Page 81 of Home Game

Coach Watts steps up after a few minutes and shakes Reed’s hand before walking over to stand in front of Whiskey and me. Our eyes meet for a breath, and all I can do is grimace and shake my head. Surely, he knows I wasn’t involved in this after that talk in his office; after he suggested I cool things off with Peyton.

There are a few guys not here, mostly the younger players and the ones who don’t really get into the after-game scene.The smart ones.They might just be all that’s left when this meeting is done. Football in this town might be done.

Reed leans his back against the railing and crosses his arms over his chest, his black polo shirt pulled tight across his muscled torso. His forehead wrinkles are heavier than normal, and I bet if we were in a silent room we’d all be able to hear his teeth grinding. His posture manages to quiet everyone, and after a few long seconds of nobody saying a word, his head pops up and his gaze lands right on his prized quarterback.

“Standing out here at two in the fucking morning is not something I ever expected I’d be doing, I’ve gotta tell you,” he says, an irritated chuckle sliding out.

“Never expected to be standing in front of you gentlemen with this much disappointment in my heart. And I mean that for all of you. Both schools. Because I know most of you well. I know your families. I’ve watched you grow up. I coached most of you at some point. And I gotta say, standing up here right now and looking many of your parents in the eyes, I’m pretty sure my disappointment is shared with them. Racing? In a river bottom?”

His head falls back and he stares at the sky, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows down anger.

“I know not everyone here was directly involved. Believe me, I knoweverything.” His gaze moves to Whiskey, and my friend drops his chin to his chest and wrings his hands together. At least this speech is getting through to someone.

“I don’t know what to do. I knew this season would be hard. I knew there would be bumps in the road. Some hurt feelings. And a lot of the usual bullshit that comes with good, clean competition. But boys, you’ve taken things way past shit talking. You’re flirting with getting someone killed with what you’re doing. Makes me want to quit. Makes me want to sell my home and move my family out of this place I love. Makes me ashamed.

“I don’t want to feel ashamed. I’m proud of this town, of where I came from. I don’t care what color your jersey is, we’re all Coolidge. This place means something in our world. When you’re in football circles and you tell folks this is where you play, this is where you come from? Ears perk up, boys. Coaches write down names. Colleges open up checkbooks and start doling out scholarships. And that . . .thatis what this should be about. That’s winning at life.

“Getting butt-hurt because someone broke a record you wanted? That’s childish.”

Most of our eyes are on Bryce at this point, and my stomach clenches with a touch of sympathy for the guy, though I doubt he deserves it. Reed isn’t pulling any punches. He’s laying this on him, and it should only be on him.

“We need to do better,” I say, standing up with my words and meeting Reed’s wide eyes. I glance to my coach, and he nods, urging me to keep going.

I step up on the first-row bench and scan the stands. There are at least a hundred and fifty people out here, half of them the parents who look exhausted and sad. The other half? Fuming.

“I know you said we aren’t all involved, Coach, but I have to disagree,” I say. I glance down at Whiskey, his neck craned as he looks up at me.

“We’re a team. Two teams, but like Coach said, one town. We should be holding each other accountable. I take full responsibility for not speaking up sooner, for not making it clear the standard I set for myself and expect of you guys. And Bryce . . .”

I stare at him, waiting for him to lift his head and meet my eyes, but his stare remains fixed straight ahead. Still posturing, putting up his tough-guy front. I don’t know how to help him.

“You gotta do better, too. You’re a hell of a quarterback, dude.”

“Yeah, I am,” he mutters, his words just loud enough that I mostly make them out. If anything, I get the gist.

I hop down from the bleacher and walk over to him, and a few players shift, some starting to get up. I hold out my palm to urge them to relax. I’m not going in to start something. I’m trying to lead.

Stepping into his sightline, I leave him with no choice but to look me in the eyes. He sits up tall and rolls his shoulders back,his lips pursed and his head tilted with disrespect. It’s fine. I don’t need his respect. I need to give him mine where I can.

“You are,” I repeat.

He blinks, but his posture remains stiff.

“Fuck, dude. When I found out we were moving out here and I’d be facing off with you at some point, I got excited. Like, heart pounding, lightning running through my legs, can’t sleep, night-before-Christmas excited. You know why?”

He tips his chin, barely.

“Because facing you will make me better. Holding myself up to you puts my goals in focus. It’s like a barometer for how hard I’m working, where I need to improve to get where I wanna be. Where I know you want to be.”

He shrugs and his eyes flutter as if my words are no big deal, but I know he’s glowing a little inside. Bryce soaks up compliments like a hungry kid with a cookie jar. He should have a tummy ache with everything I just said.

“I can’t wait to play you Friday. Assuming . . . we still have a game next Friday?” I turn to meet Reed’s eyes.

“Working on it. Some of you are going to get tickets for tonight. And some of your parents might think it’s time for you to quit the team and focus on learning how to be a man. At least one of you is getting a job on my ranch where you will be shoveling shit for my wife until you leave for college next year. And you won’t complain a lick. Because you are going to pay your mom back for the insurance claim she’s going to need to file for wrapping her damn car around a saguaro, am I clear?”

“Yes, Coach,” Whiskey says, his voice bold and loud. His eyes are heavy with regret, his mouth a hard line. And as much as I want to kick his ass for all of this, I’m proud of him for owning his mistake.

“I heard Coach Johnson say something about running bleachers tonight. And I think that’s a good idea. I think we allshould. Every last one of us. I mean, not you, Mrs. Olsen. Or you, Mr. Hampton. But us. I’m holding myself accountable starting right now. Starting right now, everything I do will have purpose. And I expect the same of my teammates.”

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