Chapter 28 The Promise
Chapter twenty-eight
The Promise
Shepherd Kingsley
I yank my helmet off, barely resisting the urge to throw it as I step off the field. Coach grabs my jersey before I can head to the bench.
“Your control is slipping,” he says. As if I don’t know that. “You need to calm down. We can still win this.”
I instinctively glance at the scoreboard. Down two touchdowns at the end of the third quarter.
Coach shakes me by the shoulders. “Don’t look at that board. You set the tone here. If you stay like this, they’ll spiral with you.”
“Okay,” I grit out.
He lets go of my jersey. I walk over to the bench and slam my helmet down before taking a seat.
Something to get the anger out. Our defense is out on the field.
I can tell how tired they are. They’ve been overworked tonight trying to keep back Carolina.
We need a turnover, but I don’t know if they have it in them.
I scrub my hands over my face. Coach is right; I need to pull myself together.
But all I can think about is my brother and parents up in the box, watching me crash and burn.
At least Jasmine can’t watch every play.
She can see the scoreboard, but knowing that she is watching the crowd and not my failure is a small mercy.
Carolina’s quarterback gets the ball and drops back.
We rush him, but not before he rears his arm back and sends the ball sailing overhead.
A thirty-yard pass. My heart drops to my stomach as the ball lands in the hands of their best wide receiver.
He runs it straight into the end zone. Now they’re up by twenty-one.
Coach starts yelling from the sideline. His anger is palpable, and I can see it written all over his face and body language: he’s worried we’re going to lose.
“At the end of the day, we got outplayed,” Coach says from the center of the locker room.
All I can see are his white sneakers because I can’t bring myself to lift my head.
I failed. After everything I did to ensure this would never happen, it did.
I memorized plays, pushed my body to the limit in the weight room, watched hours upon hours of tape—not just mine, but my teammates and my opponents—and I still failed.
I’m never going to be able to live down this loss. For the rest of my life, everyone is going to talk about how Shepherd Kingsley came close to his brother’s record but couldn’t cut it. My throat feels like someone has their hand wrapped around it, slowly squeezing tighter and tighter.
“You played great, but they played better,” Coach continues.
My lip curls. I didn’t play great. I was terrible. He doesn’t need to sugarcoat it. Call me out. Take the heat off the team. They all know the truth. I ruined our chance at an undefeated season.
“Of course, there are things we need to improve on, but I know the kind of men y’all are.
You’re already thinking of how you could have been better.
So, I’ll wait until next week to bring up what you did wrong.
For now, I want you to go home. Rest. Don’t go on social media or ESPN.
All of that is poison. It’s not going to help you. ”
Murmurs of “yes, sir” and “yes, Coach” circulate the room. I stay silent.
“I’ll see you Monday,” Coach finishes with a clap of his hands.
All around me, guys start heading to shower and change. Some even make a few jokes and laugh. I don’t move. I keep my eyes glued to the floor. A hand lands on my shoulder pad.
“Get cleaned up and meet me in the press room,” Coach says in a low voice.
“Yes, sir,” I rasp out. The very thought of facing the press right now feels like being asked to swallow broken glass.
“You did what you could today, kid. It just wasn’t enough. This next part is going to hurt, but you’ll be better for it. You learn more from a loss than a win.”
I clench my jaw to keep from lashing out. I want to ask him how that can be true when Jason had an undefeated college record and went on to win multiple Super Bowls. Does that mean he didn’t have to learn to be the best? Did something in our shared bloodline skip over me?
Coach senses I’m not going to say anything. He pats my shoulder, then leaves the room. I stand up and go through the motions of showering, getting dressed, and putting on my shoes. Before I leave, I grab a hat and shove it on over my wet hair. The less people can see of me, the better.
I make it to the press room with minimal interaction with others. I’m certain my expression tells everyone how I feel about making conversation. Coach is waiting outside the room for me with Zion.
“Time to face the sharks.” Coach sighs. “Remember, they don’t get any say in who you are. Only you do.”
“Thanks, Coach,” Zion says.
I merely nod. We follow him in. I can feel Zion looking at me, but I keep my eyes ahead. Cameras flash and voices swell. We step up to the table with the microphones and take our seats. Coach lifts a hand to silence everyone.
“You can ask each of the boys a few questions, then I’m sending them home to rest. Keep it respectful, or you’ll lose your chance.
” Coach’s voice is authoritative, daring anyone to oppose him.
He’s had his fair share of bad press conferences, and has a reputation of putting people in their place.
That should make me feel better, but the media still has a way of getting under my skin.
“Shepherd, you missed some throws today, which is uncharacteristic for you. What do you think caused that?” a reporter asks.
I clench my hands under the table. Probably my lack of ability to do anything right today. “The other team had a great defense that put a lot of pressure on me. I struggled to read the field at times, but I’ve learned a lot about what to do in those situations in the future.”
“Shepherd.” Another reporter breaks in at the end of my sentence. “You said the defense gave you some trouble today. Do you think that was an issue with the play calling or the execution?”
I wish they would have asked Coach that question. They clearly want to see if I’ll throw him under the bus, but that would never happen even if I thought it was on him. It was all my fault tonight, though, so that makes the answer clear.
“There were definitely issues with execution on my part tonight,” I admit. “I should have been able to make the plays, but I wasn’t.”
“Shepherd, tonight’s loss broke the win streak that your brother upheld in his time here as a Thrasher. Does that feel like a weight lifted off your shoulders, or do you feel like you let the team and your brother down?”
Raw panic claws at my chest. This is a moment from my nightmares. Some people are afraid of snakes or spiders or the dark. I’ve only ever been afraid of one thing: losing.
“You don’t need to answer that,” Coach says to me, then directs his attention to the reporter. “You won’t have another question tonight.”
The crowd murmurs. Other reporters call out to me.
Bash looks at me, asking with his eyes if I want to leave.
I shake my head. Determination fills me.
I might have messed up this time, but I won’t again.
I take off my hat and rake a hand through my hair, before leaning forward and pulling the mic closer to me. A hush falls over the room.
“The weight hasn’t been lifted,” I say, hating how raspy and broken I sound.
“It’s heavier now, and for good reason. I messed up tonight.
I take full responsibility for this loss, and I want my team and the fans to know that I’m sorry, and I’m going to do better.
We won’t lose another game so long as I’m on that field.
I’ll work harder than ever before and regain the streak. That’s a promise.”
I stand and put my hat back on. I don’t look at Coach or Zion. Don’t listen to the press calling out with more questions. I just head straight out the door, my heart pounding in my chest at the promise I just made on national television.
I walk as fast as I can down the hallway, keeping my head down.
No more mistakes. I promised. I can’t make another mistake ever again.
The vise grip around my throat tightens.
“Shep, hey, you alright?” Jason’s voice makes me stop in my tracks. I can’t handle this right now.
“I’m fine. I need to go get my stuff,” I call without looking back, then keep going. I can feel him following me. People are glancing our way, but I don’t care. I just need out of here.
“I know it was a rough game—”
“I don’t need a pep talk. I need to go home.”
He grabs my arm. “Come on, Junior, don’t be like that.”
“Stop calling me that!” I jerk my arm out of his grasp and turn around, seething. His eyes go wide with surprise. I spot Willow a few feet away, which makes my heart sink. I don’t want her to see me like this. At least my parents aren’t with them.
“I’m sick of being compared to you. Jason ‘The King’ Kingsley, undefeated in college, Heisman Trophy holder, multiple Super Bowl winner—the list goes on. Every single thing that’s yet another reminder of what I don’t live up to.”
Jason’s brow furrows and he takes a cautious step toward me. “What are you talking about? Live up to me? None of those things are what matter most.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Says the man who has all of that plus a family to go home to.”
His expression turns from confused to crestfallen. He looks around, and I notice several people watching us. “Shep—”
I shake my head. “I can’t do this right now. I need to go.”
I leave him behind and hurry to the locker room, grateful when I look back and see he didn’t follow.
At some point I’ll have to face him, but not tonight.
Exhaustion is lining my bones with lead.
It feels like I’m moving through water as I grab my duffel bag.
I slide my phone off the shelf of my locker, and it buzzes in my palm. Jasmine’s name pops up on the screen.
Jasmine: I’m sorry about the loss. I know there’s nothing anyone can say right now to make things better, but I’m here if you want to talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need, just let me know.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. I wish she wouldn’t have sent me anything at all.
It makes what I have to do harder. I open our text thread.
Maybe I should wait to think things through, but the longer I take, the more likely I am to cave.
So I slump into my chair and type the hardest message I’ve ever had to write.