Page 14 of Hate You, Maybe
“Can’t say I blame them.” Bridger takes another long drink, eyes on the pass. The Spartans’ quarterback overthrows the receiver, and they line up for the next down.
“Let’s go!” I call out, clapping hard enough that my palms hurt.
Bridger fist-pumps with his free hand. “So what do you think this whole Camp Reboot situation will look like, anyway?” Apparently, he missed the memo that I don’t want to talk about the retreat—or Sayla—anymore. “Are you all gonna be sitting around a campfire together, singing ‘Kumbaya,’ and roasting marshmallows?”
“Not sure what to expect,” I report. “The brochure showed pictures of a bunch of different stuff. Rope climbing. Obstacle course. Hiking.”
“So things you’ll be good at.”
“I hope,” I say. “The directors are supposedly filling out some kind of post-retreat evaluations, assessing how well we do. I’ve got to show Wilford I gave it my all, so he’ll give the athletic department the grant.”
Bridger drains the rest of his water bottle. “And what if he doesn’t?”
“Not an option.”
“But—”
“You have no idea what it’s like to be begging for scraps. The science department got the last grant. All those microscopes and petri dishes—your cadaver lab—soaked up more cash than we’re asking for now.”
“You think Wilford gets it?”
“I need to make him understand,” I say. “For the past couple years, we’ve been losing players to Harvest High andto private schools like St. Agnes. They’ve simply got more money to throw at their facilities, their fields, their coaches. Better coaches attract better players. So it’s a vicious cycle.”
“Which didn’t improve with the whole Lincoln James effect, huh? He kinda indirectly screwed us a little, didn’t he?”
“Not on purpose.” I push my hands into my pockets. “I met him at a fundraiser last fall. He was there with his wife, and they were both pretty great. Surprisingly humble, too, considering they’re insanely rich and stupidly attractive.” A smile slants across my face. “And before you say anything, yes. I’m comfortable enough in my masculinity to admit that.”
“Sure you are.”
“But don’t be jealous, man. You’re still a handsome fellow in your own right, eh?”
Bridger chuckles. “You said it, not me.”
The Spartans fail on their third down, forcing the punt, and the cheerleaders get the crowd going again. With less than two minutes left in the game, the Squirrels drive the ball down into field-goal range. Bridge and I pause talking just long enough to cheer the team on. At this point, I’m just hoping we get some more points on the board.
We’re playing Harvest High for Homecoming at the end of October. We’ll almost certainly lose to the Bobcats, but the whole school gets excited for spirit week anyway. Their optimism, even in the face of potential defeat, is heartening. Inspirational, really. I love our school and our teams.
I’m going to do right by these athletes no matter what it takes.
“And the kick is good!” the announcer booms across the stadium. Then his voice is lost in the frantic cheering from the stands behind us. We’ve got no chance to win with the remaining time on the clock, but still. We’re going out on a score.
I like that.
The kickoff’s decent, and the Spartans start driving down the field again while the cheerleaders lead the crowd in a chant spelling out defense. “Push ’em back. Push ’em back. Push ’em back. Wayyyyy back!”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Landry on our sibling group chat.
Landry
Brock and I are gonna grab pizza after the game. Wanna come?
Me
What did Mom and Dad say?
Landry
You’re thirty-two, Dex. You don’t have to ask permission to go to Amici’s.
