Chapter 31
Noah
Practice the next morning ran as it always did.
There was still the buzz from the spring game. Some of us had already been given the nod to say we were first team. I was one of them.
I remembered what Coach said; he couldn’t change it even if he wanted to. The crowd wanted to see me. And while I could obviously be benched, he was still the coach, and he’d catch a lot of crap for doing it for no reason.
Didn’t mean I could relax. The crowd brought me back. Sutherland would remember that.
Popularity was all well and good, but I was popular on the team because I played well. To keep the crowd on my side, I needed to keep playing well and improving.
The only way to do that was to play.
Dustin was still giving me the side-eye, but I let him beat me at Madden, and I’d listened to the lecture about ‘protecting Hadley’ twice. Twice. Like I was too stupid to know what he was saying the first time.
And to top my Sunday off, I’d told Tate I’d tried to help him and failed, and he had asked me what I thought I could possibly do?
So . . . it seemed in the world of academia, where Tate ruled, and seemingly along with anyone else who had more brain cells than me, I was the only one thinking I could fix administrative thinking.
My brother had been very gracious in his thanks for thinking of him. I wasn’t sure if that made it worse.
I hadn’t seen Briar again. I’d phoned, but she hadn’t answered. I’d texted once, but she hadn’t replied.
I planned to remedy that next. That I could fix.
So, this morning, while running routes, I was watching the sidelines, waiting for her to arrive.
I could give her space. She was pissed at me, and she was the only one who hadn’t had the chance to yell at me like I was sure she wanted to. But I would not allow her to blank me.
She’d been in that bed with me. She felt what I felt.
She wasn’t writing us off so easily.
“Suicides.”
I turned to look at Coach Holt.
“Why?”
“Because it’s Monday and I’m bored?” he shrugged. “Because? Just because you’re first team doesn’t mean you can’t run suicides.” He grinned. “Pick one, I don’t care. To the thirty. I want ten.”
“But—”
“You want to make it to the forty and run twenty?”
“Fuck no.” I started jogging to the end zone. “Thanks, Coach, I appreciate you!” I called over my shoulder.
His callous laughter made me imagine punching him in the throat. I ran my suicides.
By the time I was finished, she was in the corner of the field, sitting cross-legged on the turf and checking her camera.
Briar looked up and caught my stare, then dropped her head and went back to her camera.
“Nah.” I walked over to the bench on the pretense of finding my water bottle.
Dante was in the middle of the eighty, practicing his throw. I saw him wince and rub his shoulder once he’d completed the pass to the tight end, Moore.
I saw that Coach Sutherland also watched him, and he seemed to be in a deep discussion with Coach Hembry about the number-one quarterback for the Blues.
But did Dante know he was being watched?
He answered by turning and assessing the two coaches, then, in true Spence style, walked right over to them.
I hid my smile. The guy was fearless. He genuinely had no qualms about confrontation. He didn’t care if it was a classmate or a coach. If it concerned him, he wanted to know.
Dustin was running routes up and down the field, and I wondered where he got his energy.
“Looking good, Slater,” I encouraged.
“Eat shit, Matthews.”
I laughed. Dustin was still grumpy. Fine. Hadley had refused to see him last night, which is another reason why he was at the dorm, so that hadn’t helped my case.
I’d heard him talking on his phone long after I should’ve been asleep, and I’d put my headphones on rather than ask him to shut the fuck up.
Bridges to mend and all that.
Speaking of bridges.
I walked down the sideline, capitalizing on the fact that Coach Holt was ripping into one of the defensive ends. It really was a pity Whittaker was still out; Saturday’s game would have been his shot.
“Are you avoiding me?” I asked her quietly as I got closer.
“I’m working.” Briar stood smoothly, wiping her hands over her ass for debris.
“Did you get any pictures of me on Saturday?” I asked, and when she gave me a look, I pointed to her phone sticking out of her front jeans pocket. “For my social media? I haven’t posted in a while.”
The look she gave me let me know in no uncertain terms that she was doing her best not to curse me out.
“B?” I lowered my voice. “Still mad?”
“I’m not talking about it, and don’t nickname me.” she muttered. “Not here. Not now.” Her fingers flew over her phone. “There, I sent you some for your feed.” She walked away from me.
I sighed, and when Holt turned around, I was already running back to him.
“Needed water,” I told him.
“You’re lining up against him.” Holt jerked his thumb toward the defensive end. I’d already forgotten his name. “Pretend you’re a tight end, Matthews. See if he can take you down.”
I didn’t argue. We did this all the time.
One-on-one with me on offense, all I needed to change was my footwork — set off from the right instead of the left. I adjusted my stance.
Holt blew the whistle.
I took off.
The DE missed me.
By a mile.
I cleared him by ten yards.
I jogged back, grinning, until I caught Holt’s glare and the smile disappeared from my face.
“Again.”
We ran it three more times. He never even grazed me with his fingertips.
When I turned to jog back to the line, Coach Sutherland was standing beside Holt.
“I used to laugh off the idea you could play tight end,” he said.
That wasn’t reassuring. He looked me over like he was reconsidering something.
“Spence!” he barked.
My stomach dropped.
“Yes, Coach,” Dante said, already moving toward us.
“Get the O-line. Matthews is your tight end. I want you to throw it to him.”
“Coach?” Dante glanced at me, then toward Moore warming up nearby.
“Did I stutter, Spence?”
“No, Coach.”
Dante started calling names. The offensive line assembled while I hesitated where I stood.
“Coach, I—”
“To the right,” Sutherland snapped. “Spot’s empty.”
“I don’t know the offensive plays,” I reminded him. “I’m a linebacker.”
He snorted.
“You forget you tore holes through my offense all Saturday? You know the plays.”
Coach Merriman had wandered over now, watching the setup.
“Run the play, Spence. I don’t hear you!”
Fuck.
I did not want to play offense.
I stepped into position on the right side of the line.
I waited for Dante to call the play. Would I know it? Of course I would. I played defense for this team, and I knew the whole damn playbook.
Dante’s voice cut through the line. “Trips right. Slant.”
Simple, very basic. The kind of play they ran a hundred times in practice.
I set my feet on the turf and glanced down the line. The O-line was already settling in, helmets tilted forward, waiting for the snap count.
The defensive end crouched across from me, lower this time. About time. At least he was taking it seriously now.
I shifted my weight onto the balls of my feet and glanced back once.
Dante stood behind the center, hands ready, eyes flicking from the defense to me and back again.
He didn’t look thrilled about this.
I couldn’t blame him.
“Set,” he called.
The defense adjusted.
The DE across from me rolled his shoulders like he was about to make a point.
I almost felt bad for him.
“Go!”
The ball snapped.
The DE exploded forward.
I stepped inside, gave him half a shoulder like I was blocking, then slipped past him before he could even get his hands on me. By the time he realized I wasn’t staying on the line, I was already two steps clear.
I cut hard toward the middle.
The safety hesitated.
That was the mistake. I put power into my legs and glanced back as Dante’s arm came up.
For a split second, our eyes met across the field.
Then the ball was in the air.
It spiraled toward me, clean and tight. My hands came up automatically. The catch landed soft against my palms like it was meant to be there all along.
I tucked the ball and turned upfield.
Nobody touched me.
Ten yards.
Fifteen.
I slowed before the end zone, walked over the line, and mimicked tossing the ball as if the ref was standing there, and I’d done it a thousand times.
The whistle blew behind me.
I turned back toward the line.
The DE was staring at me like I’d just murdered his entire bloodline.
Dante jogged toward me, shaking his head.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he muttered.
I handed the ball back and shrugged. “Just running the play.” I took a breath. “Don’t ask me why he’s making me do this.”
Across the field, Coach Sutherland was watching me.
Not smiling or frowning, just watching.
He stepped closer to Coach Holt and said something under his breath. Holt’s eyes flicked to me. Then back to Sutherland.
The coach looked at me again, longer this time.
Like he’d just realized something he wasn’t sure he liked. “Again!” he barked.
“Am I a linebacker again, Coach?” I asked as I joined the line of scrimmage.
“No.”
I ground my teeth together as I took my place on the line.
This time, the defense didn’t look nearly as confident, and I wasn’t thrilled with the change in the gameplay either.
Dante called another play, and once again, I ducked around the defense and made my move. Looking back, the ball was already sailing my way. I caught it, gained five yards, and was tackled.
I laughed as the second team linebacker flattened me.
“You ran after me?” I asked him as he helped me to my feet.
“No clue what the play is anymore, I went freestyle,” he muttered.
“Smart,” I clapped him on the shoulder and returned to the line. Coach Sutherland watched me and then looked around at his players.
“Everybody on this field here now!” he yelled.
When all the players and coaches were gathered around him, he sucked his teeth and moved in a small circle to look at us one by one.
He turned toward the defense. “You see that? You see Matthews showing you up as he plays offense?” he barked. The entire unit went still. “That’s what a football player looks like.”
Nobody said a word.
“Position doesn’t matter,” Sutherland continued. “Matthews just showed you that. Moore!”
Jason stepped forward, having been on the sidelines while I essentially played his position.
“You just lost your place on the first team.”
My eyes popped as Jason’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck?” he demanded.
“That.” Coach Sutherland pointed at him with a gleam in his eye.
“That feeling you just had. The fact that your dream just vanished? That’s what you’re out here playing for every day.
All of you.” He glared at all of us. “The outside world? The comings and goings of trends,” he sneered.
“It means fucking nothing. Nothing.” He glared at us all again.
“Position on this field does not matter,” he said again, slowly. “Production does.”
His eyes slid to me for half a second before moving back to the line.
“Again.” He spat on the turf. “Matthews, show them again what a footballer looks like while their heads are full of shit.”
I jogged back to the tight end spot, but something about the way the team had gone quiet stuck with me.
The drill wasn’t about offense. It wasn’t about defense either. It was about reminding everyone whose program this was.
And apparently, today, I was the example used to remind the team that it was Coach Sutherland’s.
But as I lined up again, I noticed something else. He wasn’t watching me. Not really. Sutherland stood with his arms folded, eyes moving slowly across the field.
Not the play. The players.
The defensive line. The safeties. Dante behind the center. Even the guys standing off to the side, waiting for their reps.
He was reading the room.
Watching who looked pissed. Who looked impressed. Who looked like they wanted to argue. Who kept their heads down. And now he knew. He’d use it.
The leaks had rattled the program. Everyone knew it. No one was saying it out loud, but Coach Sutherland didn’t need them to.
This drill wasn’t about showing I could play tight end. It was about seeing who was still playing for him.
Dante glanced over at me before calling the play. Calculating. He knew it too, and he was pissed. Not at me, but at the cleverness of our head coach.
He’d just outmaneuvered us.
The whistle blew again, and this time, every pair of eyes on the field felt a little heavier.
I ran the play, but the defense doubled me immediately. Two bodies crashed into me before I’d taken three steps, and I didn’t gain a yard.
I never even saw who Dante threw to. I was too busy trying to breathe under a pile of bodies.
“Jesus, guys,” I muttered as I untangled myself from them. “I’m on your side.”
They laughed as they pushed off me, and I blew out a breath.
“Matthews, water break,” Holt called as the team jogged upfield.
“Thanks, Coach.” I headed for the sideline and spotted Briar near the bench. The camera was up, but I could feel her eyes on me before she lowered it.
“Your arm’s bleeding,” she said quietly.
I glanced down. A thin graze ran along my forearm, already streaked with dirt. I dumped some water over it. “Thanks.”
“He’s a clever bastard,” she muttered, moving a little closer.
“Yeah,” I took a long drink. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised he’d turn it into a lesson.”
Briar snorted. “This is why I said it was reckless.”
I didn’t answer, and she took my silence as agreement. It wasn’t, but we could argue about it later.
“Are you okay?” I asked, turning away from the field and pretending to adjust my cleat so I could look at her properly.
“I’m good.” She lifted the camera again and took another shot. She checked the screen. “That’s a good one,” she said softly. “Post it this afternoon. Make a silly joke. Let everyone watching see that the team keeps playing on despite all the noise. Show them you’re a Lion.”
I held her gaze. “Is that all I am?”
Briar looked down at the camera. “You’ll have it after practice,” she said. “If you need help with a caption, ask Hadley. She’s good at that kind of thing.”
Ouch. She moved away.
“B?” I called, and she turned back and looked at me. She gave a small shake of her head and gave me a look that almost brought me to my knees. She wasn’t angry anymore.
“Later,” she promised and then hurried away.
The shrill whistle cut across the field again, and I turned back automatically. Coach Sutherland was already looking at me. He gave me a slow, satisfied smirk.
And I had the sinking feeling I’d just played straight into his hands.