“I’m proud of you for writing that letter to Stanford. They’d be crazy not to have you. I mean that, Tyler.”
He does mean it too. And it feels so good that he believes that about me that I stop hating him and breathe a sigh of relief. That was too close.
? ? ?
Coach is completely caught off guard when I wander into his office.
“Blackwell. What do you want?” He makes himself busy even though I know he was probably just playing online poker.
“Do you have a minute?” I ask, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.
He grunts. I take that as a yes and sit.
“First of all, I’d like to apologize. For everything. For abandoning the team, for fighting with Brett. And Reece. And just being an all-around asshole this year.”
He’s stopped pretending to be busy and is now completely focused, taking his reading glasses off to stare at me. I can see the wheels turning. When he settles back into his chair, I take that as a sign to continue.
“This is kind of hard for me.” I clear my throat. “I’ve been talking to a therapist since . . .”
He nods.
“Well, I guess I kind of blamed myself and football and, well, you by proxy, for keeping me from being there to help my mom. Not just on that day. On all the days. Like, I was using football to . . . to hide from her, from the situation, and had been for a while. I know it’s not rational, but there you go. It took me a very long time to realize she would have found a way whether I was at training or not. It took me even longer to realize how much I missed playing.”
Coach nods again.
“I don’t know how much Marcus told you about my financial situation, but—”
“He said your dad was making you work.”
“He wasn’t making me work. He just wasn’t paying for anything for me anymore. And that included shoes, clothes, my phone bill. I really didn’t have a choice. But yeah, I used it as an excuse to keep my distance too.”
“I wish you would’ve come to me. I might’ve been able to help.” He’s dropped his usually gruff front. I find it disconcerting.
“I appreciate that. But I just wasn’t ready. I’m sorry if I fucked up your record by not playing this year.”
“Language.”
“Sorry.”
“And apology accepted.” He extends his hand over the desk.
I have to get up to reach it. I sit back down. “I know I’m not in any position to ask a favor, but . . .”
“Ask away.”
I pull out a copy of the letter I sent to Stanford and set it on top of the papers that cover his desk. “I sent this to Mr. Barker at Stanford. I haven’t heard anything from them about what’s going to happen now that I missed playing this year. I was hoping”—I take a deep breath—“I was hoping you might be able to make a call for me?”
He takes the letter and shushes me as he searches for his glasses, which have managed to somehow bury themselves under the mess in the two seconds he’s had them off. Then he leans back in his chair and reads.
I start to leave, thinking we’re done, but he snaps his fingers at me and I sit back in my seat. It’s so awkward, having him read something so personal right in front of me. He flips the page. I stare at all the stuff he has hanging haphazardly all over his walls. Mostly inspirational quotes from various famous players over a photo of them mid-game. Plays scratched on papers with frayed edges. Photos of the team from the past ten or so years. I study the ones I’m in. When I was a freshman—so scrawny and cocky, I have to laugh to myself. I look like a complete tool. The sophomore picture isn’t much better. But the picture from last year is pretty decent. I’ve lost the chip on my shoulder; I’m even smiling. If I didn’t know myself, I’d say that kid loves football.
Coach clears his throat. I bet he’s at the part in the letter where I explain how I felt responsible for Mom’s death. It got Henry too.
He finishes a few minutes later and sets the letter back on the desk.
After a very long pause he finally looks at me. “Tyler, I think I owe you an apology. I had no idea any of this was going on in that head of yours. I should have tried harder to get through to you.”
I wave him off.
“No, really, I knew what a great kid you were and I feel like I’ve failed you.”
“You didn’t fail me. Even if you’d offered to help, I wouldn’t have let you.”
“You know . . . your mom . . . Uh, you know it wasn’t your fault, right?” He’s having a hard time looking at me now.
“I do now. I mean, I’m getting there.”
He pulls himself up from his desk and lopes over to me. Grabbing my shoulders, he pulls me up into an intense bear hug. I pat his back.
“I’m going to call Barker first thing tomorrow morning. If they don’t take you after that letter, fuck ’em. We’ll find you a college that will.”
“Language.” I laugh as he pounds my back hard enough to leave a red handprint.
“Sometimes there’s just not a better word.”