Page 14

If Coach realizes I’m not there, he’s going to be mad. He might even fire me, and somehow, my dad won’t see that it was his fault. He’ll tell me how I do everything wrong. I mean, why wouldn’t he? He already blames me for killing my mom.
My nerves fray as the microwave counts down. I try breathing evenly so I don’t curl into a ball and have a meltdown.
I’m getting it on all sides right now. Taking care of Dad, the new job, and there was a note hanging on our fence when I got back from school asking us to mow the lawn.
One of the neighbors, I’m sure.
The microwave beeps, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Preemptively, I retrieve another soda from the fridge, set everything on his tray, and walk right out, grabbing my bag where I dropped it on the way.
The gate squeaks when I close it, then I take off, my feet hitting the sidewalk in a jog as I try to defy the laws of time and space and get to practice before Coach notices I’m not there. Fat chance.
Luckily, my house is on the opposite side of campus from the practice field, so I don’t have to cross it in order to get to the locker room. I slip through the locker room door without seeing anyone, then drop Coach’s refreshed calendar on his desk before looking for the Gatorade jug. It’s not where it usually is. I search the entire area, and my heart sinks when I come up empty. Quickly, I store my bag inside Coach’s office and head outside. It’s time to face the music.
Once I hit the grass, I jog up the hill toward the practice field, then I hang in the background until it looks like there’s a break. Imove right up to Coach T. “Hi, Coach. Is there anything you need me to do?”
Behind him, I spot the Gatorade jug in its place.Well, that’s interesting. Someone else must have brought it up.
“My calendar?”
“On your desk, sir.”
He side-eyes me. “Did you grab something to take notes with like I asked?”
Notes. Notes? I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Um… I?—”
“Charley, you dropped these on the ground over there.” Cade walks by, shoving a notepad into my hands along with a pen.
“Oh, um, thanks.” I turn to Coach, my hands now full. “All set.”
“Great.” He walks away, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to follow him or not, so I do. What I’m supposed to be taking notes on, I don’t know. Everything, I guess.
Coach walks past Cade at the Gatorade jug. He catches my gaze, and with a small cup nearly to his lips, he says, “Coach wants you to take notes on the D-line. We’re competing against a great offensive team this week, and he wants to make sure everything he notices is documented so he and the other coaches can go over it.”
“Oh, okay.”
“D-line is defensive line.”
“Right. Yeah.”
I scurry after Coach, my head swimming. Why is this guy helping me? The notepad, the instructions? I basically told him to get lost earlier.
There isn’t time to think it over because Coach immediately starts mumbling to himself while he watches the defense practice. At first, I thought he was only talking to himself,but then I caught what he was saying and started scribbling furiously.
Torch slow off the line.
#63 needs to read the run better.
Lots of golden nuggets. By the time he’s watched them for an hour, I have three pages of his observations.
Coach calls practice to an end and turns, nearly running right into me. Two strong arms reach out and pull me out of his way as he marches past.
The touch lingers, and I stare down, already knowing who the fingers belong to. Cade. Obviously. He’s the only player who knows I’m alive.
He squeezes me once. “You should watch out. Coach has blinders on when his mind is working on something.”
“Like the D-line?”
“Like the D-line.” He smirks. “Did you know what that meant before I told you?”