Chapter 1 River
One
River
August
I crouched behind Chance Blaylock with my hands under his thighs, taking in my team’s defensive lineup, reading their coverage, finding their weaknesses.
“Hut one, hut two…Hut!”
Chance hiked the ball into my hands and then hurled himself at a defender who was intent on taking me down.
At scrimmages, we wore flags tucked into our waistbands, but our D was bloodthirsty, even when it was their own quarterback in their sights.
I wasn’t in real danger; our O line was the best in the league.
Moreover, any teammate who tackled me would face swift retribution.
I dropped back to pass, scanning the field, calculating angles, probabilities, distance.
Coach Kimball had called the play, and I was going to run it, but that didn’t stop me from exploring options that unfolded on the field in real time—one of the many tools in my arsenal Coach said was going to take me all the way to the NFL.
Donte Weatherly, our fastest wideout, was already halfway down the right sideline with our safety on his ass.
At the thirty-yard line, he’d cut left. I smoothly sidestepped a defender that came at me sideways and cocked my arm to pass.
In fractions of a second, I visualized the arc of the ball, putting it not where Donte was now but where he would be.
I let fly. The ball spun like a bullet. Donte faked out the safety and cut in, running like lightning and glancing back for the pass at the last moment.
The ball sailed over his shoulder and landed in his outstretched hands.
Without breaking stride, he tucked it under his arm and turned on the gas, surging out of the safety’s reach into the end zone.
A genuine smile touched my lips. The perfect pass. The perfect catch. It was satisfying as hell.
And that was where my love for the game of football began and ended.
My teammates on the line had ceased their battle to watch Donte score. A cheer went up, and Chance turned and hooked his fingers in my face guard. He yanked me toward him, his mouth twisted into a snarling grimace of triumph.
“Yesssss! Whitmore, you fucking maniac!” He crashed his helmet to mine and then released me with a shove.
I shoved him back, teeth gritted as my teammates surrounded me. They slapped my shoulder pads and whacked me on the helmet hard enough to make my teeth rattle.
Donte jogged in from the end zone and took his turn being congratulated. His smile was wide and blinding white against his dark skin, relishing the brutal attention that I hated more with each passing day.
“Come on in, boys,” Coach Kimball said, easing one knee down to the turf with a grunt. He wore a white and gold Capitals cap on his balding head and a polo shirt stretched over his belly.
We huddled up with the August heat beating down, the guys breathing hard and hanging on each other’s padded shoulders.
“And that, gentlemen,” Coach said, “is why we’re going to have our fifth championship season in a row.”
The team hollered their agreement, his words prompting another round of shoulder slapping and helmet banging.
Coach went around, calling out guys who hadn’t given their all.
My teammates hung on his every word, sweat and grime-streaked faces broken open with huge, hungry grins.
For the millionth time, I wondered what they’d think if they knew their star quarterback harbored an aching desire to rip off his pads and helmet and walk away.
Coach Kimball finished with his feedback and wrapped up the practice with orders for us to return at eight the next morning.
I tried to slip out with the crowd after the team rally, but Coach called me back.
He fell in step with me and steered me to the sidelines while the rest of the team shuffled toward the locker room.
“So,” he said, his voice low. “How you holding up, son?”
“Good, I guess.”
He rubbed his chin with stubby fingers. “I know it’s been a rough summer for you, what with your mom…
” His words trailed, and he cleared his throat.
“Sometimes, when we go through hard stuff, the best thing to do is to put all your energy and focus into something else. Channel it. Drive toward something that makes you happy.”
What makes me happy…
Working at our family’s auto body shop instead of pissing my summer away with practice…
Building something with my hands, building a life in Santa Cruz…
That would make me happy. Football wasn’t even in the top ten, but I was damn good at pretending it was.
Judging by Coach’s skeptical glance, my mask was slipping.
“I felt pretty focused today,” I said.
“You were, absolutely. That last bomb you dropped on Weatherly is one for the highlight reels. I just meant if things get real tough, you have this team. You have us.” He put his hand on my shoulder pad. “Let it all out on the field.”
I heard him loud and clear: If you’re sad about your mom being diagnosed with stage IV liver cancer, play harder, but don’t ever quit.
“Thanks, Coach. I get it.”
He rubbed his chin dubiously. “Yeah? Seems like the fire’s gone out a little. Not that I blame you. News like what you got… It takes some getting used to, I’d imagine.”
I nearly choked on the idea that I’d ever get used to my mother dying. And my “fire” for football was a sputtering flame, kept alive by my father’s persistent and relentless insistence it never burn out.
“I’m good, Coach. Promise.”
“Good to hear it, son.” He smacked my pads again. “Go get showered up, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Come early if you can. There’re some plays I want to run by you and Donte. Something to wow the scouts coming next month.”
“Okay, Coach,” I said automatically. Like a soldier responding to a commanding officer. Doing my duty.
His disappointment for my lack of enthusiasm breathed over my neck as I wandered to the locker room in the remains of the afternoon. The sun was nearly gone.
Nearly gone…
Pain slugged my chest like a heavy mallet. I had to stop and grip the flagpole outside the gym, shocked at how much power Mom’s diagnosis still had, even weeks later.
My “big brain” that Coach liked to fill with complicated plays recycled the events of this last summer like a film on rewind.
My mom, looking fit and happy in the pool, laughing with my little sister, Amelia.
Amelia’s laughter fading when she pointed out that she could see the outline of Mom’s stomach…
Mom had been losing weight and didn’t know why. She brushed it off as a mysterious diet she didn’t know she’d been on. Then came the weakness. And pain. So much pain. The diagnosis came less than a week later.
Six months. Maybe more. Probably less.
Nearly gone.
I blinked stinging sweat and tears out of my eyes and joined the guys in the locker room. They were showering, walking around bare-ass naked, crowing about the last play, giving each other shit, or talking about girls. Locker room talk that would make most parents weep for humanity.
As always, I kept my head down, eyes averted, wearing my exhaustion like a heavy coat so no one would wonder why I wasn’t joining in.
“Yo, Whitmore!” Donte called as I passed him on my way to the showers. “Plans tonight? Maybe with that sweet little Violet McNamara?”
A chorus of oohs and laughter went around.
Despite all of us at Central practically growing up together since preschool, Violet McNamara was new to our group.
Earlier this summer, Evelyn Gonzalez—the queen bee—had pulled Violet from behind her books to reveal a stunning girl with raven-black hair and intense blue eyes.
I slipped on my king-of-the-world smile. “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Donte laughed. “He’s such a smooth player, our boy, Whitmore.”
“Lucky bastard,” Chance said. “I shoulda claimed her first. Who knew she was so fucking hot and untapped, if you know what I mean.”
They all laughed. My ears reddened.
I’d only hung out with Violet a handful of times this summer, but I liked her. Shy but also capable of holding her own. I thought she was sort of brave.
And maybe my last chance.
I tried to date girls from Central High or nearby Soquel and never felt a connection.
Maybe Violet would be different. She wanted to be a doctor.
Maybe I could have a real conversation with her, and something would happen between us.
Maybe I’d finally feel the spark of something—anything—and then the nagging anxiety in the back of my mind would go away.
I stripped out of my sweat-soaked gear and claimed one of the showers. The cold water flowed over my skin, raising goose bumps. I turned my face to the spray, and the echoing voices, slamming lockers, and laughter were distant sounds from an alien planet.
“Hey, River. You coming to Chance’s back-to-school rager?” Isaiah, our star running back, asked later while I dressed quickly at my locker.
A beefy arm slung around my shoulder, jolting me.
“Of course he is,” Chance bellowed in my ear. “Wouldn’t miss it. Right, Whitmore?”
I gritted my teeth and threw off Chance’s arm with more violence than I meant to. A low rumble of whoas issued from the guys in the vicinity. I rarely got pissed. Never lost my temper or my cool or showed any emotion other than calm, casual confidence.
“Asshole,” I said into the awkward silence that followed, a smooth grin on my face. “I just fixed my hair.”
The guys busted up laughing, and Chance’s wide, ruddy face broke out into loud guffaws. He acted tough with me, but by some twist of fate—or maybe because I helped win us games—at Central High, I was king.
When the other guys went back to their business, Donte sidled up to me. “Hey, man. You okay?”
“I’m good.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, grinning. “The gentleman among us Neanderthals. If you’re really into pretty Miss Violet, just say so. We’ll cut the shit talk.”
“I’m good,” I said again. “It’s stuff with my mom that’s rough, you know?”
“I hear you. Sorry, man.”