“Hey,” he finally responded, spinning the ball again. “Where’s your uniform?” He nodded toward Carter’s cut-less torso. Still testing; still searching for a trap.
Carter would just have to prove that it wasn’t there. He plucked lightly at the front of his shirt and said, “I can’t throw it in the wash.” He dumped his backpack on the grass. “Alright, let’s try some drills.”
~*~
It was nearly alarming how quickly he settled back into the routine of the game. How, though he’d been feeling so far removed from football, like his time on the field had been a thousand years ago, talking shop sucked him right back in, reminded him that it hadn’t been that long at all, and that he still knew what the hell he was talking about. An unexpected, but wholly thrilling rush.
Elijah had a tendency to overthrow the deep ball, an observation from the other night that proved to be a pattern. After he’d done it the fourth time in a row, the ball skimming over Carter’s outstretched fingertips and landing back at the edge of the field, he shook his head and cursed when Carter came jogging up with the ball tucked under his arm.
“I wasn’t shitting you the other night,” he said, “you have a hell of an arm.”
“Hell of aninaccuratearm,” Elijah muttered, looking disgusted.
“Hey, it takes forever to build up that kind of strength. Accuracy is about tiny little adjustments.”
Elijah looked unimpressed.
“Here, let’s try something.”
They started out standing only a few paces apart, playing catch, to which Elijah rolled his eyes.
“Don’t knock it,” Carter said. “Step back two paces.” A few minutes later, they both stepped back another two.
Gradually, they expanded the distance between them until Carter was putting his whole body into each throw. Until they must have been forty yards apart, and Elijah threw a perfect deep ball that landed right in Carter’s waiting hands. He grinned, adjusted his stance, and sent the ball arcing back.
It was only after that he realized he’d just thrown farther and harder and more accurately than he had since his surgery – the one that had spelled the end of his football career. His shoulder felt tight, but not bad. It would have given out on him in true game play; if he got sacked, if he had to throw on the run over and over, the repaired rotator cuff wouldn’t hold up.
Still, he had the distance.
And, more importantly, in this moment, Elijah had the accuracy.
He jogged back toward him. “Did you see that? Right into my hands.” He held them up in demonstration.
For the first time since he’d met him, Elijah looked something like excited. It was muted, kept carefully in check, but he’d realized that he could throw accurately; that sort of realization was always a thrill. “I was standing still,” he said, downplaying it. “It’ll be different on the run.”
“We’ll work on that,” Carter assured. “But now you know you can be accurate. It’s a mental thing, the overthrowing. Once you figure out how to conceptualize an accurate pass on the field, you’ll be able to make one every time.”
Elijah whistled. “Conceptualize. Look at biker boy with the big words.” But he grinned, afterward, wide and truly amused.
“Hey,” Carter huffed, his own grin tugging at his mouth. “I went to college.”
“On a football scholarship.”
“I read about the psychological aspects of the game. Shut up. Let’s try that again.”
~*~
They worked for another hour or so, until the shadows had grown long across the grass, and the air had begun to cool, their shirts heavy and clammy now with sweat that left Carter shivering pleasantly. They sat down on the grass by their bags, legs stretched out, drinking water from the bottles they’d each brought. Things felt easier now, that early tension burned away by hard work and success: Elijah was hitting something like sixty percent of his passes now, and though he’d said he needed to do better, Carter had assured him he’d get there.
“Which schools are you applying to?” Carter asked.
“All of them,” Elijah said with a snort, knocked his feet together absently. “I’m making straight As, and I’m in Spanish and drama club. Extracurriculars, you know? I volunteer at an old folks’ home, too.”
“Wow,” Carter said, genuinely impressed. “Sounds like you’ve got all the bases covered.”
“Yeah.” Elijah shrugged, self-consciousness creeping back in. “I mean, that’s what it was at first. It’s not enough to be smart and play ball well. You’ve gotta have the full resume, you know? But, I actually really like drama.” He snorted. “Maybe I’ll be an actor when I’m done with football.”
“More and more guys are doing that – it’s a good career move. I don’t think there’s a baking show on TV that doesn’t have a former NFL guy as the host.”
