Page 83 of The Quarterback
Clarence’s lips pressed together. He backed away from Colton, shaking his head until he turned and grabbed a water bottle from the cart. He squeezed half of it over his face before throwing it at the wall.
The whole team—hell, the whole stadium—had seen that. Beyond Clarence, Colton’s teammates—hisformerteammates—were staring at him. How many games had they fought through together, listening to his play calls and fighting side by side for every single yard, every touchdown?
His eyes landed on Wes, who was breathing hard at the end of the players’ bench, water bottle shaking in his gloved hand. He still wore the rainbow wristband the whole team had worn for last year’s final game and the national championships. Colton was wearing his, too, even though he wasn’t in his pads. He saw a few others wearing theirs: Art and Orlando and Josh and Patrick and Dante. Clarence didn’t have one. The new players didn’t, either. If Colton were still the quarterback, he would have walked around the locker room and handed a wristband out to every player.
Wes closed his eyes and turned away from Colton. Faced the stands and gazed up to the fifty-yard line, where Justin—and Nick—usually sat.
Colton couldn’t help it. His gaze followed Wes’s.
There was Justin, looking pale and thin like he’d just come from a funeral. His shoulders were hunched and his back bowed, and he clung to the railing in front of him as if it was the only thing holding him up.
He was alone.
Every game, searching the stands, looking for the only face he wanted to see—
Colton slumped back to the far end of their sideline and stared at the field.
He saw nothing for the rest of the game.
* * *
They lost.The Florida players were exuberant in their victory, storming the field as the clock ran out. They’d come into Texas’s home and beaten the reigning national champions in the first game out of the gate. The Texas fans were sullen, and a steady stream of them had already abandoned the stadium. The exodus had begun in the third quarter, after Clarence and the team started their second-half possession with a fumble and a loss of thirteen yards.
Reporters swarmed the field. Most of the Texas players were hauling ass to the locker room, and they didn’t stop for questions. Clarence, though, walked right up to Michelle Favreau, one of the best sports reporters there was, a woman Colton had been dazzled by for years. He used to dream of being interviewed by her, asked about his strategy and how he’d managed the game to lead the team to victory.
“What a disappointment today, Clarence,” Michelle said, sticking her microphone between them. “Your first game at Texas, and it ends in heartbreak. What are you thinking now?”
“I’m thinking that the quarterback on the field needs to be the one making the calls,” Clarence said. “We had a disastrous play call in the second quarter, and that really hurt our momentum.”
“You’re talking about the interception that led to Florida’s touchdown.”
Clarence nodded. “Can’t have plays like that, not if we’re going to win.”
“You said the quarterback on the field needs to be the one making the calls. Did Colton Hall call the play that led to that interception?”
“It was the one call he made all game.”
“What’s Colton’s role on the team right now?”
“He’s someone we all look up to, for sure, and he’s a guy who’s done so much for this team and this game, but his injury is severe, you know? He’s got to accept that and what it means.”
“Do you think Colton Hall will be back under center this season?”
Clarence shrugged. “Anything is possible. Maybe not probable, but anything is possible.”
Coach finally jogged onto the field, intercepting the interview as he wrapped his arm around Clarence’s shoulder pads and squeezed until his knuckles went white. “All right, thank you. Thank you, Michelle.”
“Coach!” she called as Coach manhandled Clarence toward the Texas sideline. “What can you tell us about Colton Hall?”
Coach waved one-handed and smiled over his shoulder, a thin rictus of frustration as he propelled Clarence into the tunnel.
Colton saw it all—heard it all—as he stood frozen on the sideline next to the Gatorade bucket.
“C’mon, man,” one of the athletic trainers mumbled to him. “Get out of here before the press makes it to the sideline. You don’t wanna answer questions after that.”
No. He didn’t.
He jogged into the Texas tunnel but turned away from the locker rooms and headed to the coaches’ parking lot beneath the stadium. Coach Young’s truck was front and center, followed by the offensive and defensive coordinators’ and the assistant coaches’. The head athletic trainer and his assistants’ cars were next. At the far end of the lot, squeezed into a corner, was Colton’s truck.
