13 - Ethan
Ethan
I walked up to our home field and took a deep breath.
There was something different about that day.
I had faith in my team and Harris’s insane ideas.
I had no idea why I felt that way or what had changed, but it felt good to be optimistic for once.
And then I noticed it. There was noise. Not a lot, but enough to make a difference.
I scanned the bleachers and surprisingly saw a few more people than last time.
There weren’t many of them, but enough to leave an impression.
Instead of scattered singles sitting three rows apart, there were clusters.
A few of them even held up some handmade signs.
And someone brought a drum. It wasn’t loud or impressive, but it wasn’t quiet either.
It meant something. We were a team that was used to having our mistakes echoed through empty aluminum but now we had something more. It was encouraging. Inspirational. So much more than we were expecting. And it showed. The warmups felt different. They were less frantic and a lot more intentional.
Helmets clicked together with familiarity instead of confusion, and the guys were actually talking.
They weren’t arguing or blaming each other.
Just having idle chit-chat. We weren’t good yet, but we were starting to belong to each other, which is something that hadn’t happened yet.
It felt good, and I wanted it to stay that way.
I wasn’t even halfway through my throwing progression when I saw Penny cutting across the sideline with her latest potential intern trailing behind her.
That girl was wicked enough to send a chill down the toughest of spines.
She had the kind of smile that looked friendly from a distance but was incredibly dangerous up close.
So yeah, she had definitely chosen the right career path.
I was about to go hide in a corner, but then I saw her heading straight for Malik. That was something I definitely needed to see because I didn’t think she would love him as much as the rest of us do.
“Can we get a quick word about the team’s progression since the opener?” she asked enthusiastically.
Malik didn’t even slow down. “Nope.”
I laughed out loud. He brushed her off more effectively than a dinosaur would with a fly. And the look of utter astonishment that took over her usually bright face was proof of that.
“Just one question about how the locker room is responding to the coaching adjustments….”
Malik pulled his helmet down and ran toward the secondary drills. “Not today!”
She didn’t chase him down like I was expecting her to.
Instead, she pivoted and locked onto me.
I thought of every possible way to get out of the situation.
I wished I could turn invisible. I even considered pretending I needed to have my wrists re-wrapped, but it was too late for any of that to work.
“Ethan!” she called, waving eagerly. “Can I have thirty seconds of your time?”
She was practically jogging over to me, microphone at the ready.
“How would you describe the team’s trajectory after the opening loss?”
Did she really use the word trajectory? Like we were some kind of science project?
“We’re improving,” I said carefully. “Every week is cleaner than the last.”
“And the coaching?” She pressed. “There’s been some discussion around the… um… creativity of the playbook.”
She was leading me. It was obvious, but it was the first time I’d ever been in such a position and I honestly didn’t know how to react.
I tried to keep my expression neutral and said, “Coach has his ideas.”
“Do those ideas happen to be unconventional?”
“We’re adjusting.”
She tilted her head curiously. “Some players seem frustrated.”
Did she really wonder why? She was prancing around as if we owed her something, trying to talk us into saying something she could use.
Most of us tried to avoid her like the plague.
And the rest of us were stuck doing these kinds of things.
We weren’t frustrated about the game. We were annoyed by her career choice.
I bit my tongue to stop myself from saying something I would regret.
“We’re competitive,” I said through gritted teeth. “Perhaps that’s what you’re confusing with frustration.”
“And leadership?” She continued as if nothing had happened. Do you feel the team needs stronger direction? There have also been talks about a potential shift in captaincy. Some are even mentioning your name.
And there it was, my breaking point. She had tried to push every button she could find. Unfortunately, she found the ones that had the potential to send me over the edge.
“I’m just focusing on executing,” I said, hoping she didn’t pick up on the change in my tone.
“But do you think everyone’s bought in?”
I thought about the way Malik brushed her off and the sideline arguments earlier in the week. Then there was the way the guys still rolled their eyes when Harris used basketball terminology and play styles. I should’ve deflected.
Instead, I said, “We’re still figuring out who we are. Some guys adapted faster than the others.”
Her eyes immediately sharpened. “And the coach? Has he figured out who you are?”
I gave a short laugh, but it wasn’t born of strategy. It was instinctual. “He’s still learning the game with us.”
There was half a second of silence. Much longer than she’d usually keep her mouth shut. And I realized I had just made the biggest mistake of my career.
“So he’s learning on the job?” She asked.
I opened my mouth and closed it again. The last thing I wanted to do was make the situation worse.
“That’s all I need,” she said cheerfully.
She walked away before I could think of a way to rectify the situation. So I just stood there with my helmet in my hands, replaying every stupid word I said to her. Some guys adapted faster than others… I could already hear how bad that would sound.
But I didn’t have time to sit with it. The game was about to begin.
So I pulled my helmet over my head and moved to join the rest of the team.
As I moved past Elizabeth and Jenna, who were having a chat, I took a bite of her granola bar.
It was a surprise attack over the shoulder, so her startled response didn’t really surprise me.
Elizabeth spun around, but I was already running onto the field.
“One play at a time!” she shouted, and I gave her a quick salute.
The first snap told me exactly what kind of night it was going to be.
The ball hit my hand clean. Laces were brushing my fingertips, and before I could finish the fake hand-off, I felt the pocket cave inward.
It wasn’t collapsing, but it had definitely compressed.
Bridgewater’s defensive front didn’t rush wildly.
They squeezed in a fully controlled fashion.
I handed the ball off, anyway. Dylan lowered his shoulder and met a linebacker in the gap. The sound of the collision carried. It wasn’t a pop. It was a very distinct crack. Helmets were striking square. Pads were compressing and air was rushing out of lungs.
Two yards. Second and eight. I came back to the huddle and saw it in their faces.
Not fear, but recognition. This was going to hurt a lot.
The first drive stalled at midfield after a third-down incompletion.
There was a tight window slant that glanced off fingertips as a safety arrived with bad intentions. We punted.
Bridgewater’s opening position felt different.
It was methodical, like someone was tightening a vice.
There was a run, four yards. And another run, six yards.
There was a lot of play-action. A tight end slipped into the flat and bulldozed a corner for another eight.
This team wasn’t flashy. They were patient.
They were leaning on blocks and falling forward.
By the time I got back on the field, the scoreboard read 7-0, but I didn’t waste too much time looking at it. On the next series, they opened up. First down, shotgun. I read the safety cheat toward the box and decided to change the play at the line.
“Check! Check! Blue 18!”
The snap came. It was a three-step drop.
Lucas released clean off the line, giving us inside leverage.
The corner tried to jam but missed. I let it go before Lucas turned.
Perfect timing. The ball hit him in stride at the forty-five.
He spun off a tackle and surged another ten before getting dragged down. The sidelines came to life.
We crossed midfield, and for the first time, we were in rhythm. There was a quick hitch and a draw play that caught the defensive flowing wide. Suddenly, we were in scoring range. That was when the first real hit on me came. Second and six at the thirty-two.
I held the ball for a second too long, waiting for the deep route to clear.
The defensive end swatted the tackle’s hands aside and came free.
The hit landed high and hard. I didn’t see it.
I just felt the explosion through my ribs and shoulder as I was driven into the turf.
The world narrowed to a dull ringing for a moment.
I rolled onto my side and pushed myself up before anyone could reach me.
“I’m good,” I muttered.
7-3. We got the points, but we were still at the beginning.
It was in the second quarter that things got ugly.
The opposing offense leaned even harder into their run game.
There were double teams at the line and guards pulling across the formation.
Their running back ran angrily, with legs churning through first contact and twisting for extra yards after second contact.
On third and short near midfield, we stuffed him.
The defensive back came flying in low and wrapped perfectly, driving through the hips.
The pile surged but didn’t break. Fourth down.
Punt. It was a small victory. I trotted back with sweat running into my eyes.
I wiped it with my wrist and clapped for the snap.