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I glance down the hall toward the bathroom door, which is still closed, steam clouded at the base of the door.

My heart races a little, like if he opened the door right now and saw me on the phone, I’d be caught.

But the truth is, I have to have this conversation with Rawley this morning.

I can’t wait any longer, as much as I don’t want to have it.

“Hi, what’s up? We’re still on for this afternoon, right? ”

John confirms. “Yep, that’s why I was calling. Just to confirm.”

“Perfect, he’ll be here. And it’s forty for the hour, right?”

“Yep. Forty for the hour. And I just wanted to verify your address. You’re at 514 Popular, right?”

I nod, twisting the cord of the phone around my finger. “Yep.”

“Great,” he says. “I’ll see him then.”

“Great.” I slowly replace the handset and pad across the kitchen to find my butter burned, but that was the last of it so burned french toast will have to do. Cracking eggs into a bowl, I add some cinnamon, dunk the bread, then toss the first slice into the pan .

“Who was that?” Tanner asks, tipping his cereal bowl to slurp the sugary milk.

“That was an SAT tutor I hired for Rawley,” I say nervously, because I know without a doubt that Rawley is going to despise this.

Archie slams his hand into the door again and again, and I pinch the bridge of my nose with one hand, flipping the slices of burned bread with the other.

“Arch, c’mon, that’s loud. Quit that, please. ”

“Does he know?” Tanner asks.

“He who?” Rawley questions as he appears in the kitchen, wet hair pulled back into that same small ponytail. He smells like cologne, and I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with my son being old enough to have a reason to wear cologne.

I chew the inside of my cheek a second before dragging two pieces of crispy french toast onto a plate, passing it to Archie. I put another few slices through the egg mixture and onto the skillet for Rawley. “You. I hired you an SAT tutor and he just called to verify today’s session.”

Rawley’s blue eyes narrow to a point, and though he doesn’t move, his expression prods me.

“Rawley, your prep test showed you need improvement. You’ll be in your senior year in a matter of months.

We have to get your scores up a bit.” I flip the toast without looking, keeping my eyes on my soulful son.

He’s sharp, all of my boys are, but getting Rawley to focus has always been a challenge. Now that he’s in a band and has a girlfriend, his SAT prep has fallen by the wayside. And I can’t keep telling him to study. It just isn’t working.

“I don’t want that,” he says, defiance brimming in his tone. “I’m not doing that.”

Plopping the last two slices of actually not that bad french toast onto a plate, I pass it to my son and take a seat next to another. “Rawley, everyone gets help getting ready for the SAT.”

He flinches, and his eyes jerk to Tanner, then back to me. I glance at Tanner, too, and don’t like the look on his face. He knows something, which leads me to the horrifying fact that there is something to know.

“Rawley, what?” I say calmly, kind of. Maybe a little quivery.

Another morale-boosting glance at his younger brother and he licks his lips. “I’m not going to college.” His nostrils flare and I sit, rigid, unmoving, uncharacteristically stunned.

With three boys, it takes a lot to rattle me.

Boys are wild and free beings. They’ve been beautifully challenging to raise, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

But they’re gross.

Sometimes— and I’m saying only sometimes —they’re downright disgusting.

We do not speak of the kitchen tongs in the bathroom incident.

Yet this is more shocking.

“I don’t need to take the SAT if I’m not going to college.” He glances at Tanner and I clear my throat, trying to dislodge way too much confusion for a split second.

“You’re taking the SAT. You’re going to college.” I am proud of myself for remaining so calm.

Sweat bubbles up on my forehead, and beneath my arms grows heated.

I lick my lips. “Rawl, everyone needs a tutor. Your score will be your score—I’m just trying to help you get ready to take the test. And do your best taking it,” I tell him, speaking from the heart.

I really do just want what’s best for him and anyway, this is what’s best. It’s not my agenda—Rawley taking the SAT and giving himself the option to get into college is what’s best for him .

If he really doesn’t want to go, I’m honestly not averse to it. But I am averse to him closing doors that don’t need to be closed. It’s just a test.

“It’s expensive, anyway. It’s saving you money,” he says, not fidgeting or looking at his brother anymore.

It’s just his decision and mine.

“You’re taking the test, Rawley. It’s not a choice. And I already paid the tutor. He’s coming here after school. Now finish the french toast and go to school.” I stand up, my heart absolutely racing with all the anger I’m holding in.

I don’t even know why I’m angry.

It’s within reason that he’d want to start planning his life if he’s on the cusp of adulthood. That's what hopeful, energetic, plan-making young adults do. They take life by the balls.

At the sink I begin calmly scrubbing the pan off the stove, nearly burning my fingers in the process.

“I don’t want to go to college.”

Soapy water splashes my top as I scrub the burned butter from the pan.

“We can discuss not going to college next year. But either way, you’re taking the SAT and you’re getting tutored.

So be home on time. Please.” I roll out a small kink in my neck.

“And I’ll see you at Tanner’s game. You can tell me all about how the tutor went after we take home the win. ”

Rawley grunts. “I’m going to the game with the Turners and doing movie night at Jo Jo’s after. I won’t be home till late.”

Turning to face the boys, I smile. “Okay. We’ll talk about it in the morning.

I can’t wait to hear.” I face Tanner. “Good luck today. Your first starting QB game!” I do a little excited shimmy, which earns me a smile from just Tanner and Archie.

Two out of three on the happiness scale isn’t bad.

All things considered, the chaotic morning is a win.

After convincing Archie that swim trunks are, in fact, not real trousers, I get him dressed and manage to leave the house on time. Rawley, who drives himself and Tanner to high school, refuses to wave back to me this morning. He refuses to look my way, even.

I let out a sigh as I pop the passenger door closed with my hip, watching Archie skip up the school steps before joining a sea of tiny people. In my car, I take a deep breath.

Rawley will take the SAT, and when he gets a good score, which I know he will, maybe he’ll change his mind about college. He can be mad at me all he wants. We’re stuck together. I’m good cop and bad cop.

And this cop has to start a ten hour shift at Goode’s Diner in twelve minutes.

Back behind the steering wheel, I exhale. The morning was, as usual, a bit chaotic. But the rest of the day will be better.

I’m manifesting good vibes.

And then my head slams into the ceiling of my car in unison with a loud thunk. The car tilts to the left and I pull to the curb and pop open my door to see my front right tire is completely pancaked and steam spills out from beneath the hood.

What a morning.

DEAN

I woke up before my alarm today, which I don’t really like to do. The only times statistically that I’m awake on my own are if I’m sick or getting sick. Waking a full hour before my alarm this morning has me off a bit, but I’m chalking it up to first game jitters.

Sitting up in bed at the horrendous, god awful, unflinchingly early time of six in the morning, I stroke a hand down my chest and let out a yawn.

Maybe I do wake early on the day of the first game?

You’d think after eighteen years of head coaching that I’d remember that, but at this ungodly hour, who can know anything?

Swinging my feet out from under the warm, heavy, comfortable covers, I stand up and reach to the ceiling in a stretch.

After letting out a wall-rattling groan, I move through my house to the kitchen, where I make a pot of coffee before grabbing the Bluebell Leader off my porch.

A few yawns and a few local feel-good stories later, and I’m drinking coffee while lifting weights in my garage.

After a particularly heavy set of delt raises, I flop onto the bench, exhaling the exhaustion from the lift, carelessly sending my cup of hot coffee to the floor. After copious amounts of cursing and Lysol, I finish my workout and head inside for a shower.

My game day polo is pressed, my nice hat is out, and my good jeans are clean.

I even went to my friend Jake’s business, Turner Saddlery, and cleaned my boots using all his fancy leather products.

I got a haircut yesterday, too. Just a trim, though, because last season my hair was cut a certain length and, well, we were state champs.

Fully dressed and the football game on my mind, I pack myself a nice lunch, slip into my pick up and head for the high school.

Except, once I turn off my street onto the main road, I see a train is there, connecting cars, leaving a half-mile long trail of traffic waiting. I join them, because there’s only one way to the school from here. My leg anxiously bounces beneath the steering wheel.

On game day, I like to show up early and peruse the rally court before the first bell rings.

I love seeing the boys in their game-day jerseys, all the students wrapped up in their blue and gold gear, everyone excited and anxious for the game.

This may be California, but we love our high school football the same as Texas.

And the last few years, Bluebell has really come to adore and support the sport because we’re getting really good.

Camaraderie and victory are two strong drugs, and in tandem, they work wonders, I swear it.

Outside of a pulse on morale, I had planned and hoped to get on campus early to check on Tanner. This is his first season as starting quarterback, and to add another level of internal pressure—Tanner is a sophomore on the varsity team.

He grew up playing football with Boone Holt, my quarterback the last two seasons. He’s an excellent player with a good head on his shoulders, too, and no ego. Last year, Tanner’s shoulder had some issues, but this season, we’re locked.

He’s ready to start.

If I can get three good years out of his arm, get him a scholarship to play ball and get through college, I’ll have done my job as coach. After all, Boone Holt is now at a California State University on a full-ride athletic scholarship. He keeps in touch. I’m proud of him.

I’m proud of Tanner, too.

I can’t wait to see what he does on the field in the next few years. I do, however, want to check in on that sore shoulder this morning. I want to see if he did what I told him to do last night, which was ice and heat.

I have a responsibility to these boys, to take them as far as I can, teach them as much as I know, and help them meet as many scouts and coaches as possible. Tanner is one of those that will go far, and wants my help, the same as Boone. And I want what Boone has for Tanner, too.

He deserves it.

This season, I already have some old college buddies coming out to watch Tanner. A couple of them are bringing scouts. Off the record, of course, since they can’t approach until he’s a junior. And scouts are like those seagulls in Finding Nem o. You get one, you get a flock.

Still, I can’t help but bounce my leg and turn up the radio as the clock keeps ticking and every free pre-class minute of this morning is spent in this truck and not on campus.

After one Garth Brooks tune, four commercials, and an update about the saw mill on fourth street, I arrive at school four minutes before the first bell.

I pass the principal, Leah Miller, in the hall, wearing her favorite navy game day suit. “Morning, Coach,” she greets, her yellow pom-pom earrings making an appearance as she tucks her hair behind her ears. “I’m ready,” she cheers, referring to game day. “Are you?”

I adjust my hat on my head and give her a nod. “Stressful morning but glad to be here. I’m ready.”

Football season is pretty much my entire life. So I put the chaotic morning behind me, and greet my players each period as they enter my class. By the time fourth period rolls around, I finally get to check on my QB when Tanner Colt enters.

“How’s it?” I ask, without preamble because, again, it’s game day, damn it. What else is there to talk about, focus on or give energy to during football season but football?

He smiles. “I feel good.”

Finally, I feel good, too.