there, a calm expression on his face—not worried, not overthinking—just accepting, just readying himself for the job to come. Not just knowing, but believing, deep down, that they were capable of handling their own business.

“Hey,” a voice to the right said, and Deacon started, glancing to the side, but of course it wasn’t Jem.

It was Nate.

He hadn’t necessarily been avoiding him. He couldn’t. Not really. After all, he was the defensive captain. Nate was his responsibility.

But he had given him as wide of a berth as he could, not giving him the kind of personalized attention he had been during previous weeks.

Deacon was sure Nate had felt his absence and had understood why.

But of course that wasn’t going to help anything—or change anything, either.

“Hey,” Deacon said, acknowledging him with a nod.

“I just wanted to say, again, that I’m sorry,” Nate said. “I certainly didn’t mean to make things worse.”

“I know,” Deacon said.

“Good.” Nate looked relieved, and Deacon felt another pulse of guilt.

He was supposed to be leading this defense, and he had, but he could acknowledge to himself that he’d only done the bare minimum this week. Instead, he’d been thinking about Grant—and how to permanently erase that frown line between his eyebrows.

Deacon dragged his attention back to Nate and to the sideline.

“Hey, really, it’s alright,” Deacon said and clapped him on the shoulder. Let his hand linger there, making it clear it wasn’t just an obligation, but a meaningful gesture. An olive branch.

“You ready to kick some ass today?” Nate asked, the relief clear in his eyes.

Deacon nodded, and they both smiled.

It was the last time Deacon smiled.

From the moment the offense took the field, the players jogging out behind Riley, it seemed like they were off-balance.

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