Hale No (Highway to Hale #2)

Prologue

Coach Drake Cooper

SIX YEARS AGO - PINE TREE FALLS HIGH SCHOOL, TEXAS

“Okay, receivers and QBs, let’s see what you got,” I call, clapping my hands three times.

Emmanuel Lopez, my offensive coordinator, sidles up next to me and quietly, says, “Hopefully this won’t be as much of a shitshow as last year.”

He’s not wrong. We had to rely heavily on our run game last season for a myriad of reasons. First of all, our starting quarterback had an arm like a wet noodle and threw nothing but ducks all season. Second, our receiver corps was… lacking in size and talent, to put it nicely.

But Hank Thompson, last year’s limp-armed quarterback, put in the work in the off-season.

He spent his entire spring and summer in the weight room and put on a solid twenty pounds of muscle.

He also attended two high-profile quarterback camps, and from what I’ve seen, the boy has made vast improvements.

Now we just need someone who can catch the damn ball.

Ah, the life of a small-town football coach. I’m entering my second year as the head coach for the Pine Tree Falls Bulldogs, and my goal is to one day be named as the school’s athletic director. But I need a few winning seasons under my belt before that happens.

I survey the fifteen prospective receivers in their helmets and white practice jerseys with maroon numbers on the front. Four of them are returning from last year, and the other eleven are new players.

“There are a couple guys with some size,” I comment, clocking number eighty-two, who I recognize as Anthony Dickerson from last year’s team, and number eleven, Tyrell Taylor, who will be a freshman.

From watching him in junior high, I know Taylor has some talent, and he definitely has the size.

He’s the tallest of the bunch at six foot five.

Dickerson is about six foot two, but he struggled with catching passes last year.

Most of that could have been attributed to the quarterback’s wobbly throws though.

Then my eyes find the next tallest athlete, number eighty-eight. He’s about six foot one and has a rangy body. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this boy before.

“You want me to send out three?” Coach Lopez asks, and I nod.

“Yep. Start with a simple hitch route.”

“Quick and dirty, just like I like my women,” he quips.

I tilt my head and offer him a dubious look. “You know the quick part isn’t necessarily a compliment to you, right, Manny?”

He booms out a laugh and slaps my shoulder. “When you got the right motion in the ocean, you don’t need stamina, Coop.” Then he performs a hip swivel before striding off toward the players.

Covering my smile with my fist, I shake my head. Never a dull moment when Lopez is around.

We begin the drill, and Thompson throws a quick pass to number twelve, who forgets to turn around and takes the ball to the back of his head. Jesus fucking Christ. It’s gonna be one of those years.

The next throw hits Dickerson right in the numbers, but he still manages to bobble the ball before securing it. At least the kid is built and can block.

Another new guy drops the pass thrown to him, even though Thompson’s throw was accurate. “Well, we have a good QB this year,” I mutter to myself. “Too bad no one can catch.”

The next group of three players makes my head ache, and I massage my temples with my thumb and forefinger.

In the following trio, Taylor, the incoming freshman, makes an easy catch, and my shoulders relax from their position near my ears. The two players following him are okay, but not great.

When the fourth group comes up, one of my returning varsity players, Louis Jenkins, catches his ball. I like Jenkins. He's a hard worker with good hands, but he’s only about five foot six, and most defenders are going to be much bigger than him.

Number eighty-eight is also in this group and makes his catch look easy. Now we’re talking.

Of the remaining players, none of them are very impressive.

“All right, guys. Line up again,” I yell. “Let’s try a fade-out route this time.”

After a few more drills, we have them run some sprints to determine speed before sending the guys to get some water while I consult with Lopez on the far sideline. After deliberating on who has potential for a few minutes, he calls the players over.

“Okay, good job today. I’ll call out nine numbers, and those players will stay over here. The rest will head to the practice field to work with Coach Jones.”

A sizzle of anticipation builds in the group. They know what this means. Alex Jones is the JV coach, so if we’re sending them to him, they’re not making varsity this year.

Lopez begins calling out jersey numbers. “Eleven, eighty-six, eighty-three, nineteen, eighty-one, eighty-two, fifteen, eighty-five, and…” He pauses for dramatic effect before saying, “Eighty-eight.”

There are cheers at that last number, and the kid gets helmet slaps and high-fives from most of the guys. A few grumbles sound off as well, but even the players who got cut stop to congratulate eighty-eight.

All the players are still wearing helmets, so I have no idea who he is, but he seems to be well-liked. He and Tyrell were definitely the fastest in the sprints, and neither missed any balls thrown today. Lopez and I were duly impressed.

“Okay, Coach Lopez is going to assign you a position, and we’re going to run a diamond sweep pass.” Then I add sternly, “You should be familiar with that if you studied the playbook.” Helmets bob in the affirmative.

An hour later, I’m feeling a lot more hopeful. Tyrell and the mystery player were the standouts in every single play we ran. Long routes, short routes, they excelled at everything.

“Hey, Lopez. Who is eighty-eight?”

He consults his clipboard, running his finger down the sheet of kids who signed up, and just as he opens his mouth to speak, Ashton, one of the team managers, runs up, his face red with exertion.

“Coach Cooper,” he wheezes, “Coach Jones needs you at the practice field. One of the freshmen hurt his leg.”

“Thanks, Ashton,” I tell the young man. “I’ll head over. Go get the trainer and tell him to meet me there.”

Thirty minutes later, the trainer has determined it’s only a sprain, but I called the boy’s mother anyway before heading back to my future varsity players.

As I approach, I see that Coach Lopez has brought some defenders in to play against the receivers.

Number eighty-eight is running a long post route, being defended by Rafferty, the best and fastest cornerback we have.

As a junior last year, he led the team in interceptions, and from the angle, it looks like he’s going to pick off this ball.

Then, to my shock, the receiver zips past Rafferty, snags the ball mid-stride, and beats him to the end zone.

I make my way toward my offensive coordinator as they run the same play again.

This time Thompson overthrows number eighty-eight, but he leaps into the air and snags the ball with one hand before bringing it securely to his chest.

Good god! The athleticism of this kid is phenomenal, I think as I break into a jog and find Coach Lopez with a joyful smile on his face.

“Goddamn, did you see that, Coop? That had to be at least a twenty-eight inch vertical.”

“I saw. What did you say that kid’s name was again?”

“McNamara,” he replies before calling for another receiver to run the same play.

“McNamara, McNamara,” I muse, running the name through my internal database. “That really smart guy? I didn’t think he played sports.”

Lopez shakes his head. “No, you’re thinking about Xander. He graduated last year. This one is named Jordan.” He shrugs. “I don’t know who he is. Lainey handled the signups this year while we were at the state track meet in Austin.”

I smile at the mention of my wife, Lainey. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Eighty-eight!” I call, gesturing to the student to come to the sideline. He jogs with an athletic ease that has me wanting to rub my hands in glee. Our season is certainly looking up. I hand him a cup of Gatorade and tell him to take a knee.

“Good job out there, McNamara. Did you just move here?” I ask.

“No, sir. I’ve gone to school at Pine Tree Falls all my life,” the kid says, pulling off his helmet.

Wait…

Hold the damn phone… her helmet?

“Jordie?” I ask, recognizing the junior from around school.

She nods, her long, blonde ponytail now bobbing down her back. “Yes, sir.” She takes a sip of her sports drink and looks up at me expectantly.

Lopez and I share a long, dumbfounded look before I kneel down in front of her.

“Your form said Jordan.”

“Yes, sir. That’s my given name, but I’ve always gone by Jordie.”

“Okay, makes sense. What are you doing here?”

“Trying out for the football team, Coach Coop,” she replies easily.

And duh, I have to admit that was a pretty fucking stupid question. “Okay, can you tell me why you decided to try out?”

She swallows hard, her intense aqua eyes meeting mine. “You know how all the major colleges have a women’s team now?”

I think I’m starting to get the picture. “Yes. And you want to play ball at the collegiate level?”

Jordie nods her head with vigor. “I do. I’ve been checking it out, and I’m supposed to send them game film, and since our school doesn’t have a girls’ team, this is my only option to get seen.”

That makes sense. I know some of the larger schools across the country are starting girls’ teams, but Pine Tree Falls is relatively small.

Lopez kneels beside me to get eye level with Jordie. “How did you get interested in football?”

Her face lights up. “I played peewee flag football, but they didn’t allow girls to play once we hit a certain age. I’ve always watched with my dad though. It’s my absolute favorite sport. ”

“Does Bubba know that?” I ask wryly, referring to her older brother who’s a professional hockey player.

The kid laughs. “He does, and he teases me about it, but Bubba’s the one who’s been helping me.”