Page 22 of Delay of Game (Norwalk Breakers #4)

TWENTY-TWO

ROB

I posted up opposite the wall of linemen, uncomfortable with the football under my fingertips and the third-string quarterback calling the play behind me.

I was used to being on the opposite side of the ball.

The one with coaches and staff watching my every move.

But that was before Coach Simmons shook up practice.

But, I’d been relegated to a “practice team” position on the offense, while Fieste, of all the fucking people, took my spot.

Coach Mills blew his whistle, and I exploded across the line of scrimmage, arms wide enough to wrap up Fieste and Isaiah in a single push.

Isaiah ducked under my arm, and I tripped him on his way to the quarterback, but Fieste couldn’t escape my grip.

A shrill whistle killed the play, and I let him go.

“What the hell was that?” Coach spluttered, words garbled through the whistle still wedged in his mouth. “Fieste, you were slow off the line. Isaiah, at least try to stay on your feet.”

“I don’t even want to talk about how shitty you lot did.” He waved toward the outside linebackers and cornerbacks. “Grab a drink and run it again. I don’t know what Coach Simmons was thinking, but you humps better shape up if you want even a sniff at a starting position.”

I wiped the sweat off my forehead and held back a laugh. With nearly five decades of coaching under his belt, Coach Mills had seen some shit. He didn’t get riled up easily, and this practice had certainly riled him.

Despite the sucky tone of the practice, our head coach wasn’t nearly as peeved. Coach Simmons stalked the sidelines, a visor shading his face and a whistle in hand, watching the coordinators run practice and interjecting at intervals, moving players on and off the field.

“Vigil, off!” he shouted.

Frankie Vigil stopped mid-run. His head craned back to the head coach, eyes wide.

“Yeah, you. Send in Jenkins,” Coach Simmons said.

Marty Jenkins practically leapt off the bench. He’d been on the practice team for two years without getting so much as a toe on the field. He wasn’t about to blow his shot. Frankie’s normally friendly smile dropped into a frown as he muttered curses on his way off the field.

“He’s just trying to motivate us,” I said as Frankie passed.

“He’s motivating me to call my agent.” Vigil shook his head and continued onto the sideline.

I didn’t blame him. The mood on the field was miserable. Worse than miserable, tense. On the first snap, Trent Vogt cut in front of Jenkins, grabbing a throw and running into the end zone. His reward? Coach Simmons pulled him off the field, too.

“This is going to get ugly,” Diego Salazar sidled up beside me, dropping his voice to a whisper.

“You don’t find this highly motivating?”

“If you want someone highly motivated to start a fist fight, yeah. This is great.” He groaned. “Do you know where Lionel is?”

Lionel Mack, Coach Simmons’ mentor, made up for the social graces the head coach lacked.

Back in his day, he’d been a beloved coach, if not a particularly successful one.

He coached the same Division I school for nearly two decades, eking out bowl invitations but never making it to the national championship.

Coach Simmons had eclipsed his mentor’s career after only two years as a college football coach, winning a national championship and then going to the NFL, only to crash spectacularly.

The head coaching position for the Norwalk Breakers was Coach Simmons’ phoenix rising moment, but they’d only allowed his second chance if Coach Lionel came along.

“Vacation? Visiting his grandkids?” I guessed. “I can’t remember. He’ll be back in time for the next game.”

“That might be too late,” Diego said as he eyed two tight ends bowing up to each other in the end zone.

“Can we make it that long?” I asked, unsure I’d make it through practice. Even with Coach Simmons’ assurances that I’d be back in my starting spot by game day, I couldn’t help the urge to clock Fieste just for standing in my place.

“I’m not sure I’ll make it through practice,” Diego admitted with a sigh. “We’ll be off the field in an hour. Before we go to the film room, let’s grab Lakeland, Kweame, and Vogt and talk to Coach Simmons.”

Invoking the name of the captains caught my attention. Even with the stars on my jersey, I treated my position as captain more as a “in-name-only honor,” not a leadership position. That’s what coaches were for.

“Seriously?” I raised an eyebrow, scanning the field for the other captains and wondering whether Diego had talked to them first.

“Seriously, man.” He pivoted away from Coach Simmons as he made another pass of the sideline. “We have a chance at a Super Bowl run this year. Our last loss sucked, but it wasn’t catastrophic. We’re just making small mistakes. This plan will wreck us.”

At this point in the week, every member of the team had watched the tape at least a half dozen times.

And Diego had a point. Our performance on the field Saturday looked sloppy, not season-ending.

I’d written off Coach Simmons’ overreaction as a problem with the offense or special teams, and he had grouped us all together to make a point.

But the game tape didn’t show any of that.

I raked a hand through my hair. “Fine. Fuck it. We’ll talk to him. Let’s just get through this.”

Diego rallied the other captains while I paced outside the executive wing of the stadium. Mom had agreed to take Mila to gymnastics so I could stay late. And other than a picture of Mila face-planting off the uneven bars, my phone was disappointingly quiet.

Nothing from Astrid.

I opened up our text message thread, typing and erasing a message for the fiftieth time since she’d cooked me breakfast and, in thanks, I told her I didn’t want to date her.

My timing sucked. My explanation sucked. I’d had a pit in my stomach since the minute the words left my mouth. Not only had she slept sitting up to make sure I got a good night’s sleep, but she’d cooked for me. Other than my mom and Lena, the only people who cooked for me got a paycheck in return.

What a piece of shit I was.

How was your day?

My finger hovered over the text before I erased it. Lame. Dumb.

A door slammed on the other end of the hallway, and I pocketed my phone. Diego and the other captains met in the hallway.

“Where the hell is Vogt?” Or, more accurately, how the hell had Trent Vogt avoided this meeting while I’d rearranged my night.

Diego shrugged. “Couldn’t make it. But then again, the offense has three co-captains, so we let him skip. We need defense representation and you’re our only option.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that when you decided you didn’t want to share the responsibility with anyone,” Noa laughed.

“Well, that was back when being ‘captain’ just meant getting a patch on my jersey. Not when the fucking wheels were falling off the team and I had to do something about it,” I grumbled.

“No worries.” Noa clapped my back. “Maybe you’ll learn to share by next season.”

“Probably not,” I admitted. “So, do I actually have to say anything when we go in here?”

“Let me handle it,” Diego grinned. “I’m bringing you in as a show of force.”

Cole Lakeland crossed his arms. “I’m still not convinced we shouldn’t let Coach Simmons fall on his face over this stunt. Did you see Donovan kicking today? It’s not pretty. Let the third-string play Miami.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’d like to get a Super Bowl ring before I retire.”

“And you don’t have many seasons left,” Lakeland laughed. “Fine. No Team Chaos this season. I’m disappointed, but then again, Luke might quit if he gets benched.”

“God forbid we lose the least engaged field goal kicker in the NFL.” I rolled my eyes. But Lakeland had a point. Some seasons were won on the backs of kickers, and none were better than Luke. Even if he’d rather be doing anything else besides playing football.

“We just need Coach Simmons to understand that while we respect his decisions as coach, as captains, this decision is causing a lot of conflict,” Noa said, his voice low and calm.

“So, you’re talking too?” I asked.

Noa grinned. “I’m not going home late because I sat around while Diego ran his mouth. Let’s get this over with.”

Noa and Diego led the charge into Coach Simmons’ office while I hung back with Lakeland. Diego knocked on the door and received a curt, “Come in,” before walking inside the office.

Coach Simmons’ office wasn’t exactly set up for a crowd. Noa and Diego log jammed the rest of us, standing at the door while they waited for an invitation to take a seat. And even then, Coach Simmons only had two chairs, leaving three of us standing around awkwardly.

“What can I do for you all tonight?” he asked, as if four team captains regularly waltzed into his office after hours.

I had to give it to Nate Simmons. He didn’t scare.

“Hey, Coach,” Diego began. “We need to talk about practice.”

Coach Simmons raked a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, that didn’t accomplish what I wanted.”

“You mean you didn’t want us all at each other’s throats?” I asked, regretting my tone when Noa turned to glare at me.

“Nope,” Coach Simmons groaned. “Not even a little. I thought it’d incentivize players to try a little harder.”

“Oh, people were trying harder,” Lakeland laughed.

“Trying hard to kill each other,” I muttered.

“Got it.” Coach Simmons set a hand on the desk. “I hear your concerns, and I’ll take them under consideration.”

His tone had all the emotion of an audiobook narrator reading a self-help guide. Robotic and pat.

Diego raised an eyebrow. “So, that’s not a ‘I’m gonna change tactics immediately,’ is it?”

“Like I said.” Coach Simmons’ neck muscles bulged as he eked out the words.

“I’ll take your concerns into consideration when I talk to the coordinators tomorrow morning.

I’m not backing down from my belief that there are some problems in the starting lineup that need to be addressed.

Until I can fully resolve those issues, there will be some tough practices.

Until then, I suggest that, as captains, you resolve intra-personal matters within your teams.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Lakeland asked under his breath.

“It means he wants us to deal with his mess ourselves,” I responded, loud enough for Coach Simmons to hear.

If my comment annoyed him, he didn’t let it show. “Exactly. Lead, gentlemen. That’s what I’m suggesting you do. Have a great night.”

We filed out of Coach Simmons’ office, staying silent until we made it into the locker room.

“So, this is our problem?” Diego scoffed. “He knocks over the game and we clean it up?”

“He’s asking us to help him get our team ready for the playoffs.” Noa grabbed his bag off the bench and slung it over his shoulder. “He has a point. We’re the team leaders, and if we don’t have shitty attitudes when he changes things up, the rest of the team will follow suit.”

“My attitude is shit because Donovan kicked my hand.” Lakeland’s mouth twisted into a frown.

“So, you’re saying we need to motivate the team?” I asked, crossing my hands over my chest. “Because the defense didn’t pick me as captain because I’m motivational.”

“Seniority-based captains are still captains.” Lakeland swiped a t-shirt off his locker, throwing it over his shoulder.

I groaned. “I should have turned it down.”

“Just couldn’t turn down the stars on your jersey?” Diego laughed. “Rob is fancy like that.”

“Fuck you guys,” I swore, turning to the door.

“Get some beauty sleep, fancy boy,” Lakeland yelled after me. “So you can come back tomorrow and be motivating.”