Page 82 of The Quarterback
He was a shadow of his former self—to the world, to the team, to his friends. He stayed away from everyone—hell, he’d abandoned the jock house—and he didn’t return calls or texts or even say hello to anyone when they tried to reach out. After a few days, people had gotten the message. Everyone stayed away.
Failure and dread surrounded him like a whirlpool. No one wanted to be sucked in.
He also caught the sidelong stares, the too-long drag of eyes between him and Wes. Wes stayed as far away from him as he could, as if a whole football field between them was still too close for Wes’s comfort. They’d been best friends, closer than brothers, so close they thought on the same wavelength, and now?
A palpable, virulent anger pulsed from Wes. His silence wasn’t apathy. No, Wes was furious at Colton, and everyone saw it. Everyone felt it.
Had Wes or Justin told the others? Had they told the rest of the house what Colton had done? He didn’t think so. Wes was enraged, but he wasn’t cruel. And Wes knew all too well what it was like to have someone reveal your most fragile secret, or the name of who you loved.
Damn it, he had to focus. It was game day. He slid on his headset as the team poured onto the sideline. He paced away, counting his footsteps until the painted grass ran out.
He played his part for the team when they started warming up, and he clapped when Wes and Clarence, the team captains, walked out to the fifty-yard line.That used to be me.He clenched his jaw and forced himself to watch, even as Wes’s number swam in and out of focus, the eight and seven trading places on the back of his jersey.
They won the coin toss and chose to receive the kickoff. Special teams ran out onto the field, and after a decent return run, Clarence led the offense onto the field.
Colton’s guts slivered. He grasped his clipboard over his chest, locking his knees and clenching every muscle in his body so hard he couldn’t breathe.
Clarence had been good in practice. He had his issues, yes, and he wasn’t as good as he thought he was, but he’d blended well with the team and it had sounded like the locker room was in high spirits. But there was a difference—abigdifference—between running through successful drills and a few good scrimmages and facing down a pumped-up, nationally ranked team hungry to knock down the reigning national champions.
Quarterbacking wasn’t only about having a good arm. That was half of the battle. The other half—the bigger half—was what Colton had loved best. The deep analysis that enabled him to read the defense on the fly, those quarter seconds of scanning the field and running through play options. Go left, go right, go up the center. Pass or hand off? Slant or hook? Go for the deep ball, or keep it close? How much time would he have in the pocket if the defense showed inside zone blitz? Who would be his number one, number two, number three receiver?
That quickness of thought, that surety, came from walking up to the line again and again. Getting that time under center. Taking snaps. Dropping back and feeling the defense come at you, over and over and over.
He’d loved it. He’d lived for it. He playedMaddenin his free time and downloaded football apps to play on his phone so he could see more defensive plays, get those mental reps in every chance he could. Thousands of hours of mental practice, rivaling the amount of time he spent on physical practice.
Clarence didn’t have the same experience. Clarence came from a smaller school, and he hadn’t played the kind of teams Texas played.
Florida came at him hard and fast, putting the pressure on early. He ended up on his heels, wide-eyed and scrambling, trying to shield himself and the ball instead of managing the pocket and the play. Wes managed to drag out a first down, but then it was three and out, and the defense took the field.
Each possession got more frantic, the offense echoing Clarence’s tension until everyone was snapping on the sideline. Wes chewed his mouthguard as he stood sullen and alone at one end of the field, and Colton stalked a four-foot square of grass at the other end, taking notes as Clarence’s control slipped further and his strain ratcheted up by degrees.
“Look,” Colton said, breaking into the coaches’ radio net for the first time that game. “Their defense is pressing the zero-coverage blitz. They’re sending everything they’ve got at Hobbs.” They were rattling him every play, pushing him all over the field. “You need to line up in shotgun, Hobbs. Get Orlando next to you. Get the deep snap in your hands, and then fire off a short pass on one of the quick routes. Don’t hold on to the ball. Get it out of the pocket as fast as you can. Get receivers into short yardage, and get the ball into their hands.”
On the field, he saw Hobbs scowling, glaring at the sideline. He had one hand cupped over his helmet’s earpiece. Coach came on the radio in the silence that followed, blistering the airwaves as he tore into Hobbs. “You listen to Hall, Hobbs. He’s faced more defenses than you, and at the rate you’re going, you might never see the career he’s had. Hall, call the play.”
It was instinct. He knew the playbook forward and backward, had helped write big parts of it over the past two years. “Shotgun, full house, curl right.”
Coach echoed his call. Hobbs stared at the sideline for another three seconds before he turned to the huddle and spat out the play call. Ten seconds later, the team lined up in shotgun, Hobbs seven yards behind Art, Orlando off his right side behind the rest of the line.
If everything went right, the receivers would fly and beat their coverage as the linemen slowed the blitz coming for Hobbs. With a seven-yard bumper, Hobbs should have time to get the ball into Dante’s or Wes’s hands. It wouldn’t be a sexy play, but it could be a successful one, and they wouldn’t lose yardage or downs… again.
Snap. Movement. The crush of pads on pads, cleats tearing into grass. Hobbs took a three-step back, searching for a receiver. Wes and Dante were on their routes, curling toward the center of the field and looking back at him, hands raised high. Open, open!
Come on, Hobbs, throw it, throw it.
But the defense had Hobbs’s number, and as the blitz overpowered the Texas line, the massive Florida linebackers zeroed in on Hobbs. Even from the sideline, Colton saw Hobbs’s eyes go cow-eye wide over his face mask. He started dancing like a cat on unsteady ground, his head swinging left and right as he searched for any out. Wes was still in the center of the field, hands raised, desperate for the pass.
Hobbs lobbed the ball wide, maybe trying to throw it away, and managed a perfect pass to the outside Florida cornerback. Interception.
The whole stadium groaned as the Florida sideline erupted. Coach Young hurled his radio to the grass. The Florida corner took off, zigzagging easily through the mangled Texas line before dancing up the sideline and taking a flourishing leap into the end zone. Touchdown, Florida.
“Goddamn it!” Clarence bellowed as he stormed off the field. He hurled his helmet to the ground as he scanned the sideline. “What the fuck was that?” he roared, storming Colton when he found him at the edge of the players’ box. “What kind of call was that? The first thing you contribute to this fucking game, and it’s a call for an interception?” Clarence shoved his pads against Colton’s chest. In his cleats, he was several inches taller than Colton. “No wonder you’re a Goddamn has-been!”
“Break it up!” Coach appeared between them, grabbing Clarence by his pads and shoving him backward. “Sit your ass down. Not another word out of you until you’re on the fucking field again.”
Clarence grumbled.
“What the fuck was that?” Coach snapped.
