Chapter Six
J ackson somehow made it through the school day, counting the minutes until practice when he’d hopefully feel more in his element.
The hours until final bell consisted of a mix of administrative tasks, familiarizing himself with the school’s athletic program and going over the roster of players so he might have half a chance of learning the names of forty-plus boys before the day was out.
Unlike the other coaches, he wasn’t required to teach classes since he didn’t have a Texas state teaching certificate. Instead, Principal Dean had assigned him lunchtime detention duties.
What a special sort of misery that had been.
The kids hadn’t listened to a word he said, talking over him as if they’d been fully aware it was the first time in his life that he’d ever been on the right side of detention.
He’d had a raging headache by the time it was over.
He’d also been tempted to email a few of his old high school teachers to apologize for his past bratty behavior.
Instead, he’d downed a few Advil and rehabbed his knee in the weight room.
Sweating it out had almost made him feel like his old self again. Almost, but not quite.
Practice would be different, though. Jackson was sure of it.
The locker room was abuzz with chaotic energy as the players got changed and ready for field time.
Cleats squeaked on the rubberized floor, lockers slammed shut and equipment hit the ground with a thud.
Jackson let the familiarity of it wash over him for a moment as he sat at his desk in the adjoining office.
Then, just as he pushed his chair back from his desk so he could check attendance and go over the day’s practice schedule, he heard the sharp pierce of a whistle.
“All right, all right, all right. Listen up, boys. The new head coach starts today, but I’m here to tell you that nothing is going to change.
He might know how to run the ball on the football field, but I think yesterday showed us that he doesn’t know diddly-squat about the Bulldogs or our football program.
While he flails around and tries to figure out which end is up, we’re going to do what we do best.”
Simmons. It had to be.
Jackson crossed to the other side of his office and planted himself in the doorway where he had a clear view of the assistant coach’s back.
A few of the kids glanced tentatively over at him, unsure who was running this show.
Jackson simply tucked his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorjamb to wait.
Simmons could talk until he was blue in the face for all he cared.
It was probably best to let him go ahead and get it out of his system.
Jackson could set things straight once the kids were out of earshot.
“What is it that we do best? Can anyone answer that?” Simmons bellowed.
Three boys situated at the front of the crowd yelled simultaneously. “Win!”
“What’s that again? I can’t hear you!” The back of Simmons’s neck was turning an alarming shade of red.
Jackson recognized them from the roster he’d been studying all day—star quarterback Watson Stokes, offensive tackle Hunt Collier and wide receiver Zander Brown.
Their stats last season had been off the charts.
Jackson wouldn’t be surprised if one, if not all three, boys got recruited for college ball by the end of the year.
Of course that was assuming the team itself had at least a moderately successful season, and Jackson wasn’t counting his chickens before they hatched.
A few more players half-heartedly joined in. “Win.”
Realization finally dawned, and Simmons slowly turned around, eyes locking with Jackson’s. “Oh, you’re here. I expected you to be tardy.”
With one look, Jackson could tell the older man probably hadn’t cracked a smile since Jackson had been the six-year-old phenom of his peewee flag football league.
Even the guy’s frown lines had frown lines.
He was a relic from another era, from the top of his battered Bulldogs cap to the hem of his stretchy polyester pants.
“Not tardy.” Jackson had heard enough of that word for the day. “Seems like I’m right on the dot.”
He couldn’t let this guy get to him. The best thing he could do would be to follow Cade’s advice and concentrate on the kids. Everyone here wanted the same thing: for the young men in this room to succeed.
Jackson took a deep breath, walked straight past Simmons and addressed his team directly. “I’m Coach Knight. I know there’s been a lot of talk about me, and I get it. Like Coach Simmons said, I’ve still got some things to learn about the Bulldogs.”
Simmons let out a snort, but the joke was on him. Thanks to his mascot-caretaking duties, Jackson had become immune to that particular sound.
He continued, nonplussed. “But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s football. That’s why I’m here—to help each and every one of you become better football players. That starts today. Right here, right now. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!” the team yelled in unison.
Mostly, anyway. The trio of boys seated front and center on one of the locker room benches stayed quiet. That was okay, though. He couldn’t win everyone over on the very first day. There was still time.
Is there, though? A tight knot formed in Jackson’s stomach. Friday night will be here in the blink of an eye, and everyone expects a win. Losing isn’t an option.
Calla had made that abundantly clear.
Jackson glanced from one teenager to the next, wincing internally at the constant ache in his knee as he tried to remember what it felt like to be in their shoes.
Football had been pure, unadulterated joy back then—the adrenaline of running through the breakaway banner onto the field on game nights, the way the roar of the crowd never failed to give him goose bumps and the uncanny sensation of the rest of the world falling away beneath the stadium lights.
The game…his teammates…catching the ball and running as fast as his legs could carry him…
those things had been all that mattered.
Playing professionally had changed things.
He still loved football, but it had been a while since the simple act of entering the stadium had given him goose bumps.
Over time, the sport he adored had broken his body.
He hadn’t quite realized that it had also broken his spirit.
Yard after yard, game after game, year after year.
Standing in front of those kids, he felt the tiniest tug somewhere deep inside, like maybe—impossible as it seemed—being here was taking him all the way back to the beginning. To a simpler time when playing ball was what it was supposed to be.
A game.
“Let’s get to work. I expect everyone out on the field in sixty seconds, ready to show me what you’ve got,” Jackson said, and then he felt it—a prickling wave of goose bumps rising along the exposed skin of his arms. The air in the locker room sparked with electricity.
He couldn’t be the only one who felt it, could he?
“This is the first day of something new, gentlemen. If we work together, I promise you it can be something great.” A knot formed in his throat, preventing him from saying more. So he gave his whistle a sharp blow, and a stampede followed as the players scrambled to get to the turf.
When he turned around to face Simmons, he spotted Cade standing off to the side giving him a thumbs-up. The day had gotten off to a rocky start, but he’d finally done something right.
Jackson stood his ground as his problematic assistant coach brushed past him on the way to the field, nearly shoulder checking him in the process.
“Simmons,” he called after him.
The older man cast him an irritated glance. “Yeah?”
Jackson crossed his arms. “I get the feeling you and I need to clear the air.”
The older man looked him up and down as if he was a bug on the bottom of his shoe instead of a nine-time Pro Bowler. “There’s really not much to say. I thought the job was mine, and then you turned up. Got the rug pulled right out from under me.”
“You’ve been here a lot longer than I have.
I understand why this scenario might be frustrating, but the school made its decision.
You’re stuck with me, and if these kids are going to have a shot at winning State, I’m going to need you working with me, not against me.
” They had to get to State first, and right now, that hardly seemed like a given. “The team comes first, right?”
A flicker of hesitation passed through Simmons’s eyes, but then the set of his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. He gave a slight nod. “Right. Just don’t expect me to hold your hand out there.”
Jackson chuckled quietly.
“Not on your life, Coach.”
* * *
Calla sat on the top row of the bleachers at practice, as far away as she could get from Jackson and his players. An inch farther, and she would’ve had to leave the stadium altogether.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Once a week in this place wasn’t bad enough?
Her eyes darted to the turf logo on the thirty-yard line where Ethan’s name was spelled out in crisp lettering.
She wondered what her brother would’ve thought about the fact that they’d rechristened the stadium after he’d passed away.
Knowing Ethan, he would’ve felt it was undeserved.
He’d always given his all on the field, and he took pride in his place in Bulldog history—not just as a player, but as a coach too, even though his tenure on staff hadn’t lasted as long as he’d hoped.
He’d wanted to be named head coach someday, and if he hadn’t passed away so prematurely, Calla knew he would’ve made that dream come true.
But Ethan’s spinal cord injury had damaged the nerves that controlled his respiratory muscles, which made pneumonia especially risky. In the end, he hadn’t stood a chance.