It feels as though my blood has stopped circulating, my hands and feet cold, and my body stiff.
Beside me, Brielle clears her throat to catch my attention and gives me a knowing look.
“As stated in your syllabus, it will be an introductory speech, no longer than five minutes. You’ve all given plenty of introductory speeches in your lives, but this time you need to introduce someone you don’t know personally. Someone who exists that you’re going to have to research and find the most significant details that make them interesting without giving too much away because the only thing worse than a poor introduction is a spoiled introduction.” Hawkins paces the front of the room, eyes scanning over the class. I try my hardest to meet her gaze and not to look away. “We’re starting with an introductory speech because the objective of an introductory speech is to make your audience listen—which is the first thing you need to learn about public speaking.” She walks to the corner of the room, stopping at her desk where she withdraws an envelope from the top drawer along with a box of thumbtacks. She carries them and her coffee to the front where a large bulletin board—another beige item in the beige room—has a single sheet of white paper tacked to the corner. I passed it on my way into the class this morning, distracted by the single change. It was a copy of the syllabus.
Professor Hawkins sets her coffee on an empty desk and pulls out a piece of lime-green cardstock and tacks it to the wall before stabbing the same sheet with her finger. “Know your audience,” she reads. “When you’re making a speech, you’re not talking for yourself. It is not about you. It’s aboutthem. You need to know your audience and tailor your speech to them. This includes your word choice, the level of information you’re going to share, and how you’re going to motivate them to,” she raises a finger, “keep listening to you. And,” she raises a second finger, “do whatever it is you’re asking them to.
“Before you write your speech, you need to decide who will your classmates be excited to meet. How are you going to engage them? Why will they want to sit and listen to you drone on?”
I stare at Professor Hawkins, my nerves growing so big and fast that my fear doesn’t feel familiar. I’ve never failed a class before, but it feels like a premonition as her eyes meet mine that I will be failing this one.
Chapter6
Nolan
Coach Peters clears his throat from where he’s standing at the head of the room. Tonight is the eve of our first game, and we’re gathered in the facility, eating like kings. The staff of chefs and nutritionists have outdone themselves tonight, as they do before every home game. They made four different kinds of pasta, garlic bread slathered in butter, steak, grilled chicken, and a salad. Tonight is all about carb and protein loading.
“I want to make a quick toast,” Coach Peters says, raising a glass. Rather than address us, he’s looking at the boosters. They’re the only people he ever cares about impressing. Hudson is tucked in beside one now. I glance at one of my closest friends as he takes a drink, likely washing down the bullshit he’s obligated to endure. Joseph Duken is our top contributing booster, and behind the scenes at events like these, the university caters to his every command. Hudson doesn’t normally mind, he’s good at rubbing elbows and playing these games because his father, a retired NFL player, taught him.
“These boys have been working their asses off, preparing for this season,” Peters continues.
Boys.
He always refers to us as boys—a menial and undetected way to demean us.
Beside me, Palmer quietly scoffs, catching the dig as he reaches for another slice of garlic bread.
“We’re looking forward to punishing Cal State for daring to step on our field and claiming our first victory.” There’s a pause, and then the coaching staff begins clapping. The university keeps Peters from giving many interviews because he’s a terrible speaker and has been known to get lost on tangents and make public rants.
The team and boosters follow, cheering and clapping like he’s said something worthy of a standing ovation. In a sense, he has because as soon as the cheers stop, he returns to his seat at the head table and continues eating, allowing the rest of us to resume our conversations.
“Do you think we’ll be able to make it this year?” Corey asks. “I mean, yes, we’re fucking yoked, and we have speed, and passing, but we lost some of our biggest defensive guys last year. And we’re not the only ones gunning for the playoffs. Notre Dame has Jones this year, and South Carolina is nothing to sneeze at. And we can’t forget about Georgia Tech and their loaded defense. They were like a goddamn bulldozer last year and they didn’t have a single senior, so you know they’re going to be out for blood this year.”
Grey stops chewing, listening to Corey’s nerves getting the best of him. Grey never talks about projections. He’s as cool and calm as fucking stone. It works for him, and though his demeanor would probably leave guys pissing their pants if he were on defense, it’s just as effective on offense because there are times we all look at Grey and wonder if he’s going to go rogue and tackle one of the damn defenders.
I, on the other hand, am all about the hype. The energy from the crowd is like a shot of adrenaline, feeding me and allowing me to lose myself in the game. When I step onto the field, I become a different person. “They’re going to be writing about us in the history books, remember?” I ask, dishing more of the manicotti onto my plate. I’m already full, but dinner is too damn good to quit.
Palmer nods, his focus on Corey. Palmer is always ready for a good time, the loudest in our group, and sometimes wildly inappropriate—he’s also the first to drop everything when someone has a problem. “We’re going to be running circles around Cal State, tomorrow, and then we’re going to do it again next week, and the week after. One game at a time.”
Corey nods. Grey resumes eating.
“We have speed and passing,” I tell him, driving the reassurance home. “Hudson throws anything up, and he has the four of us to retrieve it.” I shake my head. “They don’t stand a chance.”
Palmer raises his fist to mine, eyes bright with a shared level of enthusiasm. “Hell yes.”
“I just hope Peters doesn’t rent us all out, like he did Hudson,” I say, taking a long drink of water. All of us turn to take note of our friend as he listens intently to whatever Joseph Duken is telling him like he gives an actual shit.
Hudson shifts his gaze to our prying stares and gives a slight shake of his head, warning us we don’t want to draw attention and be invited over, which means the conversation has taken a turn and Duken is likely trying to coach him, as boosters love to do.
Palmer’s phone rings, and for the fourth time, he silences it.
“Ghosting someone?” I ask.
“Is it that Sadie chick?” Corey asks.
Palmer nods. “The girl wants my nuts.”
“She’s been blowing up your phone for the past week,” Corey says.