Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

W e may not be playing these guys this week, but being here—in their house—sure makes it feel like we are.

Nothing about this situation feels like a home game. Our boosters did their best; there’s a banner hung on the back of the home stands with our logo, a Mustang, bold and center. But the small showing of black and maroon is surrounded by all the Coolidge gold and blue. It’s practically swallowed by it.

Coach Watts is standing at the front of the bus, the doors not yet open to spill out the team. Hands on his hips, he seems to be scouting our borrowed landscape the same way he does mid-game. I know I am. The lot is full of student cars since school is still in session, but nobody seems to be out yet. A few trucks are parked near the home stands, all hitched to flat trailers pulling what looks like floats for the parade.

“All right, gentleman. Remember, we are guests. Treat this place with respect.” Coach turns to look us in the eyes after his ominous warning.

“We didn’t light their field on fire,” Jody finally says, breaking the silence. I look down, wishing he hadn’t.

He’s sitting directly in front of me, so it feels as if everyone’s eyes are on me, which normally I love. I respect the leadership role with my whole heart. But I feel as though I’m navigating a bus filled with ticking time bombs.

“And we won’t,” I utter, sticking with Coach’s message and reminding my brothers that we’re better than that.

I get up from my seat and step into the aisle, the players in seats in front of me shifting to look my direction. My palms land on the seat backs on either side of me and I squeeze them as I look down at the rubber flooring filled with dirt and gravel from our shoes. We get here in a regular bus, but Coolidge travels in a coach. The thought makes me chuckle as I kick at a dirt spot right in front of me.

“We don’t need fire to change this field. We need to show it how football should be played. That’s not the easy way, where teams come in here and are awed by the greatness of the facility, by the slickness of the turf, the bright lights of that big-ass scoreboard out there.” I gesture out the right side windows toward the field, and a few of the guys chuckle, others begin to clap loudly.

“We are going to intimidate this team from West Ridge by scoring on our opening drive. And they’ll remember us because of the way our defense forces them to go three and out. And when that scoreboard hits numbers it’s never shown before, that’s how we’ll make our presence known. They may be playing in Coolidge’s house tonight, but they’re playing our game. And there ain’t nobody who plays our game better! Nobody!”

My hand slaps down on the seat to my right, and the guys pound their fists into theirs, slapping the vinyl and howling like rabid dogs ready to sink their teeth into fresh meat. Coach Watts meets my gaze over our now riled-up team, and he gives me a faint smirk and a nod. This team is fully mine now. And that record Reed Johnson holds? I’m taking it here—tonight. I not only have to, but I also want to.

It takes us several minutes to clear out from the bus. Most of our gear is housed underneath, with the rest of it in the booster trailer parked beside us. We were able to get two of our student team managers out of class early, but it’s still too much for just two of them to carry out to the field alone, so I whistle to get Whiskey and Jody’s attention and wave them over to the trailer to help me carry the rest of our gear to the sidelines.

The cameras and closed circuit equipment are the most important, and I let Whiskey handle the large screen our offensive coach uses on the sidelines to walk us through the last set of downs. Jody joins our two managers at the top of the bleachers, leaving them to set up the cameras on top of the press box while Whiskey and I get the electricity run across the track to power up the screen.

“I don’t know if we can leave this out here like this, man,” Whiskey says once we finish plugging everything in.

I glance around the empty field, both sides set up with water and the training tables. We’ll be out here running drills and warmups before the other team shows up, but it’s not them he’s worried about.

Pulling my phone from the pocket of my joggers, I check the time just as the bell dings across campus, alerting students to switch classes. I glance up to meet Whiskey’s stare, and he lifts a brow.

“You really think they’d mess with our shit?” I ask, scanning the campus beyond the field, hundreds of students spilling out from doors and into hallways. A few Coolidge jerseys stand out amongst the crowd. I wonder if they’ll show up to the game tonight and sit on the West Ridge side?

“I’ll hang out here. You go on and get dressed out. Your arm is more important than my legs anyway. Let’s get you warm and used to this field.” Whiskey sits on the tabletop, next to our monitor, and I immediately inspect the structural integrity of the folding table legs.

“I’m not that heavy, fuck shit,” he says, pushing me back a few steps with a palm to my chest.

I chuckle and shake my head, eyes still on the flimsy metal legs that seem to be sinking into the turf.

“I don’t know, man. If things start to go, you save that TV.” I point to our monitor.

“I’ll save my dick,” he throws back, grabbing his crotch, then flipping me off before laughing like some wild beast in an Irish pub.

I roll my eyes and wave him off as I head across the track to meet Jody. At least he’s hyped for this game.

Jody and I jog toward the practice gym, where the Coolidge athletic director is holding a door open for us to their spare locker room area. This space is used for tournaments as well as the dance students for their fall and spring showcases; at least, that’s what Peyton told me. It’s a pretty blank canvas inside, but that’s better than having to walk into a space dominated by Coolidge trophies and state championship banners. The only thing ready to greet us in here is a rolling whiteboard that looks like it was borrowed from a science class. There are faint chemical formulas scribbled in the center, the board used so much it no longer handles being erased. Good thing Coach Watts isn’t big on drawing plays. He trained us to visualize during camp.

I find my gear bag parked on a bench at the end of the first row of lockers. It’s not a very team-oriented space, the rows close together with narrow benches. I change out of my travel clothes and am squeezing my way into my pads when Whiskey finally comes in. He plops down on the bench, taking up most of it, which is fine since I’m just trying to get my shoulder pads on right now.

“Hey, can you shove the right shoulder pad in?” I take a knee next to him as he slowly rotates to face me. He’s barely halfway around when enough of his face comes into view.

“Whisk, what the fuck?” I jump to my feet, his entire right side covered in thick, blue paint. It’s dripping from his hair, down his shaggy beard, and into the collar of his black practice shirt. His maroon pants are splattered.

“I’m gonna need a minute,” he says, his voice menacingly low.

“I gotta tell Coach,” I say, gritting my teeth and moving past him. He snags the back of my jersey before I can get away, though, and I fall back a step, crashing into the empty locker next to him.

His eyes drill into mine, the white part red with hate. His jaw cracks as he shifts his bottom teeth from one side to the other, as if he’s sharpening his molars while at the same time breaking them on one another.

“Whisk, we can’t let this go. We gotta tell Coach.”

His gaze drops, but only an inch or two.

“This ain’t about school rules and shit, Wyatt. That fucker was my friend. I did him favors. I kept him from getting his ass flattened. I kept my mouth shut when he stepped out on Peyt.” He glances up at me, his eyes even redder now.

“Bryce do this to you?”

My chest is growing hot, and my pulse has been racing since we got off the bus. But to hear Whiskey admit to covering up for that asshole when he was unfaithful to Peyton shifts my rage into a new gear.

The clomp of cleats on concrete filters behind me, and I shift my body, leaning one arm on the locker while resting my foot on the bench in an effort to shield Whiskey’s appearance from the others.

“Yo, you comin’ Wyatt?” I hear Anthony ask.

“Yeah, be right out!” I hold still, waiting for the sound of the door closing. There are a few more bodies shuffling around the space, and I haven’t seen Coach walk by yet, so I’m sure he’s still talking with the assistants in the guest office.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I say to my friend. Knowing full well that I am on the verge of doing very stupid things.

He lifts his chin so we’re staring eye to eye as he draws in a long, full breath.

“I won’t fuck this win up for us, but what he just did? That shit was personal. I cannot pretend it was anything but that.”

I suck in my lips and hold his stare for a beat before nodding. I don’t know where it happened, but judging by the way the paint covers him, I’d guess it was a face-to-face interaction. Pretty bold move to throw paint on a guy twice your size.

“All right, as long as you do not fuck up your season. My season. Our season. You deal with this shit away from the team, and legally. ” I can’t believe I have to fucking say that.

More cleats rush by, so I adjust my posture again, sliding my right foot over to cover a paint drop on the ground.

“You’re literally soaking in this crap, Whisk. You gotta get that shirt off, at least. Here . . .”

I move to my locker while he pulls the shirt up over his head, smearing the blue paint across the side of his face and in his hair. It’s going to be a bitch when that stuff dries. I pull the small nylon bag from my bigger duffle. I usually put my cleats in it to cut down on the smell, but it has another purpose today. Probably its final purpose before the trash.

I open it wide and Whiskey shoves the paint-soiled shirt inside, then marches into the bathroom, somehow not drawing attention from the coaches. By the time he gets back, there’s a blue tint to his cheek and a few splotches on his pants that are probably permanent, but other than his blue-ish tinted wet hair, he’s typical Whiskey.

I wait for him to suit up before heading out to the field. We cross part of the parking lot, and it’s impossible not to see the enormous patch of blue splattered near the student exit. I study Whiskey’s expression as we trounce over it, but his eyes remain fixed straight ahead, on the field.

The paint trails thin out in the direction of the parade floats, and the one made to look like the CHS field is covered in a fresh coat of blue and yellow. Maybe there were students I didn’t see out working on it when we pulled up. Or perhaps one of them was taking a break, off to get a fresh bucket of paint.

The scene is writing itself for me, though I’m sure Whiskey will tell me when he’s ready. Or I’ll read it in the paper after he lands his ass in jail. Regardless, my guess is Bryce and some of his minions were working on that float for the mere purpose of waiting for our arrival. And when Whiskey and he crossed paths, Bryce’s self-control failed him.

I just hope my best protection out on that field can keep his emotions in check for the next few hours. It’s too much to ask him to hold on to his grudge without acting for the next few weeks, but after we win tonight, I sure like hell am going to try.

If Bryce Hampton crosses either of us again, though? All bets are off.