Page 1 of Final Down

Chapter One

Twenty-eight doesn’t feel old. Not until I get dragged by a bunch of footballers ten years younger than me. Then? Then it feels ancient.

“Arm sore, captain?” Reed catches me rotating my shoulder on the sideline after showing the Coolidge quarterbacks how to throw the cross route.

“I’m fine, old man. You keep your arthritis cream to yourself. I don’t need it yet,” I tease. Honestly, though? I could maybe use a little.

Spring ball at the high school is always a shit show. We get a lot of the hopefuls out, guys who probably shouldn’t be in the game of football but always wanted to try, or their parents want them to play. We play touch in the spring, then seven-on-seven in the summer with flag rules, but tackles happen. Only the solid guys come out for that. We travel, so it’s not worth the expense for guys who aren’t serious about the game. It’s where guys get the early college looks, too. It’s what got me my offers.

“Hey, Coach Stone? Does this look broken?” Brady, a sophomore who shouldnotcome out for summer or fall, holdsup his elbow. He’s got a good raspberry. It’s not even bleeding anymore.

I pat his helmet and smile.

“I think you’ll be fine, Brady. Maybe check out the summer track program, though. You’re fast as hell.” He’s decently fast. He’s better at running than he is at throwing and catching. And at a buck-twenty, maybe, he’s not built to take a tackle. I wouldn’t feel right encouraging him to be out here.

“Yeah, I was thinking about it.”

I’m glad to hear him say that.

“Well, if you do, I’ll come to your meets.”

“Okay.” He nods and smiles.

I keep my promises to the kids. There are a few players I’ve encouraged to go other directions for safety reasons or their own mental health, and I always support their new paths. Kai, a guy who had one hell of a foot but was jittery under the pressure of Friday night lights, found a good home guarding the net for our soccer team. I’ve been to all his starts since he was a freshman. He’s a senior now and looking to play in college.

“You’re good with them—the young ones.” Reed squints from the sun. It’s hot out today.

“Thanks. Hey, maybe I’ll get the head coaching gig when this old fossil retires,” I jest.

He glowers at me, then snags a full cup of cold water from the bench and tosses it at my face.

“Ah, fuck. Okay, yeah. I deserved that.” I wipe the droplets from my eyes and smooth back my hair before pushing my hat back on my head.

The spring guys are running laps, so Reed and I start to pick up. I’ve been coaching with him for five years now, since the combine came and went when I was twenty-three. I really thought I had it. We all did. But it wasn’t my year. I’m not sure I would have been ready right out of college, anyhow. I have zeroregrets, even though Peyton always asks if I do. I understand where she’s coming from, but my life’s work is making sure she never feels an ounce of guilt for anything. I made my choices then, and I’d make them again. Spending the year with her—every follow-up surgery, the work she put in—it was inspiring to the human spirit. Ain’t no game of football that would give me that. And now that we’re trying to have kids—man, I’m a lucky has-been, and I’m good with that.

But the competition? Yeah, I miss it a little. It’s what makes coaching so satisfying. And I feel like I have a lot to teach. Hell, sometimes I learn more out here than the young guys do. The things I’ve added to my football IQ over the last five years sure would have served me well in college. Maybe it would have helped my combine showing too. Who knows?

“Well, I’ll be damned. They’ll really let anyone on campus, won’t they?” Reed says.

I follow his gaze to the gate by the track. I haven’t seen Bryce Hampton since he got drafted. I probably should have stayed in touch, but it was awkward, especially since he got the call and I didn't. And then he washed out in two years, and that feltextremelyawkward.

“I guess that former Coolidge High QB title carries a lot of weight,” Reed says, pulling his hat off and swinging an arm around Bryce.

Bryce rubs Reed’s balding head, and I laugh, having done it myself a few times. Once today. Reed sneers at us both, then pushes his hat back on. He shaves what hair he’s got up there, which is a good look on him, but it’s harsh in the sun. At fifty-two, I’m glad he’s not so proud that he doesn’t take care of himself. Mostly. He still drinks too much beer, considering he has a family history of heart problems. His dad is still kicking, though, which is the point he always brings up when Nolan warns him off the red meat.

“Bryce, good to see ya, man,” I say, pulling him in for a hug. His beard is thick, but it’s patchy in places. Mine is better. I’ll always be trying to one-up this dude.

“You’re actually the reason I’m out here. You got a minute?” he says, glancing at Reed in a way that makes me feel as though he wants to chat with me alone.

“You know what? I’ll get these little shits to finish picking up the field, then head in. Stop by the office before you leave, though. I want to catch up and hear all about what you’re doing now.”

Reed shakes Bryce’s hand.

“For sure. I’ll see you in a few minutes,” Bryce says.

He drops his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He’s wearing a deep gray polo and sunglasses that look expensive as shit.

“You look more like a golfer every day,” I tease, leading him over to the bench. I offer him a paper cup of water, and he chuckles as he takes it.

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