Page 49 of Brushed and Buried
“Coach was looking for you,” he said to me, voice flat. “He said you missed the weight room briefing. He wants to finalize lineups for Saturday.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
Clay didn’t wait for an explanation. He just gave me a look I couldn’t name, something that felt like judgment, and worse, betrayal. Then he turned and walked out.
The moment shattered like glass around us. But I didn’t move, not yet. Not from Adrian.
Because even as the world rushed back in with all its consequences, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Whatever this was, whatever happened next, that kiss was mine. And I didn’t want to forget it.
I went to practice the next day, but everything felt different. Coach had announced that morning that GSU’s head recruiter would be watching our game on Friday, along with scouts fromtwo other schools. This was it, the moment everything had been building toward.
I should have been ready. I’d been handling pressure since middle school, thriving despite high and sometimes unrealistic expectations. My dad’s constant reminders about scholarships and the scouts watching from the bleachers were nothing new. Pressure was supposed to make me play harder, focus better. But that afternoon, something inside me felt fractured. I couldn’t catch a pass or hear the play calls over the thundering in my chest. Every snap felt like it took twice the effort just to stay upright. My reflexes, usually razor-sharp, felt dulled. My timing was off. I was off.
Coach pulled me aside after the first hour. “What’s going on with you, Holloway? You’re playing like you’ve never seen a football before.”
I didn’t have an answer. How could I explain that something fundamental had shifted, that the world felt bigger and more complicated than it had twenty-four hours ago? That for the first time in my life, football didn’t feel like the only thing that mattered?
“Just an off day, Coach.”
He studied my face. “You can’t have off days. Not now, especially not with GSU watching. You get your head right, or you get off my field.”
That Friday night, we played East Shore, our last regular-season game before regionals. It was supposed to be astatement match. Three recruiters were in the stands, including the one from GSU, along with scouts from Oregon and a smaller school with a strong defensive program in Arizona. All eyes were on me.
We were losing. Badly. And I wasn’t doing much to change it.
The whole team was dragging, but I could feel the burn of every missed tackle like it lived under my skin. At one point, I tripped a step too early on a blitz, and the quarterback got away clean. I heard the collective groan ripple through the stands like a wave of disappointment.
I was on the bench, helmet off, sweat sticking to my neck, when Clay leaned in behind me. He didn’t even bother to lower his voice.
“Jesus, Holloway,” he muttered just loud enough. “You forget how to hit? Or are you too busy sketching out feelings now?”
I didn’t respond. I just stared ahead at the field like I hadn’t heard him.
He chuckled under his breath. “I mean, I get it. All that stage crew shit, the lights, costumes, and cozy little corners behind the curtain. Real intimate, huh?”
Still, I said nothing. My jaw locked tight.
Then he dropped his voice lower, like he couldn’t wait to twist the knife.
“Bet your little artsy whore’s real proud. He’s probably jerking off into his sketchbook while you fall apart out here.”
That’s when I moved.
I stood so fast the bench scraped behind me. I didn’t yell or warn him. I just hit him, full force, fist to jaw. The crack echoed like a whip. He stumbled back, mouth already bleeding, eyes wild with shock.
“What the fuck, man?!”
He didn’t finish. Coaches descended, dragging me off before I could land a second one. Clay was yelling something, holding his face and spitting blood, but it barely registered.
The sidelines erupted. Players were shouting, whistles were blowing, and everything boiled over into noise.
I was benched. No argument. Coach didn’t even look at me when he said it; he just motioned toward the end of the line like I was already gone.
Scouts started leaving midway through the third quarter. I saw the GSU recruiter shake his head and shut his notebook before the final whistle even blew.
That night, my phone rang. I answered, already bracing for it.
“Do you know what you’ve just done?” My father’s voice was low, controlled, the kind of cold that didn’t shout because it didn’t need to. “I heard from two of the scouts myself. Golden State was interested. Invested. And now they’re out, because you couldn’t keep it together on the sidelines.”
