Page 17 of Home Game

Within minutes, I’ve managed to gather seven of us for a few group shots, and Cora seems to be getting into it. She spends nearly thirty minutes having us set up tight formations, various poses, and even more individuals for a few of the guys who really get into the whole “growl at the camera” concept.

We finish up just as the first bell rings, so we don’t have time to look through more than a few over Cora’s shoulder. I’m confident there are multiple winners in the bunch, however.

While most of the guys take off for algebra or English, I hang in the locker room with Whiskey since we both have advanced weight training for our first hour. It’s a perk of being a senior, and I was glad to see that the tradition is the same here as it was at my old school. It’s sort of a cheat to the system—a way for coaches to get extra time with their team leaders and not have it count as practice.

Whiskey and I dress out for lifting and head through the doors at the back of the gym that lead to the weight room. Coach has been in there most of the morning. I’m sure I could have run my idea by him before I coerced the photographer into shooting my idea, but a lesson from my dad rang in my head the second I thought of it.

Do what’s right, and you won’t even have to ask for forgiveness.

“You gonna tell me what that was all about?” Whiskey tugs open the weight room door and steps to the side as I pass through.

“Come with me. I’ll tell you both at the same time.” I lean my head toward the back of the room where Coach is straddling one of the benches and reviewing charts.

Whiskey lets out a low chuckle.

“Why do I feel like I’m being used as a human shield?”

I stop hard and pivot to look him in the eyes.

“Dude, that’s literally your job. Lineman. Human shield.” I pat the center of his chest, shoot him a smile, and turn to head to Coach.

“Wyatt, I think I’d take a hundred high school athletes coming at me at once over whatever the hell you’re walking me into,” he mumbles behind me.

I glance over my shoulder.

“And yet you’re still with me.”

“Bro, you’re my only friend in this place. I ain’t got a choice.”

I laugh hard. That’s not even remotely true. At least half of our line came over from the old school with Whiskey, and I don’t think there’s a damn human in town who isn’t his friend. But I like that he sees me as more than his quarterback. I like that we’ve moved tofriends.If anyone in this scenario only has one of those, it’s me.

“Gentlemen. You trying to score bonus points for being early?” Coach Watts glances up over the golden rims of his glasses. He might not have the pro pedigree Reed Johnson has, but he’s paid his dues in high school football. He’s been coaching a small school up north for the last sixteen years, and he’s managed to win six state titles with a group of guys who habitually play in a division above their size. My dad would have loved him.

“I wanted to make a proposal about the program, sir.”

He blinks at me a few times, his mouth a hard, indiscernible line. After a few seconds, he pulls his glasses off and folds them before setting them on top of the clipboard resting on the bench.He folds his arms over his chest, and a deep grumble emanates from him. Whiskey takes a step back, and I shoot him a glance.

“What?” he whispers.

“Chicken,” I utter back.

“Wyatt, do you know how many hours of my life have been spent on this program? With a committee of twelve booster parents? All withverydifferent opinions?”

I’m no stranger to the politics and big personalities on a booster club. I know what a pain in the ass every single project is. It’s half the reason my mom didn’t want to step into the board elections when we came for orientation.

“I do. But this is important,” I say.

He blinks at me again, then sighs before rolling his palm out toward me, urging me to continue. I swallow hard.

“We need to have a group shot on the cover. The leaders on the team. Guys from each platoon.” I was thoughtful when I sent out the plea for guys to come back for the extra shoot and made sure to ask for a leader from special teams, defense, and offense.

“I agree.” His quick response surprises me, and the relief that drops my shoulders is instant. But it’s short-lived. “But Don Atkins wants you on the cover. He bought a sponsorship because of it.”

Coach’s frustrated tone gives me pause, but it’s not reallymehe’s frustrated with. It’s the fact ads and photos are taking up his time.

“I’ll talk to Don. Joey’s dad, yeah?” I should know this by now, but there are a lot of new names for me to get down.

Coach nods.

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