Page 51 of Only in Your Dreams

“Hey, so I was thinking,” he says, moving closer and shooting a look over his shoulder at the rest of the team. They’re loud and preoccupied, but he drops his voice anyway. “Maybe we give Matthews a shot at throwing next Friday. He’s looking pretty good out there, and he and Doke trained together over the summer. They’ve got a good thing going.”

I look over his shoulder at his backup quarterback throwing a ball around with one of our main roster receivers.

“That should be you over there,” I say. “And that should have been you training with Doke over the summer. You’re his quarterback.”

“We did get a bit of training in,” Noah says with a shrug. “But they both live in the same state, across the country, and I live here. They’ve become a pretty decent tandem.”

“I’m not looking fordecent. I can’t believe you’re even coming to me, suggesting I bench you for our home opener.” I study him, the tired circles under his eyes. “How’re things at home?”

Noah shifts his weight. “This has nothing to do with home. We went an entire season last year without winning a game. And I can hand off the ball all you want, but you know I’m just a regular guy, with regular skills unless I’m throwing. And if I have no one to throw to…”

“Don’t be a fucking martyr, Irving. It doesn’t impress me.”

“I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m trying to win us some games.”

I jab a finger in his direction. “See, that’s the wrong answer. You should be trying to impress scoutswhilewinning us games. I know you’ve got some kind of good-guy complex, kid, and that’s great. But I’ll never be able to live with myself if I was coaching the NFL’s next greatest quarterback and didn’t make sure your ass was on the field every minute it was supposed to be there. No one’s saying Matthews and Doke can’t play a decent football game. But they’re not who scouts come here to see.”

“What good is having scouts coming to see me when I’m not even throwing? I’m not getting drafted anywhere this way,” he says, rubbing at the cropped sandy hair on top of his head.

“I’ll find you someone to throw to.”

“With all due respect, Coach, that’s what the guy before you kept saying. I’m in my junior year, and still nothing.”

“I’ll find you someone,” I say again. “And if you don’t get drafted in the first round this year, I’m quitting my fucking job.”

“Who’s being a martyr now?”

“I’m not a martyr, Noah,” I say, dropping my voice. “I’m a coach who sees an insane amount of talent in the player in front of me. A player who, setting aside the game for a second, deserves to have his fucking dreams come true after all the shit he’s been through.” Noah’s gaze falls to the grass under our feet. “You’re sure everything’s okay at home?”

He shrugs helplessly, and the clear defeat in his shoulders makes me wish that the ground opens up underneath me and swallows me whole. It kills me, hearing him talk about his home life. The screaming matches between his parents. The holes punched through walls, the way he’s the one looking after his dad when the fucker drinks himself into oblivion. Noah’s here on a full-ride scholarship, could have played anywhere, yet still lives at home for the sake of his parents.

I will never be able to understand living in that kind of environment. Maybe my home life wasn’t picture-perfect with my parents always somewhere halfway around the world. That’s the life you end up with when you’ve got a diplomat for a father. But I had Grams to put down roots with.

Noah’s situation? It makes me infinitely grateful to live in the house I do. It’s just out of town, on the water and away from prying eyes, with enough bedrooms to have housed both Noah and Grams, if she were still around.

Noah turns his chin over his shoulder, eyeing the field. I’m getting this kid out of that home if it’s the last thing I do.

“Get back out there,” I say abruptly, snapping back into coach-mode. “You sure as hell won’t be winning us any games by slacking in practice.”

With a parting, lackluster salute, Noah dons his helmet and gets back on the field at a jog.

“Is he still trying to get out of playing?” Brooks mutters, retaking his spot next to me.

“He’s brought this to you before?”

He nods. “I told him to get over himself.”

“Just told him about the same. He isn’t wrong about any of it, though.” I rip off my hat and shove my fingers through my hair. “How far into the season do you think I’ll make it before they give me the axe?”

Brooks winces. “We’ll figure it out, alright? It won’t come to that.”

Problem is, the longer I go without finding someone who can hang with Noah, the closer I find myself to an early retirement. Who the hell would hire the guy who couldn’t win a game with an NFL-caliber quarterback? My predecessor started the season without a new job.

I’m royally fucked.

I pull out my phone for a distraction. Also, because I’ve once again forgotten Melody doesn’t have my number. “Hey, have you heard from Mel at all?”

Brooks shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Why would I hear anything from Mel? I met her for half a day.”

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