6. Landon
Six days was enough time to establish a pattern.
Nolani called after Crème & Chill closed, and I called when I finished film.
Some nights, we talked twenty minutes. Wednesday stretched past an hour because she got me started on book adaptations that had disrespected the source material, and somewhere around midnight, I realized Hershey had strong opinions, excellent recall, and no intention of allowing my advanced degrees to make a bad argument sound better. Thursday, she fell asleep on the phone.
I didn’t mention it Friday because I valued my peace.
By Saturday morning, hearing her voice had worked itself into my week without either of us formally approving the schedule.
I liked her texts between meetings, the pictures of experimental flavors with questions attached, and the books she’d started recommending before threatening to test me later like literacy required accountability.
None of it felt like we were rushing intimacy to catch up with attraction.
We were learning each other in real time, and so far, I was enjoying the hell out of the process.
The whistle left my mouth sharp enough to cut through cleats scraping turf, boys calling for the ball, and the early-morning breeze moving across Self Springs Athletic Park.
Three receivers broke from the line at once, each of them convinced speed could compensate for ignoring the route I’d drawn five minutes earlier.
It couldn’t.
The pass sailed over Malik’s shoulder and struck the grass several yards beyond him. He threw both hands into the air like the football had betrayed him personally.
I lowered the whistle against my chest. “Bring it back.”
A chorus of groans followed them toward the line of scrimmage. Malik retrieved the ball and jogged backward, still looking offended on his own behalf.
“Coach, I was open.”
“You were also supposed to run a slant.”
“I improvised.”
“You abandoned the play.”
“Same difference.” I stared at him until his grin surrendered. “Aight. My bad.”
I stepped toward the formation. “It’ll be everybody’s bad when you improvise us into a loss. Talent gets you noticed. Discipline makes sure folks keep watching. Run what we practiced.”
The boys reset without another complaint.
They knew I wasn’t interested in humiliating them, but I wasn’t about to flatter them into mediocrity either.
Every one of them had enough people prepared to excuse carelessness because they were young, Black, restless, talented, or still figuring themselves out.
I wasn’t joining that list. Caring about them meant expecting something from them.
I pointed toward the line. “Caleb, your feet crossed on the last rep. Keep your base beneath you. Jamari, don’t look at the receiver before the snap unless you plan on sending the defense an engraved invitation. Malik, run the route we called. Your creativity can return after execution.”
From the defensive side of the field, Malcolm’s voice carried over mine.
“And DBs, if that man sends you an engraved invitation, RSVP with an interception. We got manners over here.”
A few boys laughed.
I looked over.
Malcolm stood twenty yards away with his whistle against his chest and his arms folded like he hadn’t just inserted himself into somebody else’s drill.
“This offense,” I told him.
“Football field. Shared jurisdiction.”
“You coach defensive backs.”
“Which is why I’m concerned about the foolishness your receivers spreading.”
Malik called over, “Coach Malcolm, you supposed to be on our side.”
Malcolm looked insulted. “I ain’t on nobody’s side but sound technique. Right now, sound technique got trust issues.”
I shook my head.
Malik adjusted his gloves. “See? Both of y’all always got a speech ready.”
“Nah,” I said. “You keep supplying material.”
Malcolm pointed toward him. “Exactly. Now run that route before Coach Brooks turns this into a dissertation and I start charging tuition.”
The boys laughed, but their posture changed when I raised the whistle again. Caleb widened his stance. Jamari surveyed the defense without advertising where he planned to throw. Malik exploded from the line, planted his outside foot, and cut across the middle exactly where the ball met him.
He secured it against his chest and kept running until I blew the play dead.
“That’s what happens when talent and discipline stop arguing.”
Malik tossed the ball toward Jamari with a grin. “I knew I had it.”
“You knew after I told you.”
“Still knew.”
Malcolm cupped both hands around his mouth. “Confidence unsupported by evidence. I respect it.”
“Reed.”
“What?”
“Coach your people.”
“My people doing excellent.”
One of his defensive backs immediately tripped over a cone.
Malcolm stared at him.
The boy popped back up. “Coach, the cone moved.”
Malcolm looked at me. “You see what I deal with?”
I nodded solemnly. “Hostile equipment.”
“Exactly.”
The boy pointed at both of us. “Y’all play too much.”
Malcolm blew his whistle. “And you about to play ten yards farther back if you don’t fix that footwork.”
I checked the scoreboard.
Ten forty-seven.
Practice ended at eleven thirty. I had enough time to finish red-zone work, speak with a couple parents, get to my parents’ house, shower, change, and leave for Self Ridge without turning punctuality into an emergency. My overnight bag was already packed. The SUV had a full tank.
The playlist had received more attention than I intended to admit under oath.
My phone vibrated against my pocket.
I ignored it through the next snap, watched Jamari force a pass into coverage, and blew the whistle before Caleb could celebrate an interception that never should’ve been offered.
I walked toward Jamari. “Quarterbacks don’t get to panic because option one disappears. Read what changed. Adjust. Don’t let pressure make the defense start choosing for you.”
Jamari tucked the ball beneath one arm. “I thought I could squeeze it in.”
“You can squeeze orange juice. That throw was irresponsible.”
A few boys snickered.
I pointed toward the sideline. “Everybody entertained can give me five while Jamari runs it again.”
Their amusement died immediately.
Jamari smiled. “Appreciate you, Coach.”
“I’m teaching collective accountability.”
“You’re punishing witnesses.”
“I’m developing community.”
Behind me, Malcolm nodded. “See? Pedagogy.”
I looked at him. “You know what pedagogy means?”
His expression changed.
“Why would you disrespect me like that in front of these children?”
A defensive back folded over, laughing.
Malcolm pointed at him. “Eight push-ups.”
The boy straightened. “For what?”
“Disrespecting faculty.”
“You not faculty.”
“Ten.”
“Coach!”
“Twelve. Inflation.”
I shook my head while the team dropped to the grass. There was room for laughter in discipline. There just wasn’t room for laziness.
My phone vibrated again.
Malik noticed, of course.
He rose from his last push-up and wiped his palms against his shorts. “Coach, that Hershey lady text you?”
Twelve heads turned toward me with enough synchronization to make me question why none of them could manage it during drills.
Malcolm’s head turned too.
Slower.
Much more disrespectful.
I pulled out my phone.
Hershey:
If you show up hungry, I’m charging you double.
The smile got me before I could stop it.
Malik slapped Caleb’s shoulder. “I told you.”
Malcolm made a low sound from across the field.
I locked the screen. “Run the play.”
Malik backed toward the line. “That ain’t a no.”
“And them extra laps ain’t a threat. Keep investigating.”
The boys erupted, half laughing and half protesting Malik’s refusal to preserve their conditioning.
“My fault, team.”
Caleb shook his head. “You always making your curiosity everybody’s cardio.”
“That’s leadership.”
“That’s why nobody pass you the ball.”
I raised the whistle. “Y’all finished producing a podcast, or are we practicing football?”
Malcolm walked backward toward his secondary. “I’d subscribe.”
“You’re the reason it got canceled.”
“Hostile administration.”
I looked at him.
He grinned.
“Blessings still finding me, Big Dawg.”
I laughed despite myself and raised the whistle.
The huddle broke.
They ran the play again, and this time, Jamari checked down instead of forcing the throw. Caleb caught the short pass, turned up field, and lowered his shoulder toward a defender half his size.
I blew the whistle before contact. “We’re not collecting concussions before noon. Control your body.”
Caleb slowed with a frustrated breath. “But I had him.”
“You had an opportunity to prove you’re bigger than somebody. That ain’t the same as making the right decision.”
His expression tightened.
I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “Strength ain’t demonstrated by how much damage you can cause. It’s demonstrated by how much control you maintain when damage is available.”
The frustration left his face gradually.
“Yes, sir.”
“Run it again.”
As they reset, I pulled my phone out long enough to answer Nolani.
I’m leaving practice at eleven thirty. Seventy-five miles ain’t enough road to make me late for you.
Her response came before I’d completely put the phone away.
Good. Because I’m excited to see you.
Yeah.
I read that one twice.
Malcolm appeared beside me.
“You smiling at punctuation again?”
“Why aren’t you coaching?”
“Why you avoiding the question?”
“I’m not.”
“That Hershey?”
I slid the phone away. “Mind your business.”
“I ain’t ask what she said.”
“You asking entirely too much already.”
He looked at me for another second.
“You serious about her.”
It wasn’t really a question.
“I like her.” He waited. I looked over. “What?”
“That’s it?”
“What you want, a press conference?”
“Nah. Just enjoying the fact you admitted it without giving me a seventeen-minute presentation on available evidence.”
“I said I like the woman. That don’t require peer review.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Malcolm.”
He raised both hands. “I ain’t said nothing.”
“You were about to.”
“Probably.”
I tossed him a football. “Go teach leverage.”
He caught it against his chest. “Have fun in Self Ridge, lover boy.”
“Don’t call me that shit.”