Chapter 21
Mike: Full disclosure: we have a houseguest arriving this evening. I’m informing you now to avoid a repeat of your last... emotional response.
Zach: I know.
Mike: You know? Who told you? We played Rock, Paper, Scissors in the group chat and I lost.
Zach: She did.
Mike: She did? As in Olivia?
Zach: No. Honey.
Mike typing...
Mike: Wait, are you guys talking again?
Zach: We never stopped.
Mike: So what does this mean for me? Are mom and dad back together?
Zach: We aren’t mom and dad; that’s you and Olivia. In approximately four weeks, to be precise.
Mike: As cute as it is that you remember the soon-to-be birth of my child, you still haven’t answered my question.
I let out a low laugh, knowing full well I can't get away with anything when it comes to him.
“Evans!” Coach Masters yells so loudly that the entire locker room goes still. I stop typing and slowly pull my gaze to Coach, who's standing at the entrance door, tapping his foot impatiently.
“Yes, Coach?” I say, unbothered. He’s an asshole, but the team can’t know I hate the guy.
He lifts his clipboard and stalks through the locker room. “With me. Now.”
The rest of the room is silent as I stuff my phone in my bag, grab my helmet and follow him out to the tunnel that leads to the stadium.
The team watches me go, a few whispering ‘good luck’ as I pass them. If the last few days have taught me anything, it’s that Coach likes to rant, and apparently, I get the brunt of them because I’m ‘his quarterback.’
Still, better he yell at me than someone else who can’t handle it.
My gaze drifts to Owen Wilfork, our defensive captain, who’s sitting on the bench, not making eye contact with anyone.
I’ve only known the guy for a few days, but it’s obvious he’s not taking the criticism well.
Who would? Coach Masters has been yelling at him for two years straight.
That’s got to take its toll on anyone and affect their performance.
“What's up, Coach?” I ask as I approach him in the tunnel.
He’s looking through his handwritten notes with his brows furrowed. “Zach,” he says calmly. “We need to talk.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Look, you had a good session on Tuesday. Your reads were good, and your ball placement was sharp,” he says, focused on his notes.
“Thank you, Coach,” I say, nodding, surprised to hear anything positive out of that man’s mouth.
His eyes connect with mine, stony and cold.
“It’s not a compliment.”
Knew I got ahead of myself there.
“I’m just setting the context.” He glances sideways to the locker room, his gaze landing on Owen. Then he beckons me to follow him onto the field. “You’re looking good because we have the worst defense in the league.”
I cringe when he says that. It’s not Owen’s fault. The team is young and inexperienced. They need more time. They need a coach who will care about them.
“I think—”
He raises his hand. “We don’t pay you for coaching advice, Evans. Especially when you have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
I take a step back, gripping my helmet. I might not have any experience in the NFL, but I took St. Michael’s to the playoffs every year I played, and the national championship twice. I know this game better than anything.
“Coach.”
“No. You listen. I need you focused. Every other defense in the league would’ve put your ass in the ground and sent you back to the bench where you belong. Do you want that to be your NFL debut?”
“No.”
“Then fucking work harder.”
“Yes, Coach,” I say with a clenched jaw.
He points his clipboard in my face. “Make this session count, or your little adventure with your non-girlfriend is going to be the least of your problems.”
I stare at the clipboard in my face before looking him dead in the eye. “I know exactly what’s on the line.” My grip tightens around my helmet. “That’s why I’m still here.”
His eyes narrow as he drops the clipboard. “Good. Because the second football stops being your first priority, they’ll replace you without blinking.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Now go out and practice.”
He stalks onto the field, leaving me behind as the rest of the players filter out to join us. My fingers tighten on my helmet, but that’s all the emotion I allow myself to show. Never in my life have I experienced a coach so... incompetent.
I thought trash-talking the players had phased out of the league, but I’m starting to learn more than ever why the Raptors underperform.
A little yelling won’t stop me, though. I’m going to work hard and prove to that idiot that this team is worth something.
As I jog out to the field, Reese and Dax catch up, flanking me on both sides.
Neither of them says anything at first, but I can feel them looking at me.
Dax finally nudges my shoulder with his. “I’m just trying to figure out if we should be planning your funeral or not.”
“Depends,” Reese says casually from my other side. “Did Coach threaten your career or your actual life this time?”
I huff out a small laugh despite being annoyed. “Little bit of both.”
Dax winces. “Damn, and here I was about to ask you to acknowledge that I make your coffee in the morning and throw to me more often.”
“I throw to whoever’s open.”
“Right, but I'm open more.”
Reese laughs on my other side.
“You dropped three passes yesterday.”
“One,” Dax argues.
“Three.”
“Reese, are you obsessed with me? Why do you keep counting my passes?”
“Because you keep talking about them.”
We reach the sidelines as the rest of the team starts filtering into position.
Dax glances toward Coach Masters, lowering his voice. “Seriously, though. You good?”
“Yeah.”
Reese studies me for a second like he knows I’m lying but won’t call me out on it. “He’s been riding you hard.”
“He rides everyone hard.” I glance over and see he’s now giving Owen the same motivational talk he gave me. Only Owen doesn’t look like he’d even consider talking back.
Dax grimaces. “Yeah, well. At least he hasn’t made Owen cry today. That’s progress.”
My jaw tightens slightly, because the fucked-up part is I can’t even tell if he’s joking.
Reese notices my expression immediately and elbows Dax in the ribs. “Nice.”
“What?” Dax says defensively. “I’m trying to lighten the mood before Evans goes full murder quarterback on us.”
“I’m not going to murder anyone.”
“Okay, but if you did,” Dax says thoughtfully, “I feel like Coach would deserve it a little.”
I roll my eyes, still watching Coach and Owen’s interaction. Owen’s looking down at the ground, nodding as though everything that man says is right.
“Noted,” I say.
“There he is,” Dax says, throwing his arms around me. “That’s the look of a man ready to throw me at least twelve touchdowns today.”
“Twelve?” Reese scoffs. “You’d pass out after four.”
“Correct,” Dax nods seriously. “But what a way to go.”
A whistle blasts across the field.
“Offense!” Coach Masters bellows. “Move your asses!”
Dax immediately straightens. “And there goes my dream of becoming emotionally fulfilled.”
Reese shakes his head, already jogging toward position. “You don’t even know what emotionally fulfilled means.”
“Neither does Coach,” Dax mutters.
I snort quietly and pull my helmet on as we jog onto the field.
Practice ends two hours later with the defense looking like they just got dragged through hell.
Sweat drips down my neck as I tug my helmet off, breathing hard while the whistle blows for the final time. Around me, guys start heading toward the sidelines, exhausted and irritated after another brutal session.
Coach Masters isn’t finished, though.
“Wilfork!” he barks across the field.
The entire defense stops. Owen slows near the sidelines, his shoulders tightening before he turns to face Coach.
Masters storms toward him with his clipboard tucked under his arm, already talking before he fully reaches him. I can’t hear every word from here, but I catch enough of it.
“You’re too fucking slow.... missed multiple assignments... unacceptable leader.”
Just like earlier, Owen stands there, taking it. He doesn’t even try to defend himself; he just stares ahead while Coach tears into him in front of everyone.
The energy shifts around us. Guys suddenly become very interested in their gloves. Their cleats. The turf.
Nobody wants to watch, but everyone’s trying to listen.
Dax clears his throat loudly beside me. “Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once. “Who wants tacos?”
A few heads snap toward him.
“What?” Reese asks dryly.
“I’m serious,” Dax says, rubbing his belly, trying to make a show of himself. No doubt so they’ll forget about Owen. “I’m starving, morale is low, and I think we all deserve tacos after surviving this practice.”
That gets a couple of tired laughs from nearby players.
“You buying, Dax?” someone calls.
“Absolutely not,” Dax says immediately. “I’m emotionally supportive, not financially supportive.”
More guys start chiming in after that, the tension easing just enough for people to finally look away from Owen.
“We’ll head in,” Reese says quietly to me after a minute.
I nod once.
Dax follows his gaze toward Owen, immediately understanding that I’m waiting.
“Don’t take too long,” he says. “Because if Reese starts ordering for everyone again, we’re all ending up with grilled chicken and sadness.”
Reese rolls his eyes. “You ate all of it.”
“Against my will.”
I shake my head as they jog toward the tunnel with the rest of the team. I pretend to be busy looking through plays on one of the iPads.
Soon the field starts emptying out until only a handful of coaches remain scattered near the sidelines.
Owen is the only player left, still getting ripped apart by Coach Masters.
“Evans?” I glance over to see Coach Smith approaching.
Unlike Masters, Coach Smith actually looks at people when he talks to them.
“You heading in?” he asks.
“In a minute.” My eyes drift back toward Owen. “Just waiting on something.”
He follows my gaze and sighs quietly. “He’s hard on you guys.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
His mouth twitches slightly like he wants to say more but can’t. Instead, he claps my shoulder once. “Look, your first camp is always rough. Especially with this organization.”
“That supposed to make me feel better?”
“A little.”
I huff out a laugh.
He nods toward the stadium lights overhead. “This league eats people alive at first. Then one day you wake up and realize you survived it.”
My grip tightens slightly around my helmet.
“And Owen?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Coach Smith’s expression falters for just a second.
“He’s a good player,” he says carefully. “Sometimes good players forget that when somebody keeps telling them otherwise.”
And Coach Masters wonders why the defense is sloppy.
Coach Smith pats my shoulder again before heading toward the tunnel. “Get cleaned up, Evans. You did good today.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
When he disappears, it’s just me, Owen, and Coach Masters left on the field. Owen’s posture’s gone stiff, and his gaze hasn’t moved from the floor.
Finally, Masters throws his hands up dramatically and walks away, leaving Owen standing there alone on the fifty-yard line.
Owen doesn’t move for a second. Then he bends forward slightly, resting his hands on his hips as though the weight of the entire damn team is sitting on his back.
I exhale slowly before walking back onto the field. His head lifts when he hears me approach.
“You surviving?” I ask.
He lets out a rough laugh. “Debatable.”
I stop beside him, staring at the empty stadium seats. “For what it’s worth, the defense looked better today.”
“You think?” he asks, almost amused.
“Yeah.”
He snorts quietly. “Coach disagrees.”
“Coach also thinks yelling counts as leadership.”
That finally gets a real laugh out of him.
Owen straightens and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Sorry you guys got dragged into this shit too.”
“You kidding?” I glance sideways at him. “I’m the quarterback. Getting yelled at is basically part of the job description.”
“Still.”
I shrug. “Just know, you’re not the only one trying to survive camp.”
He gives me a small smile.
I clap his shoulder and lead him toward the tunnel. By the time we’re in the locker room, the rest of our teammates are mostly dressed.
“Took you long enough,” Dax says, pulling his bag out of his locker. “We were just deciding where we were going to get tacos.
Owen brushes my shoulder as he moves past me to his locker. I glance around the room, scanning the open doorway and the hallway beyond it.
The coaches aren’t here.
Good.
I clap my hands once to get the attention of the room.
“Alright,” I say loudly. “If anyone's hungry, tacos are on me tonight.”
The team cheers.
“Evans is buying?” someone yells.
“Say less!”
“Where at?”
I jerk my thumb toward Dax. “Our place.”
His jaw drops, and his eyes widen as he takes it in.
“Our—wait. What?”
I shrug. “No restaurant is going to be able to cater to all of us. Best place is ours.”
“Ours?” he says pointedly. “So, are we official now, Evans?”
Before I can answer, the locker room erupts. Guys are grabbing their bags, shoving things into their lockers and already talking over each other about food.
“Shotgun the couch!”
“Do you even own enough chairs?”
“Someone call ahead!”
Dax just stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You know what? You really need to get your own place.”
Reese laughs. “Too late now. Your living room belongs to the team.”
Dax groans and tightens the towel around his waist.
“I swear, Evans,” he mutters. “One more stunt like this and I’m kicking you out.”
I clap him on the shoulder before I head to the showers.
“Don’t worry, I'll pay for any damages,” I say before adding, “Next time we’ll do wings.”