Page 50 of Game Face

Bryce exhales along with me, our shoulders relaxing for a breath.

“So, Bryce, you’re gonna get the start,” Coach says.

And my shoulders tighten right back up.What the fuck?

“Oh, yeah. Okay,” Bryce rambles, his gaze shifting to me, maybe looking for permission. I’m too stunned, and angry, regardless of how unjustified it is.

“Wy, I’d like you to work on the deep routes with the receivers today, and Bryce . . . we’re going to mix in some running plays this weekend, maybe even a double hand-off with our backs, some extra sneaks behind the O-line. You ready?”

Coach’s questions aren’t really questions. They aren’t even suggestions. That’s the plan, and we’re off to execute it.

Mentally spiraling, I find my way to the other end of the field, where I begin with a few warm-up routes to Keaton and Nick. I can tell they’re thrown by the split in practice today, too, their attention constantly diverted to the middle of the field, where Bryce is rushing the ball in every possible direction, practically wearing paths into the grass while Coach Byers looks on.

“What’s the deal with that?” Keaton finally asks me when Coach Skye is out of earshot.

“He’s getting the start,” I say, my answer clipped and flat.

“Fuck! Seriously?” Keaton’s loyalty feels nice, but his response gets him in trouble, when Coach Skye hears what sounds like a complaint and quickly sends him to sprint to the opposite pole and back.

“Anyone else mad about today’s drill?” He stares Nick in the eyes for a beat, then Shad. He never gets to me, though, and for whatever reason, that’s the thing that pushes me over the edge.

“I’m pretty fuckin’ pissed about it,” I let out.

Oh, shit.

“Excuse me?” He’s in my face before I can blink twice, his fingers looped through my helmet’s mask to hold my head in place.

May as well take this as far as I can now that I’m in it.

I meet his stare and make a promise not to blink a single time no matter how loud he gets when I finish saying my piece.

“Coach, I’ve worked my ass off for three years, and I know I’m just coming off an injury, but I feel proud about my performance so far this year. I think it’s fair to say I’m notholding back out there, and I’m certainly not playing scared and nursing my break. Bryce is a good quarterback, and I think he’ll be ready to step up when I graduate. But I’m not happy that he’s getting the start Saturday to do something we all know I can do better—run the ball and score. So, yeah. I’m pretty fuckin’ pissed that I’m doing this drill while he’s over there doing that one. I’m pissed we’re not all working on the same page, on the same skills, growing as a team. And I’m mad that something I’ve earned is being toyed with on a whim. Now, if you excuse me, I’m pretty sure I have sprints to run. I’ll be right back.”

I place my helmet on the ground, my heart beating so fast I can feel my pulse in my eyeballs. I turn and begin a slow jog that I turn into a sprint, passing Keaton on his way back. He lifts a brow at me, but my only response is a quick, “Don’t.”

When I get back to the receivers, Coach Skye doesn’t as much as glance up from his clipboard. I pick up my helmet and fasten it back in place while he taps his pen on the paper a few times, his tongue poking into his cheek. Finally, he swirls the pen in the air, drawing a tight, invisible circle.

“Run the routes again,” he says.

I purse my lips and shake my head, but I do as he says, clapping twice and nodding to Keaton before lining up to drop the thousandth pass I’ve thrown to him this month.

“Blue, forty-two!”

Keaton takes off as I slap the ball, and I fake a scramble before sailing the ball down the field and hitting him mid-stride about forty-five yards out. I turn to my right, waiting for Coach Skye to glance up after writing down his notes, and when our eyes meet, I blink slowly and chew at my mouth guard to keep from spilling out my rage again.

He circles the pen in the air once more, opting for hand gestures over words. Probably for the best. I can’t imagine what my hand gesture would have been, though I have an idea.

Nick lines up for this one, Shad watching off to the side, getting ready for his turn. Maybe, if I work hard enough, I’ll be able to knock myself down to third string today.

Fucking goals, I guess.

Regret for my actions sinks in about an hour into practice. My arm grows tired from overthrowing to prove a point, my jaw aches from clenching my teeth, and my stomach is so tight I think I might throw up when I hit the showers.IfI hit the showers. I kind of just want to leave today without talking to anyone else.

Whiskey busts up that plan quickly, though, knocking my cleats from the bench where I set them as I peel off my practice gear.

“Don’t fuck things up, Wyatt.” His glare is pointed, and the hard look on his face is easy to understand.

I sigh and lean back against my locker. My eyes scan the team room, our defense just now dressing out to hit practice hard, the second-string offensive players peeling tape from shins and worming out of pads so they can shower and get to the student center before the good food options shut down. Everyone does their job, no matter what that job is for the day. Why did I have to get so bent over mine being different for once?

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