ot 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’s 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 faceguard. 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 a.m. 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, build 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…