Page 1 of Changing the Play

Chapter 1

Weston

The sun is brutal today. It’s pretty damn brutal every day, but today especially. There’s sweat dripping into my eyes, but I’m forcing myself to ignore it. Benson is my priority right now anyway.

“Dammit, Ben. You’re drifting inside too early. Stick to the route!” I shout across the field.

Benson nods, irritation clear on his face as he jogs in my direction. “Alright, let’s run it again.”

I step behind the line, getting into position. I pull in a deep slow breath, until it doesn’t feel like my lungs can hold any more air, and then I exhale slowly through pursed lips, letting my shoulders relax as I do.

Out here? Nothing matters. Not my dad’s constant pressure. Not my stress about my grades and keeping my scholarship. Not my lack oftrue connection with people. Nothing. It’s just me, the ball, and my team.

“Set.” The ball flies into my hands and I step back, bouncing on my toes as I scan the field. Benson’s sprinting, his feet pounding as he runs the route. For a second, I think he’s going to cut short again, but he doesn’t.

I let the ball fly from my hand, and this time when it spirals through the air, it lands directly in his outstretched hands, and he pulls it into his chest with a whoop before diving into the end zone. He spikes the ball into the ground and turns to me with a triumphant grin.

“See!” I shout, running after him to tap his helmet. “I told you.”

He flashes me a sheepish grin. “Yeah, yeah. You know it all.”

Plays like this remind me why I love this game. It’s about building someone up, showing them they can do the hard things. They can work it out and come out victorious. Even when we don’t win, we still leave it all on the field. Being the one who helps these guys believe in themselves? Seeing their happiness when everything falls into place? When all the hard work and practice culminates in us winning or plays like that one going off without a hitch? That’s why I love this.

Before we can line up, Coach’s whistle pierces the air. “Bring it in, boys.” We all jog over to him, standing in a circle around him. “Good practice today. We still have work to do, but things are shaping up nicely. Hale, I need to see you in my office after you’ve showered.”

My stomach drops out, but I nod. We all break apart and head into the locker room together. There’s conversation happening all around me, but I can’t really focus on any of it. It’s likely that Coach doesn’t need anything important. Maybe he wants to go over plays with me. Maybe he wants to talk about our first game.

I’m still trying to convince myself of that when I strip off my sweaty gear and step into the showers. It’s not exactly working out for me.Mostly because I know the most plausible reason for him to be calling me into his office is that I’m not doing… great in my history class. And by that, I mean, I’m failing.

I have no idea why, but I just don’t understand it. My brain can’t seem to figure out the timelines. It can’t seem to make sense of the complexities of it. The dates and names and events. It all just turns to mush in my brain and I can’t make it stick the way I need it to.

The hot water beats down on my shoulders, but it does nothing to calm the tension radiating through me. It’s not like I’m not trying. I am. Half the time I’m exhausted from staying up late and studying. Or, well, trying to.

It’s not even like I’m all that interested in my history class. It’s a means to an end. A requirement of my degree. But that’s the thing. I need it. Without this class, I don’t have football. Without football, I lose my scholarship.

My dad would just love that. I can already picture his contempt—his disappointment. He always swore I’d never be anything more than an employee and eventual owner of his mechanic shop, but I’m more than that. Not that there’s anything wrong with what he does, but it’s just not for me.

Which brings me to how important passing this class is.

IknowI’m struggling. It’s frustrating too. To work and work and work for something and for the pieces to not fall into place. I hate it. It’s the worst. To spend an entire week studying my ass off, only to get my test back and not pass. I really don’t understand why my brain won’t just grasp the concepts.

Standing here isn’t going to help me. Dragging it out won’t make it not suck when the time comes. So I quickly clean up and step out, dressing in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

I sneak out of the locker room before anyone can stop me, and knock on Coach’s office door. His gruff, “Come in,” has me opening the door and stepping inside.

He looks up from the notes he’s working on in front of him and points his pen toward the door. “Close that.”

I do. Stepping closer to him, I sit down across from him at his desk. My spine is ramrod straight and any tension I managed to get out of my system has come back with a vengeance.

Coach sighs. “History.”

My stomach twists. Iknewthat’s what this was about. I knew it was, and yet, I was still unprepared for the gut punch of hearing it out loud. “Yes, sir,” I force myself to say. “I know I’m not doing the best in there.”

He lets out a barking laugh. “Not doing the best? Kid, you’re failing.”

I swallow hard against my nerves and nod. “Yeah. I’m working really hard, but I’m not sure what else I can do.” It sounds so flimsy. But it’s the truth. I have a lot riding on this. My entire future. The approval of my dad, if that’s something I can even get. And more importantly, I can’t let Mrs. Jackson down. She’s the only reason I’m here. “I’m studying non-stop. I’m just not grasping it, I guess.”

He drums his fingers on the desk. “I know you are, Hale. You’re a good kid. Driven. A leader. Have you talked to Professor Sinclair about your struggles?”

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