6. Cam

CHAPTER 6

CAM

I toss and turn all night, the Jonas brothers doing nothing to calm my nerves. All the negative thoughts run through my head, on freaking repeat. During the day, I manage to silence that voice, that doubt. But at night, in the stillness and quiet, it won’t shut the hell up.

I fucked up.

What if I don’t get picked up by another team?

Is this the end of my career?

All I know is football.

Without football, I have nothing. I am nothing.

I’m so fucked.

Round and round I go, until I’m so tightly wound I’ll never get to sleep. Then my thoughts drift to Sloane in bed down the hall, and that’s not much help, either.

I should stay away from her, leave the situation exactly how it stands.

Friends.

She’s the coach’s daughter and I have nothing to offer, anyway .

I need to focus forward, on the future. Not get sucked back into the past, the what-ifs, the could-have-beens.

I’m so fucked.

Finally, the first weak rays of sunlight slant through the blinds and I give up on the idea of sleep altogether. I rise and throw on a T-shirt, gym shorts, and sneakers, then hit the bathroom to brush my teeth. Tiptoeing down the hall, I’m careful to be quiet and not wake Sloane.

I spot Coach already sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and scrolling through his cell.

“Morning, son.” He glances up from the screen. “You want to eat breakfast before practice? Toast, a banana? Cereal?”

“A banana works, thanks.” I snag the fruit from the bowl sitting on the counter, muscles already humming and ready to go.

“Glad to see you’re up. We should get going, hit the field before it gets too hot. You ready?”

“Sure.”

“There’s a jug of water in the freezer. Grab it and let’s go. We’ll take my truck.”

Coach shoves away from the table, setting his mug in the sink. I take the frozen water jug out of the freezer and together the two of us head out.

The air’s warm and thick with humidity, the low hum of mosquitos buzzing off in the distance. My skin’s getting sticky already and we haven’t even left the driveway. Coach unlocks the truck, the beep echoing along the quiet street. I climb in and try to relax, taking a deep breath and counting to three as I exhale. Coach backs down the drive and heads toward the high school, a country tune playing on the radio. He hums under his breath, fingers thumping the steering wheel in beat with the music, totally at ease. A sharp contrast to me, every inch antsy and fired up. I’m grateful he doesn’t try to strike up conversation and is content listening to the music.

We whiz through the neighborhood, the only vehicle on the road at this early hour. The sky’s streaked pink with the dawn as Thunder Creek High comes into view. I suck in a breath, a flood of emotions rolling through me—nervous excitement, nostalgia, apprehension, dread, defeat. Everything’s spinning together and I’m as confused now as I’ve ever been.

I haven’t been back home since I turned pro, right after college. Thunder Creek still looks the same—same old houses, same old buildings. The high school’s no exception, the chain-link fenced parking lot, the white two-story building with the blue metal roof, the iron statue of our mascot, a mustang bucking on hindlegs in the courtyard.

Everything about this place is the same, as if time stood still here.

The only thing different is me.

Throat tight, I swallow down my regrets. Now’s not the time to focus on my screw-ups; I’ve done plenty of reflection on those over the last few days. Right now, I need to focus on making things right, getting back to basics and finding a new team. That’s why I’m here.

We park behind the school and I trail behind Coach toward the football field. Even though I’m older, taller, and stronger since the last time I set foot on these grounds, deep down I still feel like the same high school kid as I trudge over the dew-soaked grass. Coach unlocks the gate, shoving it open for me, and we step onto the track.

“Welcome home, son.” He slaps me on the back and the tightness in my chest loosens up a touch. “Run a mile for warm-up and then we’ll do some drills. ”

“Yes, sir.”

I stretch my hamstrings and quads for a minute and then get going, running along the track at a moderate speed. The air’s stagnant and sweat beads at my temple, on my brow, my low back. After the first lap, I start to relax and lean into the work. Get lost in the rhythm of my breath, finding my pace. By the third loop, I push harder, every muscle firing. The fourth feels easy and I’m all warmed up.

“Done?” Coach rises from the metal bleachers, clipboard in hand.

“Yes, sir.” I lift my shirt, wiping the sweat from my face. Thunder Creek’s about ten times hotter than Chicago and I’m out of practice dealing with the heat.

“First thing we’ll work on is your cuts. Yesterday, I watched some footage from a few of your games last season. Looked like you struggled a bit with explosiveness and direction change.”

He’s one hundred percent right, even if I don’t want to admit it. I got beat more than once last year and I sure as hell won’t get picked up by another team if I can’t outrun the competition.

“Okay, sounds good.”

He points at the cones set up in the center of the field. “Remember the footwork drill? Y’all run that in the pros?”

I nod. “I remember. And yes, sometimes we do. It’s been a while, though.”

“I figured. Thought we’d get back to the fundamentals. I’ll blow the whistle and you sprint straight toward the first cone. Maneuver around the cone, then run toward the second and cut to the right past the third. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Once you pass the third cone, cut hard to the right at a ninety-degree angle and curl back to cone number four.”

“Okay—”

“Then turn and sprint to the right, take another 90-degree cut, and sprint to the fifth cone. We’ll finish by curling around the sixth cone.”

“Got it, Coach.” I roll my shoulders, shake out my calves and ankles, and get ready to run. Coach pulls his stopwatch from his pocket, thumb hovering on the start button. The whistle blows, high and shrill, and I take off toward the first cone.

The sun’s bright rays shimmer on the turf as I race through the cones, running the drill I’ve practiced many times before. My lungs burn as I make the cut and curl back to the fourth cone.

“Good hustle, keep it up,” Coach yells, his voice carrying across the empty field. I turn the burners on, forcing my legs to move faster, knees to rise higher, arms to pump harder.

“And—time!”

I lift my arms up over my head, expanding my rib cage to get more oxygen into my burning lungs.

“Decent. Ten seconds.”

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head.

“Just the opening time, son. Two minutes and we’ll run it again.”

I take a deep nose breath, cracking my neck to the right, then the left before lining back up at cone one.

Tweet!

The whistle blows again and I sprint off toward the first cone, repeating the drill. Once, twice, three times. I run those cones so many times, I lose track.

“Time!” Coach shouts across the field and I bend down, hands on my knees. I’m sweaty and tired, and we’re still on the first drill.

“That’s better, Crawford. Eight seconds.”

For the first time in weeks, I feel marginally better about my career.

“Not too shabby. We’ll keep working on it. Let’s move to the sit-up and catch. Grab some water—don’t want you passing out on me here on day one.” He tips his head at the bleachers and I glance over at the risers for the first time all morning.

There’s Sloane, sitting about halfway up, long, tanned legs outstretched in front of her. She’s wearing a Thunder Creek ball cap, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and I swear I haven’t seen anything near as sexy in a good, long while.

Seeing her here takes me straight back to high school, when she’d come and do homework on the bleachers during practice, waiting for her dad. Other girls would show up, but they’d all sit around giggling, flirting with the players.

Not Sloane.

She barely poked her nose out of her books—except to say hi to me.

She waves at us now and my heart pounds double-time, racing faster than it did during the cone footwork drill.

How long has she been watching? Did she see my first ten runs? Or just the last few that were actually fast?

“You coming, Crawford? Or you going to dawdle the morning away?” Coach taps at his watch and I take a big chug of water before jogging back over to him.

“I’m sure you remember this one. Take a seat.” He gestures at the turf and I sink down onto the ground, knees bent. “You’re going to lay down, then when I say go, do a sit-up. I’ll throw the ball and you catch it as you sit up. Simple, but effective.”

I nod, laying down on the hard turf. The sky’s a bright blue now, the sun fully risen, and I stare up at the cloudless morning and wait.

“Go!”

I crunch up and the ball flies straight at my chest. Catching it, I toss the football back to Coach and lay back down.

“Go!”

We repeat this drill over and over, Coach sometimes throwing the ball, sometimes not, just to keep me guessing. I try to forget about Sloane watching from the bleachers and focus on catching the ball. By the time Coach calls the end of the drill, my abs are on fire, my back itchy from the turf and drenched in sweat.

“Pretty good. We’ll keep working on it, but that was respectable. Your reaction time up close is fine. You have your eyes checked regularly?” He peers down at me, tossing the ball from hand to hand.

“Had an eye exam at the start of last season. Wish I could blame it on failing eyesight, but no such luck.”

“Okay, then. Last drill for this morning, wall ball. Hop on up—” He extends his hand, helping me up, and I follow him over to the concession stand to the left of the bleachers.

“Stand there, good—” He points to a red taped line about five feet away from the wall, then tosses me the ball. “Throw the ball at the wall and catch it. Sounds easy, but we both know it’s not. Start head-on, that’s right?—”

I hammer the football at the wall and it bounces off to the left at an angle. I race to catch it, barely getting there in time.

“Good hustle. Again…”

I follow his instructions, throwing the ball at the wall at all different angles and speeds, darting to catch the football before it falls to the ground. By the time Coach calls the drill, sweat’s pouring down my face, dripping into my eyes. My shirt clings to my soaked back and I’m pretty sure my antiperspirant failed me.

“Good practice today, son. You can hit the weight room later. Tomorrow’s off, then Monday afternoon we’ll have the boys out here. You hit the weights in the morning, then we’ll run routes in the afternoons.”

“Thanks, Coach. I appreciate it.”

Coach pauses, waiting for me to make eye contact. “Crawford, you looked fine out there. We’ll get you back up to speed in a month or two, tops. You’ve got this.” He pats my arm and a tiny fragment of anxiety chips away.

If Coach believes in me, that’s saying a lot. He’s not one to mince words or blow smoke up people’s asses just to make them feel good. There’s a reason he’s the winningest high school football coach in the entire state of Georgia.

“Hey, Daddy, Cam.” Sloane skips down the bleachers, her dark ponytail swishing behind her. She leans over and hugs her dad, shooting me a wide, pretty smile.

“Hey, baby. Thought you’d still be asleep.” Coach picks up his clipboard, tucking the stopwatch back into his pocket.

“No. I’m so used to getting up early. Habit, you know?”

“Always good to seize the day. Listen, I need to swing by Mack’s house and work on a few last-minute summer roster changes. You think you could give Cam a ride home?”

“Sure,” Sloane says. “No problem.”

“Thanks, baby. Good practice today, Cam. Go eat some breakfast, refuel.”

“Will do. Thanks, Coach.”

Coach shoots us a two-finger salute, then heads out to the parking lot, whistling.

“You ready?” Sloane tips her head, adjusting her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose.

“Sure.”

We walk out to the almost-empty parking lot together at an easy pace, Sloane keeping step with me even though she’s much shorter.

“You looked good out there,” she says, sliding into the driver’s seat of her Volvo. “Sorry, let me move that stuff.”

Reaching across the console into the passenger seat, she grabs a thick stack of files, chucking them unceremoniously into the cluttered backseat.

“You probably need to adjust the seat.”

I kick a few empty water bottles out of the way and fold myself down into the leather, jamming the plastic button on the side of the seat to move it back. The motor groans as it slides backward, relieving the pressure in my knees.

“Wow, I didn’t realize the seat went back that far.” Sloane peers over the rim of her sunglasses, one brow arched high on her forehead. “Who knew?”

She presses the start button and the engine roars to life. Gunning out of the parking spot, she does a quick one-eighty, heading back toward the house. Instinctively, my fingers grip the door handle as she flies down the residential street. At this rate, we’re going to be home in half the time it took to get here.

“You always drive this fast?” I ask, glancing over at her. Her small hands grip the wheel and at least she’s staring straight ahead and not fiddling with the radio or something.

“You think this is fast?” She cuts her eyes at me for a quick second before turning back to the road.

“Yeah, for Thunder Creek. Maybe not in Chicago.”

“I’ll slow down for you, how about that?” Her voice is light and teasing, the mood between us easy. I always appreciated that about her. Where other girls made things tense and weird, with Sloane I could always just be me.

“Thanks. Can’t afford an injury.”

“Oh, true.” She eases off the gas, slowing way down. Now we’re practically crawling and her knuckles turn white from gripping the wheel.

“How long have you been back?” I ask.

“A few months.”

“Where were you before?”

“New Orleans.”

She drums on the steering wheel as we idle at the stoplight. AC blasts from the air vents, freezing the beads of sweat on my face, and Taylor Swift belts out something about being an anti-hero.

“You working now?” I notice the corners of her mouth tense, her lips pressing together tight.

“Not at the moment. I was working at a law firm in New Orleans, but I hated it.”

“Gotcha.”

“I had a job as a paralegal, but honestly, it was boring. I didn’t love New Orleans all that much, either. And I was engaged. ”

The words tumble out of her, then she pauses and bites down on her lip. Her teeth dig into the flesh so hard, I’m worried she might break the skin.

“Engaged, huh? Wow.”

“Yeah, turns out he was a ratface. Cheated on me with his secretary. Like how fucking cliché can you get, ya know?” She glances over at me, her cheeks turning pink, and I’m shocked.

She was engaged?

My chest tightens, knowing she promised herself to someone else. Was presumably in love with someone else.

And then the asshole cheated on her?

In what wild, unhinged universe does a guy cheat on a woman like Sloane? A person so kind, so genuine, so honest, loyal, and true?

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, that really sucks.”

“Yeah, well, better to find out before the wedding, I guess. Really would have been great if he decided to bang her before I paid all those down payments, though. Asshole.”

“That is a dick move.”

“Yeah, the actual, literal definition of a dick move. So, when you feel bad about your life, slide on over and talk to me. That should cheer you up.” She shoots me a wan smile and I search for something—anything—to say that might make her feel better.

“I heard one of the Jonas brothers is single again.”

Really, Crawford? That’s all you can come up with? A stupid joke about the Jonas brothers?

“Haha, funny. Doubt I’d have much luck with a Jonas brother at this stage of my life. Besides, I think I may have evolved from there. ”

“Really? You’re out of your boy band phase then?” I cock a brow.

“Firmly.” She pauses for a minute. “What about you? I’m sure you’ve had tons of girlfriends since you left Thunder Creek. Did you leave anyone special back in Chicago?”

“Me? No, definitely not.” I smooth my hands down my shorts. “There’s been no one special. Casual stuff here and there. But my focus has been on football. Doesn’t leave time for much else.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s tricky.”

She pulls into the driveway, inching her car up next to mine. Cutting the engine, she turns to face me. Her face is flushed from the sun, the cinnamon freckles across her nose a touch darker. The scent of sunscreen fills the car and I can’t stop staring at her glossy lips, wondering what she’d taste like. Her tongue darts out, licking at her lower lip, and a tense silence stretches between us.

I swallow hard, pulling my gaze up and away from her shiny pink mouth. “Thanks for the ride. I’m gonna hit the shower.” I nod toward the house.

“Sure, anytime.”

Before I say or do anything stupid, I hop out of the car and jog inside, putting plenty of space between me and the coach’s way-too-good-for-me daughter.