We've been running two-a-days since we got here and I'm running on fumes with the added workouts I'm being forced to do with the underclassmen.
"Huddle up. It's time for a little one-on-one," Coach announces and all the linemen hoot and holler. Deacon and I aren't overly thrilled since we're not theoretically supposed to be hit. Being the quarterback and the running back, we're supposed to avoid getting hit where the linemen get hit constantly.
Deacon and I are the last to huddle and, trust me, that shit didn't go unnoticed by Coach.
"Graves," Coach hollers to the joy of the other players. Graves is our best linemen without a doubt and whoever is up against him is up for the fight of their lives. Our big ass country boy, Corey Graves, steps forward and awaits his opponent. "Davis."
An eerie silence overtakes the crowd. Hushed questions are asked from person to person as if we all misheard Coach.
"Coach?" Deacon asks, but Coach's hard eyes are burning holes through me begging me to give him a reason to kick me off the team. Insubordination is the fastest way to get your ass booted.
Placing a hand on Deacon's shoulder, I step forward and put my mouthguard back in my mouth. If Coach wants to see me get my ass handed to me, he has another thing coming. Corey may take hits more regularly than I do, and he may have fifteen pounds on me, but I'll be damned if he knocks me to the ground.
Nodding to Corey, I bend my knees and adjust my feet in a wide stance on my toes with one arm out and one hand with my fingers peaked against the ground. Corey matches my stance and we stare at each other waiting for the whistle.
An ear-piercing sound comes from the whistle between Coaches lips and I lunge forward with every ounce of strength I possess. After several seconds of a stalemate, Corey begins to give way. Suddenly, Corey's on his back and I feel like beating on my chest.
Out of sheer will, I managed to overtake Corey. With no hard feelings, I stand and reach down to help him up. As I turn to make my way back to the huddle Coach calls out.
"Again."
I've never hated a man more than I hate him. I didn't expect me to overpower Corey and he's going to run the drill till I end up on my ass.
I see fuckin' red! Corey raises his eyebrows and sets up, same as me. The whistle blows and we are at it again. It took a little longer, but he ends up back on the ground under me.
"Again!"
For twenty minutes Coach pins Corey and a couple other linemen against me. But each and every time I end up on top. I'm fuming and exhausted, but I'm running on pure hatred.
Coach yells 'again' for what feels like the hundredth time. My muscles are strained and my body feels like crumbling, but there's no way in hell I'm backing down. Looking over, Deacon seems as pissed as me. He's looking at the other coaches in a silent plea to end the madness, but none of them are willing to go up against our head coach.
As the whistle blows, I use every ounce I have left in me to knock another member of our defensive line to the ground.
Rushing into Coaches face, he stands he ground as I throw my helmet to the ground, spit out my mouth guard, and look the miserable man in the eyes.
"I can take on whoever you throw at me." I'm so mad, I think I might be foaming at the mouth. "Now, give me my fucking black jersey."
Coach stares at me without saying a word or moving a muscle. I know better than to expect an atta boy. But, is it wrong to demand a little respect after the shit he's thrown at me for the last three years?
Without a word, Corey and Deacon move in my peripheral vision. Turning my head, I see both pulling off their black jerseys and placing them at my feet. One by one the other seniors take theirs off as well.
"If he doesn't deserve a black jersey, then we don't either," Corey says.
The man lifts his whistle without looking away and blows before calling for an end of practice and shower before dinner.
That night, not a single player moves toward the food until I do. It's humbling and while I limp over to the buffet, I lock eyes with Coach and stand a little taller. I will not show him any pain.
For the rest of the camp, Coach leaves me to the offensive coordinator and acts as if I don't exist. No one, not a single assistant coach, mentions how our head coach treated me, which made my decision that much easier. I love football, but I'm tired of playing for a man that will never separate the sins of my father with the man I am.
Pulling me from my memory, the waitress returns to take my drink order after I shooed her away the first time, a chime from the doorway pulls me away from the menu, and I lock eyes with Deacon.
Fuck, he looks mad. The light brown eyes that he shares with Callie look darker as he stares at me like I’m a perp he needs to make confess. Jaw tight and dark eyes hard, it’s hard to remember he and I were ever best friends.
“Give us a minute,” I say to the waitress.
Standing, I raise my hand to shake his. He eyes my outstretched hand and looks away, taking his seat. Man, I knew he’d be pissed, but I didn’t expect him to be so damn hostile. His hands are balled on the table and his stare hasn’t waned from the bitter intensity he has when he saw me sitting here. He might even crack a tooth with the pressure he’s straining in his jaw. We had been friends once. The best of friends. Now his dark eyes seem to seethe with anger as they stare me down.
“Hey,” I say a little shakier than I intended.
“Look, I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary.”
At this point I’m starting to get frustrated, too. I hurt his sister, I get that and I own it. But he’d been my friend for years. What the fuck! “Dude, we used to play together for years before I got together with Callie. I realize I hurt her, I get it and I understand why you stuck with her—she’s your blood—and cut me out. But I’m trying to make amends.”
He still looks pretty pissed, arms now crossed over his broad chest, but at least he’s listening.
“I want to stick around for Sawyer, and that starts with mending fences and co-existing with the people I hurt. I wanted to come to you before I went to Callie out of respect for the friendship we had. I wanted you to know I’m staying for a while and I’ll be back for my family every chance I get. I’m not running anymore.” By the time I’m done with my speech I’m slightly out of breath. I hadn’t meant to unload everything in one go, but he just rubs me the wrong way his attitude.
“Do you want a medal for sticking around? Are you that self-centered that you think sticking around would have any impact on what happens in my life or my sisters? You’re not my best friend. I don’t know who you are, I thought I did, but the friend I knew would never have left my sister the way you did. The friend I knew loved her.”
“I did love her,” I yell. He can call me self-centered or any number of other things, but how dare he question my love for Callie. She was everything to me, but I had my family to think about—and her future was brighter without me holding her back.
“You sure had a funny way of showing it. Breaking up with her and running away. Not answering her calls when she needed you most. Way to man up, Davis.”
“I thought I was doing what was right. It killed me staying away, but I thought it would be harder on her if I was there in the back of her mind. If she could call me when she was having a rough day would only confuse her. I was trying for a clean break. I thought you’d understand that.” The frustration I’m feeling only intensifies as we continue talking.