Page 60 of Delay of Game
Coach Mills blew his whistle, and I exploded across the line of scrimmage, arms wide enough to wrap up Fieste and Isaiah in a single push. Isaiah ducked under my arm, and I tripped him on his way to the quarterback, but Fieste couldn’t escape my grip. A shrill whistle killed the play, and I let him go.
“What the hell was that?” Coach spluttered, words garbled through the whistle still wedged in his mouth. “Fieste, you were slow off the line. Isaiah, at least try to stay on your feet.”
“I don’t even want to talk about how shitty you lot did.” He waved toward the outside linebackers and cornerbacks. “Grab a drink and run it again. I don’t know what Coach Simmons was thinking, but you humps better shape up if you want even a sniff at a starting position.”
I wiped the sweat off my forehead and held back a laugh. With nearly five decades of coaching under his belt, Coach Mills had seen some shit. He didn’t get riled up easily, and this practice had certainly riled him.
Despite the sucky tone of the practice, our head coach wasn’t nearly as peeved. Coach Simmons stalked the sidelines, a visor shading his face and a whistle in hand, watching the coordinators run practice and interjecting at intervals, moving players on and off the field.
“Vigil, off!” he shouted.
Frankie Vigil stopped mid-run. His head craned back to the head coach, eyes wide.
“Yeah, you. Send in Jenkins,” Coach Simmons said.
Marty Jenkins practically leapt off the bench. He’d been on the practice team for two years without getting so much as a toe on the field. He wasn’t about to blow his shot. Frankie’s normally friendly smile dropped into a frown as he muttered curses on his way off the field.
“He’s just trying to motivate us,” I said as Frankie passed.
“He’s motivating me to call my agent.” Vigil shook his head and continued onto the sideline.
I didn’t blame him. The mood on the field was miserable. Worse than miserable, tense. On the first snap, Trent Vogt cut in front of Jenkins, grabbing a throw and running into the end zone. His reward? Coach Simmons pulled him off the field, too.
“This is going to get ugly,” Diego Salazar sidled up beside me, dropping his voice to a whisper.
“You don’t find this highly motivating?”
“If you want someone highly motivated to start a fist fight, yeah. This is great.” He groaned. “Do you know where Lionel is?”
Lionel Mack, Coach Simmons’ mentor, made up for the social graces the head coach lacked. Back in his day, he’d been a beloved coach, if not a particularly successful one. Hecoached the same Division I school for nearly two decades, eking out bowl invitations but never making it to the national championship. Coach Simmons had eclipsed his mentor’s career after only two years as a college football coach, winning a national championship and then going to the NFL, only to crash spectacularly.
The head coaching position for the Norwalk Breakers was Coach Simmons’ phoenix rising moment, but they’d only allowed his second chance if Coach Lionel came along.
“Vacation? Visiting his grandkids?” I guessed. “I can’t remember. He’ll be back in time for the next game.”
“That might be too late,” Diego said as he eyed two tight ends bowing up to each other in the end zone.
“Can we make it that long?” I asked, unsure I’d make it through practice. Even with Coach Simmons’ assurances that I’d be back in my starting spot by game day, I couldn’t help the urge to clock Fieste just for standing in my place.
“I’m not sure I’ll make it through practice,” Diego admitted with a sigh. “We’ll be off the field in an hour. Before we go to the film room, let’s grab Lakeland, Kweame, and Vogt and talk to Coach Simmons.”
Invoking the name of the captains caught my attention. Even with the stars on my jersey, I treated my position as captain more as a “in-name-only honor,” not a leadership position. That’s what coaches were for.
“Seriously?” I raised an eyebrow, scanning the field for the other captains and wondering whether Diego had talked to them first.
“Seriously, man.” He pivoted away from Coach Simmons as he made another pass of the sideline. “We have a chance at a Super Bowl run this year. Our last loss sucked, but it wasn’t catastrophic. We’re just making small mistakes. This plan will wreck us.”
At this point in the week, every member of the team had watched the tape at least a half dozen times. And Diego had a point. Our performance on the field Saturday looked sloppy, not season-ending. I’d written off Coach Simmons’ overreaction as a problem with the offense or special teams, and he had grouped us all together to make a point. But the game tape didn’t show any of that.
I raked a hand through my hair. “Fine. Fuck it. We’ll talk to him. Let’s just get through this.”
Diego rallied the other captains while I paced outside the executive wing of the stadium. Mom had agreed to take Mila to gymnastics so I could stay late. And other than a picture of Mila face-planting off the uneven bars, my phone was disappointingly quiet.
Nothing from Astrid.
I opened up our text message thread, typing and erasing a message for the fiftieth time since she’d cooked me breakfast and, in thanks, I told her I didn’t want to date her.
My timing sucked. My explanation sucked. I’d had a pit in my stomach since the minute the words left my mouth. Not only had she slept sitting up to make sure I got a good night’s sleep, but she’d cooked for me. Other than my mom and Lena, the only people who cooked for me got a paycheck in return.
