Jameson
“Bates, come in here for a second.” I endure hoots and howls as I walk through the locker room and back toward Coach’s office, ignoring the assholes around me as I head inside to see what he wants.
“Yeah?” I’m tired and sweaty from practice and haven’t showered yet. I’m wearing only my practice pants, having stripped out of my soaked shirt already, but it doesn’t bother Coach at all.
“Sit.” He gestures to one of the old wooden chairs in his office. I think they’re more used to holding discarded gear and playbooks than players, but it wasn’t too long ago that I was sitting here with Dixon after our fistfight.
He gave us one hell of a lecture that day, pissed the fuck off and telling us to pull our heads out of our asses. That Kingston and Camden would be moving on after graduation, and we’d be the seniors. That we needed to be role models.
As if Garrison Dixon would be a role model. A five-year-old has more tact and a sense of responsibility.
“Yes, sir?”
He’s sitting at his desk, looking over at me with the stern expression he wears well. He’s a good coach though. Tells us school is as important as football, even if none of us really believe it, and makes sure we keep our grades up.
“Am I going to have to worry about Dixon and you this year?”
I squirm in my seat a little at the mention of Dixon and keep my expression inscrutable. “No, sir.”
“You sure about that?” His eyes glance behind me to where I know Dixon is in the locker room.
“I’m sure.” His eyes meet mine, and I clear my throat, sitting up a little taller. “I know last year was bad, but I’m here to play football. Not fight with Dixon.”
“Right.” He studies me quietly and then sighs. “You were at each other’s throats all last year. Every chance you got. Don’t think I didn’t notice the barbs out on the field you threw at each other. The shoves here and there. There’s no room for that on the field.”
Okay, so I didn’t think he saw any of that. “I understand.”
“We’re a good team this year, Bates. You never know what can come from that.”
I try not to snort dismissively at that. “What? Like college?”
He shrugs, leaning back in his desk chair. “You never know. Scouts come to high-school football games all the time. You could end up with a full ride if you play your cards right and don’t get distracted.”
“No one from around here goes to college. Scouts aren’t looking at this team.”
His lips press into a firm line, his brows wrinkled with irritation. “Some people do. Trust me, you don’t want to throw away a chance like that.”
Something in his voice tells me he might have been through that firsthand. “Did you have a scholarship?”
His expression darkens as he sits up straighter in his chair and shakes his head. “I could have.” He swallows thickly, disappointment sluicing through his eyes. “To a pretty damn good football school, but that was a lifetime ago.”
I frown, because if he went to a big-ass football college, it would have been the talk of the town, but he didn’t. He went to a local community college, according to the degree on the wall behind him. “You’re what, forty? Couldn’t have been that long ago.”
He grins at that and shakes his head, gesturing for the door. “I’m not quite forty, you little shit. But my time for scholarships is over. Yours, however, is just beginning. Now go shower. You reek.”
I chuckle at that, standing up from the chair but looking back over my shoulder at him as I head toward the door. “Nothing will stop me from having a winning season this year. Not even big-ass meatheads without a brain.”
He rolls his eyes at that, but I see a small grin playing on his lips. “Send your buddy in here, will ya?”
I give a quick nod and walk out of his office into the locker room, where Easton and Dixon are snapping each other with towels because you know—they’re seniors and total role-model material.
I roll my eyes and aim my attention at Dixon. “Coach wants to talk to you.”
“Were you complaining about your crush on him in there, Bates?” Oakley pipes up with his usual bullshit, but I hate how it makes my entire body go rigid.
My gaze fixes on Dixon. “He wants to make sure you’re going to behave.”
Dixon raises his hands in surrender, his eyes meeting mine as he also ignores Oakley. “I’m not the hostile one.”
“Bullshit,” I grumble as I walk away from them both and don’t look back to see if he listened or not. If he chooses not to go talk to Coach, that’s on him. I did my part.
I shower and change, knowing I’m late and will get reamed when I get home. And sure enough, when I pull into the gravel drive of my parents’ farmhouse, my dad is stewing, shovel in hand as he stands by the barn.
“You’re late, Jameson.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” I close my door, leaving my backpack behind, rushing over to him, and taking the shovel from his hand.
“That’s unacceptable.”
“I’m sorry, sir. Coach was getting us ready for the first game, and it ran late.” I leave out the lecture part. My dad wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. He’s a good father. Strict and quiet. But he wants the best for his sons. I believe that.
He doesn’t see football as what’s best though. It’s a hobby and nothing else in his eyes. “You have responsibilities, Jameson.”
Sometimes, that’s all I feel like I have. Responsibilities. My dad inherited this farm from his father, and his father inherited it from his. It’s just Mom, Dad, my three younger brothers, and me taking care of a hundred acres.
When I get home from school, I feed the animals. On the weekends, I shovel out the barn, mow, and fix shit around the farm. Everything that needs to be done. My summers are spent here. I wake up, and I milk the goddamn cows and goats.
Somehow, this farm has already fallen to me—the oldest son. Not that everyone else doesn’t take the burden on also. We all have our chores. We all live and breathe this farm. In the summer, it’s every week at the farmers’ market.
My mom has started selling jam and homemade goat’s-milk soap online. We raise crops and cattle, selling as much as we can and barely staying afloat.
Coach thinks that I could go to college, and this is why I know, no matter what, I won’t. My dad played football in high school but never took it seriously, despite having quite a bit of talent. He wanted this farm. He wanted this land. It was his dream.
And part of his dream is to hand it down to his oldest son—regardless of said son’s desire to take it over.
The Bates farm is my future.
A future that was decided long before I was even born.