Page 57 of Provoking the Punter

“You’re looking good this week, Stevens. Looser. I like it,” Ross said.

“Thanks. Are you gonna tell me how good it was?”

“Sixty-six yards, 5.6 hang time.”

Nice. Not quite his best, but he’d been striving for consistency, instead of trying to beat his personal best. The question about this weekend’s home game rested the tip of his tongue. That Coach gave him more practice time with Hulme had to mean something.

His teammates were talking about the situation.

He watched James and said nothing. Not even when he noticed the older punter’s face tightening again when he landed. He’s been doing that all week, as if he were having problems or hiding an injury. Maybe he wasn’t hiding anything, and the coaching staff were aware of whatever it was, or maybe Garrett was seeing things that didn’t exist. He hoped it wasn’t because James was injured. He wanted in on his own merit.

But Cal didn’t seem to care that he was starting while Addy was injured. Unlike Garrett and James, Cal and Addy were close. Addy may not be playing, but he put the team first.

James and he swapped places again, each of them running through a few plays.

He backed up the last punt with another one just like it.

The football gods were smiling on him. Maybe all the stars would align, and he’d dress for the game, and everything would be fine. It was about time something went his way.

He didn’t expect good news when the special teams coach called him over. He expected another “Not this week, Stevens, you’re not quite there” talk. So he braced for disappointment, ready to nod and smile and agree that he had more work to do. That his movements could be smoother between the snap and his punt. That perhaps he wasn’t holding the ball just right for the kicker.

His gut churned the way it did every time he had to speak to any of his coaches. His lungs squeezed tight like a vise around his chest, as though breathing were optional. If he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t say something dumb.

Coach Ross checked his notes, and Garrett stood waiting. He was good at that. Most of his job was hurry up and wait.

“You’re working well with the rest of the guys.”

“It felt a lot smoother this week.” Which was the truth. Maybe some of that was simply getting used to the way they lined up and what plays they called. After everything he’d gone through trying to settle in, he wouldn’t wish a mid-season trade on anyone. The first week he hadn’t known what he was doing, the second week he’d been figuring it out, and finally, by the third week, everything had started coming together. This week was feeling tight.

“Good, because you’re playing on Sunday.”

Garrett stared at him for a couple of heartbeats, sure that he’d misheard. “I’m playing a home game?”

It was a stupid question as the coming weekend’s game was at home, in ATEX stadium. He’d thought for sure James would play.

“Yes. You’re running out in front of the fans. Full uniform.”

Garrett’s smile split his face. He wanted to hug Coach, but he also didn’t want to make it obvious. He’d been given the good news because James was still on the field. “Thank you.”

Coach Ross shook his head. “You put in the work, and you’ve been better this week. Which means Emilio will stop breathing down my neck about having both of you.”

Which meant some shit was about to happen. “James doesn’t know.”

“He’s about to… Why don’t you hit the locker rooms?”

Garrett didn’t need Ross to tell him twice.

He was almost to the locker room, head spinning with good news, and excitement, the waves in his stomach when he remembered his promise to Chester.

“Someone looks happy,” Yowie said with a wink.

Garrett nodded at the big, teasing captain of the defense, knowing that he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, nor was it his place to say anything until James was told, though he was sure Yowie could guess. And everyone would find out in a few minutes, anyway.

In the locker room, he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of his hanging uniform. Then he sent it to Chester.

Guess who’s wearing gold pants on Sunday?

Not me, so I’m guessing it’s you. Congratulations, honey.

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