Page 3

Chapter 3

Fowl Play

" WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?! "

Logan stayed stock-still as Coach roared at them, his round face twisted up with fury as he paced the line of embarrassed football players gathered in his office.

Lock it down, Logan told himself. Be a man. Don't show weakness. Don't act like a target. Don't give him an excuse to notice you

He'd learned that lesson long ago; on a different team, under a different coach. And though Coach Rankin wasn't Logan's father —

Just take your lumps, and he'll burn himself out. This'll be over faster if you keep quiet and wait

Logan's teammates had always joked that being the coach's kid meant Logan had it easy. Knowing they'd believe what they wanted to believe, Logan hadn't tried to argue. Hadn't told them that being the coach's son meant he'd been doing wind sprints with the varsity team since before he'd gotten his first mouth guard. That it came with weekends of extra practice instead of trips to the beach, and long nights doing monkey rolls and push-ups until he puked.

"Scratch that," Coach shouted in a voice that doubtlessly could be heard out in the locker room, despite the closed door. "You weren't thinking, were you? Because if any of you would-be hooligans had taken even a moment to consider it, you'd have to have realized what a monumentally stupid and disrespectful stunt that was to play on your fellow athletes."

Logan winced, before quickly smoothing it away.

Because… Yeah, okay. Coach Rankin wasn't wrong. Even as Logan had given Bennet a boost to climb through the open locker window, he'd known their plan was a bad idea. It'd just sounded so fucking funny when he'd been listening to Drummond sketch it out. Feeling like one of the team as the five of them huddled in the corner of the student union, he'd been a bit preoccupied waving at the cute girls who were definitely checking out the table full of football players. And — alright, maybe he'd been showing off a little too each time they turned to their friends and giggled.

It'd felt good, being a part of something like that. Having a set mission and a goal, then seeing it through, like running a perfect play. Hadn't hurt, being the center of attention, too. Used to be, Logan had to share the glory with an entire roster of other guys. Now, as a red shirt who couldn't suit up and hit the field until after his first year, Logan didn't even have that.

So yeah — he'd jumped in Whittle's beater of an old truck, shoulder to shoulder with him and Rodriguez as they'd headed to the farm supply store without complaint. It'd been Logan holding a wiggling cardboard box on his lap as they drove to the soccer team's clubhouse after it'd closed for the night. Him too, standing on lookout as Bennet jimmied open the locker room window he'd overheard someone complaining never latched right at a party or something. And it'd been Logan passing the boxes containing the key to their prank through the window to the waiting Bennet, before climbing up and inside himself.

And when Coach had asked Logan point-blank if he'd helped release a hundred baby chicks into the soccer team's locker room, and then left them there overnight? Well, it wasn't like he could honestly answer ' No ', was it? Didn't matter if the older players had talked him into it, or how excited he'd been just to be invited along with the guy s .

He'd put out food and water for the chirpy little fluffballs, at least. Sure, he was an idiot, but Logan wasn't a monster .

It'd been fucking hilarious, too. From the look of the videos the team had posted to their social media feeds, the damn things had shat everywhere . Scrolling through the feeds, Logan had been flying high on the buzz of a successful prank — right up until Bennet turned rat-bastard and snitched.

"Your fellow athletes," Coach continued, stabbing the air with one finger as he talked, making sharp, choppy gestures. "Who I should not have to remind you, play for the same school as yourselves. Who wear the same damned logo on their uniforms as you. We might play different sports, but those gentlemen are as much your teammates as anyone out there in our locker room. They practice just as hard as you do, they suit up just like you do, and they leave it all on the field each and every match, same as any of you gentlemen. By disrespecting them, you've disrespected this school, and you've disrespected me . You are all on notice until I say otherwise. You boys hear me?"

"YES, COACH!" Logan and his fellow conspirators shouted together.

"If I get word that any of you try something this boneheaded again, you will find yourself benched. Understand?"

"YES, COACH!"

"And before any of you go getting any more bright ideas, listen up! If even a single one of them turns out to suffer from the same sheer idiocy that you gentlemen have shown here, and gets it in their heads to retaliate? You are not only to accept it as your well-deserved comeuppance, but I better hear that you then turned your cheek with a ' Thank you, may I have another? ' DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?"

"YES, COACH!"

"Hell, I'm getting madder by the minute just looking at your faces. I've got Saturday's game to prepare for. Get out of here and report to AC Carmelo. Pretty sure you boys have some cleaning to do."

"YES, COACH!" they responded, and relief flooded through Logan as he made for the office door with the others as ordered.

"Not you, St. James."

Shit

"You stay," Coach said as Logan's heart felt through the floor.

"Sir?"

"Close the door."

Logan swallowed harshly as he obeyed. Briefly, his attention fell on the pair of chairs opposite Coach's massive wooden desk. But in the end, he figured it might be better to remain standing. If Coach wanted Logan to sit, he'd ask him to sit, right?

He did not.

With an enormous sigh, Coach Rankin dropped into the plush chair behind his desk. He removed his glasses, ignoring Logan while he cleaned them on the hem of his shirt, frowning as he inspected them in the light.

"Son," he said, finally putting his glasses back on, his eyes dark as they jumped to meet Logan's own. "Out of all the guys on my team, you are the very last one who can afford to be pulling stunts like this."

Fuck

"Sir?" Logan replied.

As if you don't know

Coach watched him evenly. "Drummond and the others said it was your idea."

It was as if the floor dropped away under his feet, Logan's stomach lurching as his face went numb.

"N-no, I — " He swallowed harshly against the knot lodged in his throat. "I mean, I — It was just a joke. I didn't think they'd go through with it."

"You know what'd be funny?" he'd said.

"Soccer's not real football," he'd said. "It's just a lot of guys flapping around on the ground, tripping over their own laces and pretending to be injured."

"They're all a bunch of chickens," he'd said

Drummond had seized on the idea. Whittle drove. Bennet got them in. Rodriguez had known the farm stores put surplus chicks on discount around this time of year, and they'd all chipped in the money. But —

But it'd never have happened if Logan hadn't first made the joke.

"I never thought it'd go this far," Logan admitted.

"Freshman, new to the team, hanging out with a bunch of juniors and seniors… They pressure you?"

"No, sir." Logan just hung his head. "Didn't have to."

Lips pursed, Coach sized Logan up. "Well, can't say you aren't honest. Rocks for brains, maybe, but at least you aren't a coward, too."

He leaned over to open a drawer in his desk, fingers walking over the manila folders inside until he found the one he was looking for. He plucked it from the drawer, laying it flat on the desk where Logan could see it.

It was hard to make out what any of the pages it contained meant, especially upside down. But Logan only had to read the man' face to know it couldn't be anything good.

"Your professors tell me you've missed several of their classes. And that the ones you show up to, you don't seem engaged."

Logan winced.

"You've missed deadlines," Coach continued, moving the papers in the folder around. "And that's assuming you turn in your work at all. Your lab partners say you haven't been pulling your weight on projects — "

"They complained?" Logan asked, shocked. Jerry and Tiff had seemed cool, saying they understood when he had to take off for practice.

"Not as such," Coach frowned, leaning in as he checked something on the top sheet. "They didn't have to. After the assignment was turned in, everyone involved was told to assess their teammates' involvement. It says here you scored a five."

"A five's not good?"

"Not out of ten," Coach answered. "Especially when it looks as if you didn't fill out the mandatory assessment at all."

"Oh," Logan said, shifting. Maybe he should've sat down after all. "I didn't realize. Thought it was — y'know — like, an optional thing."

"Seems to me as if you think all your classes are 'an optional thing.'"

"I don't," Logan rushed to argue, but Coach waved him off.

"Son, the first term is an adjustment for almost every Freshman. But this?" Coach waved at Logan's file. "Combined with last night's idiocy, and your performance in practice this last month — Well, it paints a picture."

"My — My performance?" Logan echoed, his face and hands tingling uncomfortably.

Coach tilted his head, looking up at Logan assessingly. "Playing at this level is a privilege. Be honest, now. Do you feel you've given the team your best these past few months?"

Hating himself, Logan glared down at his feet and shook his head no.

Coach blew out a huge breath. "Boy, you are drowning and you don't even know it, do you?"

"Sir?"

"I'll be straight with you: your team deserves better than this piss-poor showing you've been giving us this year. You aren't in high school anymore, son — they broadcast our games all over the world. If you wanna put on our uniform next season, you've got to be worthy of it. There's kids in those stands that'll be looking up to you. Now you tell me…" Coach nodded at the open file. "This the kind of man you want them to see?"

Logan swallowed, his throat thick and painful as he shook his head 'no'.

Coach sighed. "The good news is that most of this is all stuff we've seen before. You aren't the only freshman to struggle with juggling school, practice, and learning to live on his own for the first time. Hell, it's why we make you boys red shirts in the first place. It's fixable, is what I'm saying. Provided that is, you're willing to put in the effort."

"I am, Sir," Logan promised, looking Coach in the eye.

"Glad to hear it," Coach said, nodding sharply. "You've got heart, son, but heart will only take you so far. Get your grades up. Work your butt off out on that field. And I'm warning you now — this prank shit's gotta go. Thank God none of you boys decided to pull this on another school, or I'd have had to set an example and cut all of you from the program. Even Drummond, and then the alumni association would be howling for my head."

He shuffled some of the papers in Logan's file around, before looking up at Logan meaningfully.

"I don't want to learn you've been involved in anything like this incident again, ya hear? Anything. I cannot stress to you enough how badly this almost cost you. Hell, if any of the cheerleaders so much as complains you cracked wise about her po m-poms — you're done. The whole school's watching you now, St. James. Don't screw this one up."

"Yes, sir," Logan promised, the word coming out low and wretched.

"Good." Closing the folder, Coach set it to the side of his desk. "Now get out of here and start cleaning up your mess. Your entire future depends on it."