Page 65 of The First Play

Dad huffs. “Coach Jones called me this morning. He got wind of Brighton’s interest in the guy they’ve been scouting. He’s had a stronger season than you. Plus, he’s got great charisma. The crowd seems to love him, and he interviews well. He’s the kind of player who makes a school look really good.”

And now my insides are deflating.

“Brighton thinks he’ll be a better fit for them, and a sponsor has come out of the woodwork ready to back this kid all the way.”

I open my mouth to response to that, but… I’ve got nothing.

Sponsors? No sponsors have ever approached me.

Shit, this is like a thunder punch to my ego.

“Now, Coach Jones is a good man. He seems really genuine, and he’s keen to talk to you. He says you’ve got great potential, he likes your attitude better, and with a little training and a lot more focus, you can be the more dynamic player. He’s assured me that you won’t be riding the bench the whole season. He wants you out on the field. I doubt Brighton will say the same.”

“But Brighton,” I mumble, my grand plans disintegrating before me. “I want Brighton.”

Dad scoffs and shakes his head. “Don’t be an idiot. Brighton’s not going to give you any game time! Kelsey U wants you, Zander. They’ll train you and turn you into a better player!”

“But it’s miles away.”

“Oh for fuck sake!” Dad throws his arms up. “That girl has put some kind of spell on you! You’re seriously standing there telling me you’d rather freeze your ass off on the sidelines and waste your entire college football career because of a five-hour drive? You’re not thinking straight!” He taps his forehead with an agitated finger. “Shit, Zander! She’s screwing up your life!”

His voice starts to rumble like a thunderstorm, and I raise my hand to shut him up. “I get it, Dad. You’re pissed, but she’s not screwing up anything.”

His glare could melt tungsten, and I look away from it, crossing my arms to shield myself against the next attack.

“You were supposed to be at Noah’s house,” he hisses. “She stole you away, lied to everyone about it… and you just let her!”

“Dad—”

“You have no idea how disappointing it is to think your son is somewhere and then find out he lied to you and took off for a night away like he’s a fully grown adult.”

“Iama fully grown ad?—”

“No, you’re not!” he barks. “And don’t even try to deny it. You think you’re so grown up, but Zander… you’re not. You don’t pay your own bills, you don’t buy your own groceries. You’re not even old enough to drink yet! Practically everything you own was paid for by your mother or me! If you’re so grown-up, you wouldn’t have tricked everybody and gone behind our backs. That little girlfriend of yours is quite the schemer.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” I warn him.

Mom scoffs. “How can we not? This was all her idea!”

“Yeah, and it was a good one,” I argue back, but my voice is a quiet mumble.

Mom closes her eyes with a huff. “Zander, you are too young to be spending a night away with a girl. For God’s sake, you only turned eighteen yesterday! You might technically be an adult now, but you’re certainly not acting like one! You’re still in high school, and you shouldn’t be sleeping together! You’re too young! You’re just too young!” Her voice starts to pitch, and I know exactly why she’s getting so worked up.

With a soft sigh, I assure her, “We’re being safe. We’re using protection. You don’t need to get so stressed about this. I’m not going to get her pregnant. I love her, okay? I love her.”

“It’s not always about love,” Dad mutters. “Love is just an emotion. You need to start using your head.” He taps his hair with his finger, then thrusts his phone at me. “Now let’s call Coach Jones back and get this shit sorted.”

“I’d rather talk to Coach Watkins from Brighton.” I cross my arms and glare back at him.

“Fine.” Dad huffs. “Let’s call him and find out what the hell is going on. Maybe hearing the truth from him will help you get your head on straight.”

My parents gather in front of me, and the weight of their gazes suddenly feels too much to bear. I stare at the phone in Dad’s hand and finally take it. Part of me wants to ask him to make the call, but I can’t go claiming I’m an adult and then expect him to fix my problems for me.

Shit.

With shaking fingers, I find Coach Watkins’s number and hit Call. He answers after five long rings.

“Mr. Donohue. What can I do for you?”

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