Chapter Eight Danny
“You got a girl at home?” Tamatoa asked from where he’d stretched out on his bed with his laptop on his lap. Since he had his earbuds in, I couldn’t hear what he’d been laughing at onscreen, but the regular timing of his guffaws told me he was watching a comedy. His laughter implied he’d tuned out the world.
Guess he was good at multitasking.
“Nope. She’s right here in town.” I tossed my phone aside on the table between our beds. “But she might as well be worlds away for how she’s acting.”
“Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise? Better not let it fuck up your game tomorrow,” he intoned. “You gotta impress the coaches right out of the gate.”
“I’m aware.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed, stood, and stretched. “Gonna hit the head then grab some sleep—if you can keep your mirth to yourself.” I smirked.
Closing his laptop, he set it on the table next to my phone. “Sleep’s gonna be a bitch on these beds. Good thing I got a place lined up already. Soon as my bed shows up, I’m outta here.” He shot me an apologetic glance.
“Don’t blame you, man. I’m working on finding something else too.”
I ambled down to the showers, brushed my teeth, took care of business, and wandered back to the room. As instructed, I’d come with my own set of sheets, a blanket, and a pillow, so at least I had a touch of comfort on the barely-there slice of foam covering the springs on the single bed. As I settled in, flipping this way and that to find a comfortable spot, a thought flitted through my head. No way could a guy bring a girl back to his dorm room—he’d wreck his knees on the bedsprings.
I needed to find a place. No way could I ever bring Taryn here. Even if she’d entertain the idea, I didn’t want to subject her to a bad bed and the possibility of a roommate “accidentally” interrupting us.
But I was getting way ahead of myself. Before I could come close to talking her into my bed, I needed to talk her into talking to me again. Something was going on with her that was causing her to avoid me. I couldn’t fix it until I knew what it was, which meant we had to talk.
Pulling up the map on my phone, I located the Coffee Kiosk and smiled. It was within walking distance of the dorms. Perfect.
“All right, men. All of you returners know we have a target on our backs. For those of you who’ve joined us this season, that target is massive. Not only will every team in the conference be gunning for us, but so will every nonconference foe we meet.” Coach Ellis made eye contact with all fifty-plus players seated in rows on the plush seats of the film room. “We can’t take a single play off—not in practice, not in games, not one player on this team. We’re in a race to repeat as conference champions and contend for the national championship. Every man in this room needs to commit to excellence. If that’s too much for you, don’t bother to suit up.”
When he paused his speech, a pin hitting the carpet would have echoed through the room. Once again, he scanned the players seated in the theater-style space, giving extra attention to those of us seated toward the back. I noticed both Finn and Callahan sitting in the front row and figured the starters and team leaders made sure to bag the best seats.
Sliding a side-eye to my new friend Grant, seated to my left, I caught his avid attention on the coach. The kid was practically vibrating with his need to prove himself. To my right Tamatoa slouched a bit in his chair—not that the casual observer would notice with his height and size. I set my sights on that front row, determined to be one of the players sitting in it. I’d made staff sergeant by the end of my third year in the Air Force. I planned on being a starting receiver on the Wildcats by the end of this season.
Coach Ellis nodded to a tall bearded guy with a mane of wavy hair pulled back in a ponytail, who stood and joined him. “Coach Ainsworth will meet the defense in the south end zone.” Next, he nodded to a broad-shouldered Black man who stepped up beside Ainsworth. “Coach Wiley will meet the offense in the north end zone.” A rather nondescript White guy with a bit of a paunch stepped up beside Wiley. “Special teams will meet with Coach Newman on the fifty. You have ten minutes to be at your assigned area ready to play.”
On that parting directive, the coaches filed out a door near the massive film screen at the front of the room, while the front-row players stood and headed up the aisles to the back doors that led to a hallway and the locker room. The rest of the guys followed the leaders. No one horsed around or traded jokes. Instead, the locker room was nearly silent as we all dressed in shorts, T-shirts, cleats, and helmets. In ten minutes flat, the entire team had assembled in our designated areas on the field.
Once outside, the leaders of each unit took their places and led the team in warmups. None of the new guys were told anything other than to do the exercises the leaders did. My military service had set me up well for the first test: following directions and leadership. By the time we’d finished with warmups, I noticed Coach Wiley talking to one of the other offensive assistants, their eyes on me.
Good.
We started with cones and footwork followed by running some basic routes. Since I was a walk-on trying to earn a spot on the team, I ran drills with the freshmen and second and third-string players. The backup QB had a good arm and threw a tight spiral, making it easy for me to track the ball. By the time we were finished with an hour or so of route running drills, I think I’d maybe dropped two balls, three tops. By the end of our first practice, I’d noticed Coach Wiley and the receivers coach, a guy named Ripley, with their heads together and their eyes on me on more than one play.
Excellent.
I had zero doubt I’d make the team, exactly like I’d made every team I’d ever walked on to. But I’d set my sights higher. I wanted a starting position, and from what I’d seen in our initial play, I had a better than even chance at earning one. The starting quarterback, Mick Patterson, needed some targets. As advertised, Callahan O’Reilly was a stud at tight end. In the game film I’d watched, he’d needed some receivers to catch a pass occasionally to take the pressure off. So far in practice, I’d seen I could be the guy to help him.
Another receiver, a tall, skinny Black kid named Harris, had speed and good hands. He liked running posts and out routes and judging by Coach Wiley’s comments, he was a player he wanted to coach up. That left slots and crossing routes available to someone else. I wasn’t afraid to take a hit, so I set myself up to run those routes so well that Wiley would have no choice but to line me up on those plays.
When practice ended for the morning, I was sweaty, pleasantly winded, and so damn happy to be back out on a football field I could barely contain myself. My new friend Grant’s enthusiasm at dinner last night when he’d talked about playing for the team couldn’t touch my excitement for being on the field in a helmet running routes and catching balls.
Back in the film room following drills, Coach Wiley pointed at me to take a seat in the third row—a big step forward from the seventh row, where Grant, Tamatoa, and I had started the day. A minute later, with a nod from the coach, the warrior child joined me. I’d taken care of business to open my tenure on the team, but I wasn’t so cocky as to draw attention to myself off the field—at least not yet. Apparently, Tamatoa was of the same mind since we acknowledged each other with twin chin tips and nothing more as we took our seats.
Though he didn’t raise his voice, Coach Ellis jumped right into it.
“If we all do our jobs like the winners we are, this is going to be a long season—July to January. I plan to be coaching Wildcat football in January.”
The starters in the front rows launched into a rowdy chorus of, “Go! ’Cats! Go!”
“Starting today, we’re building stamina to play our best football in the worst conditions in the playoffs.”
The front rows erupted again. “Go! ’Cats! Go!”
“It’s going to take an entire team, offense, defense, and special teams, to achieve our goals.”
This time, the rest of us figured out the drill. “Go! ’Cats! Go!”
I hid a grin at Tamatoa’s booming voice beside me.
“All right, men. Get out your playbooks. We’re watching game film from last season, study what worked. And yes, there will be a quiz at the end.”
A collective groan went up from the front two rows, and I thought I saw the ghost of a smirk flit across Coach Ellis’s face before he schooled his features back into what I figured out was his usual unreadable blandness. In the very short time I’d been observing him, I’d decided Coach was one guy I’d never want to play poker with.
For the next two hours, we watched highlights from last season—offense, defense, and special teams. From what I saw, the Wildcats played hard and played to win. Though the film session had a serious purpose, the starters’ enthusiasm for excellent performances had everyone in the room cheering by about ten minutes into the session. The support each unit showed for the other two impressed me the most. Every man on the team had a job, every man contributed, and every man’s work on the field merited a positive response from the rest of the team. The cohesion I sensed in the film room ratcheted up my desire to play for this team on Saturdays.
As promised, at the end of the session, the coaches handed out a ten-question quiz: three questions about offensive plays, three questions about defensive plays, and four questions about special teams. The specificity of the questions favored the starters sitting in the front rows, but I loved the game: had been a student of it since I could remember. As I read each question, the play it referenced formed in my mind’s eye. When I finished and raised my hand for a coach to take my paper, I was surprised to see I was the only player in my row ready to hand in my work.
A tiny grin ghosted across Coach Wiley’s mouth as he took my quiz from me, and I wondered if I’d fucked up. I sat back in my seat, crossed my arms over my chest, and reached inside myself for the discipline a lifetime of living with the captain and four years in the Air Force had insisted I develop. Keeping my eyes open and focused on a pinpoint of red light at the top of the film screen, I meditated on my goal of becoming a starter by the playoffs.
A while later, Tamatoa reached across me to hand his quiz to Coach Wiley, then he too, sat back, crossed his massive arms over the barrel of his chest, and stared straight ahead.
It took longer for all the guys in the back rows to finish their work and hand it to the coaches. The starters obviously knew the drill, so most of them had finished their quiz faster than I did, which was to be expected, but the true freshmen, the seventeen and eighteen-year-olds, seemed to have a rougher time of it. I’d managed to play every offensive play for an entire game in my mind’s eye before the last guy handed in his work.
“All right, men. We’ll see you back on the field at five o’clock sharp,” Coach Ellis instructed. “Stragglers do burpees after practice. The number is based on the mood of the coach who’s missing dinner with his family to put up with your late bullshit.” Though his expression remained bland, no one could miss the fire in his eyes. “Dismissed.”
My stomach had been trying to turn itself inside out for the past twenty minutes, so I wasted no time in heading up the aisle to the hallway and outside. Tamatoa was apparently of the same mind as he fell into step beside me.
“You headed to the cafeteria?” he asked.
“You know it.” I flattened my hand over my abs. “My stomach feels like I haven’t eaten in a week.”
His laugh boomed down the hallway as we made our way to the parking lot outside the facility.
Out of nowhere, Callahan O’Reilly, Finn McCabe, and a third guy who I recognized as another defensive player fell into step with us.
“You headed to grab some chow?” Finn asked.
“Yeah,” Tamatoa and I said in unison.
“Come with us,” Finn said.
We piled into the crew cab of the third guy’s pickup. Callahan rode shotgun while Finn and Tamatoa squished me between them in the back seat.
The driver extended his hand over the seat to Tamatoa. “Wyatt Baxter, but everyone calls me Bax.”
“Tamatoa Hall.”
“Good to meet ya,” Bax said before angling himself to shake my hand. “And you?”
“Danny Chambers.”
“Coach Wiley likes you two,” Callahan said as Bax put his truck in gear. “He likes guys who never take plays off.”
“I had the idea that was the entire coaching staff’s mentality,” I said as Bax wheeled his truck out of the parking lot.
Beside me, Finn snorted a laugh. “Facts. Ainsworth was on a tear today, and practice has barely started.”
Bax drove us across campus to the cafeteria on the other side of the quad from the dorm Tamatoa and I were staying in. The two of us exchanged a shrug and climbed out of the truck to join our teammates.
When we stepped into the chow hall, we saw where about a third of the team had arrived ahead of us. We lined up for trays and plates before fanning out to the various stations set up near the front of the room. Each station offered something different: burgers, Mexican, Asian, and vegetarian food. The options ensured even the pickiest eater wouldn’t go hungry.
After waiting for my two double cheeseburgers to cook—I could get used to having my lunch made to order every day—I loaded up on fries, salad, and a chocolate shake from the milk bar, which meant I was last to the table.
“You’re a military vet, huh?” Bax asked as I settled in to enjoy my meal.
After chewing and swallowing, I said, “Had to pay for school somehow.”
Callahan shot me an incredulous stare. “Are you saying no one picked you up out of high school?” He shook his head. “You run some of the best routes we’ve seen around here in a while. Pretty good hands too,” he added with a smirk.
“Military brat. I never amassed enough stats in one place to impress college scouts.” I stuffed my mouth with fries in an effort to stop the inquisition into a sore subject.
“What about you, Tamatoa? Your old team was the Warriors?” Finn asked, gesturing to Tamatoa’s T-shirt that read ‘Warrior.’
“It’s his name, which kinda fits,” I chimed in, happy for the spotlight to move off me.
Tamatoa puffed up his chest and unleashed his monster grin. “Where I’m from, Samoans play football to show our warrior heritage.”
Bax and Finn shook their heads, smiles playing over their mouths.
Callahan shot him speculative narrowed eyes. “As long as you bring it in the trenches, you can call yourself whatever the hell you want.”
“We’ll see how badass a warrior you are when we’re double-teaming you in practice next week,” Finn said, the dare evident in the gleam of his eye. “You’re a Ju-Co transfer, yeah?”
Tamatoa nodded.
“What gives, man? Your size alone should have been enough for you to start in the FBS.”
The air went out of the warrior child’s chest, and he ducked his head, mumbling, “I kinda put more emphasis on football than academics in high school. Had to build up my GPA before they’d let me into the big leagues.”
“Keeping up your GPA is a thing here,” Bax said, his tone serious. “We don’t just like to kick our cross-state rivals’ asses on the field—we like to make them look dumb in the classroom too.”
“I got that when Coach Larkin recruited me,” Tamatoa said around stuffing his face with a couple of spring rolls. “Don’t you worry. I got my act together. Earned my Associate’s with a B- average.” Two more spring rolls disappeared into his mouth with impressive speed.
“If you’re ever having trouble with classes, there are guys on the team who will help. Tutors too,” Finn said before he ate half a taco in one bite.
“Good to know,” Tamatoa said. “Now for the important info—are the rumors true about the crazy-wild Wildcats groupies? ’Cause I can get on board with that right now.” That grin came out again, leaving no doubt the big guard was going to break a lot of those groupies’ hearts.
Bax and Finn exchanged a smirk while Callahan shook his head.
“They’re true,” Bax said, waggling his brows. “So you’d better be careful how you unleash that killer grin you got going there, W.C.”
In another life I might have been all over the idea of football groupies, But a picture of a pretty brunette with electric-blue eyes and the biggest damn heart in the world took up all the available space in my head, leaving no room for thoughts of any girl except her.
As we rolled out of the cafeteria, Bax asked, “Where am I taking you boys?” He meant Tamatoa and me.
“My truck is at the field,” Tamatoa said.
“I’m good. I caught a ride with him.” I gestured to my roommate. “See you guys this afternoon.”
As I stepped off the curb to cross the street, Finn stopped me. “You got somewhere you gotta be?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. Why?”
“No reason. Thought you might want to join us at the house to play some COD .”
Well, fuck. I didn’t want to alienate my new teammates, but I also needed to get to the bottom of whatever was going on with Taryn. Then I remembered she’d said she’d be working a double today. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I checked the hours for the Coffee Kiosk.
Excellent. She’d just be closing up shop when I rolled in after evening practice.
“ COD , huh? You do know I served in the military, right?”
“Sounds like a dare,” Finn countered with a grin.
“Sounds like the new guy is going to kick your ass,” I said.
“Didn’t take near as long as I thought it would for the cocky in you to come out.” Callahan smirked as we all piled back into Bax’s truck. “It’s gonna be fun to see if you can back it up.”