Page 88 of Trick Play
Questions swirl through my head in a never-ending loop. Were they fighting with Brent? Did Gray or Cal throw the first punch? If it was Gray, why did Cal take the fall? He could’ve gotten exactly what he’s been working for all season. Will this hurt his chances of getting into the NFL draft?
At halftime, I dig out my phone to text Cal, determined to get answers. He won’t be able to talk until after the game, of course. But this is something I can do right now.
Me: Call me
I stare at the terse message for long moments, only coming out of my daze when my mom leans over and asks if I want Dad to get me a snack from concessions.
I blink at her, forcing a smile. “Yes. A hotdog and a pretzel please. And a Dr. Pepper.”
Mom squeezes my hand and smiles back before asking Ellie the same question.
I only sent Cal two words, and part of me wants to modify it somehow, though I’m not sure if I want to up the intensity or tone it down, but I eventually just decide to let it go. I’ve done what I can for now. The only thing left to do is wait.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Cal
We file into the locker room quiet and slightly dejected. It was a close game, hard fought on both sides, but in the end we couldn’t quite manage the last touchdown that would’ve secured our win.
I stand off to the side, feeling disconnected from my team. I’m part of the team, but I didn’t get to play today. Me not playing isn’t exactly unusual, but it wasn’t even on the table today. Instead I helped the offensive coaching staff. Kilpatrick played the whole game, firing off his signature long-range passes again and again. There’s no chance I would’ve played even if I’d been suited up.
Disappointment at our loss, at this being the end of my college football career, wells up inside me as I look around the locker room and watch my friends and teammates slump on the benches.
Coach Reese makes his way to the center of the room, crossing his arms over his clipboard and taking a moment to survey the team as the few murmurs of conversation quiet down. “I know this wasn’t the outcome we hoped for,” he says, provoking a round of grumbles of agreement.
A small smile curves his mouth as he looks at everyone, his eyes making contact briefly with each player. “It always feels better to end on a win. There’s no denying that. But you played your best out there, and that’s all I’ve ever asked for. It’s been an honor to be your coach this year, and to take you to your first bowl game. And as much as the coach gets credit from the administration, we all know that it’s you”—he points a finger, moving it around the room, turning to encompass everyone—“it’s you who do the work. Who come in day after day and push yourselves to work harder, run faster, be better. And that work has paid off. Look at us, making it all the way to a bowl game in our first season as a Division I school. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. So go home with your heads held high. Have some fun tonight.” He holds up a finger. “No fighting.” He has to wait for a few chuckles to die down. “I’m serious. No more calls giving me a heart attack about my players, even if my time as your coach is quickly coming to an end for you seniors. Thank you for your hard work this season. And those of you who are returning, I look forward to seeing how far we can go next year.”
A smattering of applause fills the room, and I head to my locker to get my things, bittersweet emotions filling me. For as much as I complained about Coach Hanson being forced to retire at the end of last year, Coach Reese is a good coach. And he’s pushed all of us to be our best. I can’t say I’ve always given him my best, and I regret starting off the season on such a crappy note. And now that I’ve finally pulled my head out of my ass, it’s too late to do anything about it.
One of the assistant coaches taps my shoulder. “Coach Reese wants to talk to you.”
Swallowing hard, I nod, shoulder my duffle bag, and head to the small office Coach Reese was assigned during our time here. With my hands in my pockets, I stand in the doorway and clear my throat, waiting for his acknowledgment.
He looks up from his clipboard and gestures me inside. “Close the door, please.”
Uh-oh. I figured the lecture I got about fighting yesterday would’ve been the end of it, especially now that the game is over. Is he going to ream me out some more?
But he doesn’t have his angry face on. Confused, I take one of the chairs he indicates, setting my bag on the floor.
Coach stares at me for a moment. Then, “I heard what actually happened.”
“What?” I croak, not following.
“The other day. With the fight. I know it was Kilpatrick that started it and not you.” He stares at me for a beat, and I shift in my seat.
“It wasn’t Kilpatrick. It was the other guy.”
Coach Reese dismisses that with a shrug. “Regardless, it wasn’t you.” He pauses, studying me. “I know you weren’t my biggest fan at the beginning of the season, and I know you resented me bringing a new starting quarterback along when that position had been yours. I gave you a lot of leeway—more than I normally would—because I recognize that it felt crappy to you. But the last couple of months, you seem to have turned a corner. I’ve been glad to see you dig in and work hard and give Kilpatrick a run for his money. If I’d benched Kilpatrick and had you starting, I would’ve been just as happy with our chances of winning. Your passes have gotten better, and your blitz game has always been top notch.” He taps his fingers on the desk. “All this to say, when the NFL recruiters contacted me, your name was on the short list for evaluation by the NFL committee, and they’ve predicted you should get picked in the second or third round if you apply for the draft.”
My eyes widen and my breath freezes in my chest. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
He holds up a hand. “Now, I know everyone wants to hear they’re first round pick material, but that’s just not realistic. Still, it sounds like you have a solid chance, and you not getting much playing time this season—and none in this game—hasn’t hurt your chances any. It’s been an honor being your coach, and I’ll be watching to see what you end up doing.”
He extends his hand across the desk, and I grip it in a firm shake. “Thank you,” I croak out, clearing my throat and trying again. “Thanks, Coach. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
He gives my hand another firm shake. “My pleasure.” He jerks his chin at the door. “Go tell Kilpatrick to come see me when he’s dressed.”
After delivering Coach’s message, I sit on the bench to wait for Simon to see what he’s planning, even though I’m sure it’ll involve meeting up with my sister, and dig out my phone. My breath freezes when I see the text from Piper. It’s been almost two hours since she sent the text, which means she sent it during the game.
