Page 8 of The Way We Win

Safety is my priority in all things. I’m as cautious with my boys as I can be. Still, football is a contact sport, and if they come out for the team, they’re going to take some hits.

“Looks like a killer starting line.” Dylan’s husband Logan steps up beside me.

As a former professional wide receiver, he helps me field the offensive line every year. I appreciate his help, and the boys all know him.

When he retired from pro ball, he moved here and started a local sports-radio talk show, so he’s a bit of a celebrity as well.

“If he keeps going at this rate, Austin’s going to have his pick of colleges,” Logan continues. “Not sure if you noticed, but there are a few logo caps in the bleachers today.”

I haven’t looked behind me all week, but I’ve heard the boys talking about college scouts coming out to watch them play.

“We need to stay focused,” is all I say.

Austin crouches down, and the snap happens. Tyreek Johnson charges forward to hold the line while Austin falls back, scanning the field.

I see two options. Noah Redford cuts a path around our cornerback, Flynn Barnes.

“Rich Hightower is wide open in the middle,” Logan muses.

Austin pulls back and fires a pass straight to Rich, our tight end, who spins away from the one defensive lineman near him and runs thirty yards for a touchdown.

My throat is hot, and I exhale a low growl. “That D-line is not working. They shouldn’t be letting anybody through that easily.”

“We need Garrett,” Logan agrees. “He could whip those boys into shape in a day. Two tops.”

My biggest younger brother was a killer lineman when he and Logan played together in New York, and he has a way of delivering constructive criticism that still manages to keep the boys motivated.

My expertise is offense, but the buck stops here if our D-line is weak.

“I’ll talk to Buddy.” The boys circle around Rich, slapping his shoulder pads and celebrating his score, and I call to them. “Take ten, hydrate.”

Logan walks over to join them near a cooler of Gatorade. He’ll give them pointers while I head over to where my assistant coach is talking to my brother Zane.

Zane was a professional kicker before an injury forced him to retire. Now he works with Logan on the radio show. Their audience grows every year, and it really spikes when my brothers and I join them to talk shop. They discuss the pro teams, while I talk about the high school and college up-and-comers.

Rome Allen is our kicker, and he’s showing improvement this year as a junior. Still, he isn’t consistent. All these weaknesses have me tense.

“Rich was wide open just now, Bud.” Even I can hear the sharpness in my tone, and Zane pats Rome on the shoulder. “Take a break. Get something to drink.”

The boy jogs away, to where the rest of his teammates aregathered on the sidelines. Buddy crosses his arms to mirror my stance, his brow lowered.

“We’ve got a lot of new guys on defense. It’s taking them a minute to come together as a team.”

“We’re running out of minutes.” I don’t like excuses.

“They need to communicate better post-snap.” Zane’s low tone is more measured. “They’ll get better the more they play.”

“We’ve been at it a week, and I’m still not seeing a starting line.” I’m not even going to look at the bleachers.

The last thing I need is input from the peanut gallery.

Buddy uncrosses his arms. “What are the chances Garrett might come out one afternoon? He’s pretty good at spotting weaknesses.”

I struggle not to get cross with him for depending on my brother to do his job. Buddy’s too focused on his nephew Lucas these days and getting him ready to take over when Austin graduates.

“I bet Garrett will come out next week,” Zane says. “He said something about going to Miss Gina’s this afternoon. I’ll text and see if he’ll swing by and see what he thinks.”

Squinting up at the sky, I exhale. The sun beats down on the field, and it’s hot as hell. The humidity is high, and if it weren’t for the nonstop breeze, it would be unbearable.

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