Instead, it’s me who earns the wrath of Coach Jackson. "What in the name of Franklin Delano Roosevelt were you doing, Troy?"
Coach always starts yelling out famous dead men’s names when he's ticked off. Part of it is because the school district passed a zero tolerance policy on teachers using supposedly abusive or demeaning language toward students two years ago, putting old school coaches like him who grew up on Mike Ditka and Bill Parcells in a bind. The other part of it is that Coach is a history teacher during school hours, and the man knows more about old dead guys than I think is really healthy for him.
Coming closer, Coach waits for me to get off the ground and leans in, where just he and I can hear each other. "Seriously, Troy, what the hell are you doing?"
I shake my head, owning it. If Coach has taught me anything, it's to man up and take responsibility for my actions on the field. "You know what happened, Coach. I fucked up the play. I didn't mean to. I'll get it right."
He gets in my face, his face turning a little red. "Dammit, boy, you tell me you want to run these plays but then you do piss-poor execution. In case you didn't realize, that little love tap from what's his name over there is nothing compared to what's gonna hit you Friday night if you don't unscrew your head from your ass."
Damn, Coach is pretty pissed. Even with me—and he'd taken me under his wing for the past three years—he rarely cursed, even though he knew I'd never complain to the school about it. I feel like I've been slapped across the face, and I take a deep breath. "Sorry, Coach. I'll get it right."
"Son," Coach says, sighing before putting his hand on my shoulder pads and leading me away. "Troy, you're one hell of a football player, maybe the best I've seen in fifteen years of being the head coach at this school. But you're not God. And despite the act you put on for the other boys, you're not Jesus Christ either. You need to put your head in the game and focus, or else those scouts from State that I hear might be coming by are going to cross you off their prospect list by the end of the first quarter. Tell me what's going on."
I pull my helmet off, looking over his shoulder at the guys. Coach reads my eyes and turns around. "Coach Reed, take over. Roberts, run the first team offense for a few plays. You might as well get some reps in."
We walk to the edge of the practice field behind the school, and I take a knee, picking up the hose that serves as our water fountain and take a gulp. "I don't know, Coach. Really. I was fine Sunday drawing them up at home, and walking through them in my mind, I was good, but now . . . all I can think about is this girl . . .”
"A girl?" Coach Jackson says, surprised. "Troy, are you telling me that the past forty-five minutes of near-constant screw-ups I'm seeing today is because your mind is on a girl? What the hell?"
"I know, I know," I reply, standing up. "You should’ve seen me in Spanish class. Mrs. Days tore into me. Like I said, I'm sorry."
He shakes his head. "Sorry is right. Your QB play right now is sorry and tired. Maybe you should take a rest. Sit out the rest of the offensive first team work, and get your damn head right. If you think Blueridge has got a decent defense, their right guard on offense has got a hard on for you. You stole his girlfriend from him last year at the track finals. Or so I've heard."
I shake my head, pissed off at myself. I never get benched, and here I am, being talked to like I'm some sort of scrub. "Fine. I'll get my head right."
Coach Jackson studies me, then nods. "Alright then. Stay here until I call for first team D."
He turns back to the field and walks away, already hollering for Roberts, the backup QB who expects to get nothing but mop-up duty playing time. I stand and watch, trying with my entire will to get Whitney off my mind. At least I don’t have any classes with her. I don't think I could have focused at all if I did. It was bad enough fucking off in Spanish and getting yelled at after just seeing her in the hallway.
"Obviously I have a bunch of . . . boys, water break!" Coach yells, jerking me out of my memory. "You keep going like this, and I'm playing the scout team Friday, because at least they'll play Blueridge HARD!"
The guys grumble as they come over, giving me dirty looks, and I give them right back. I hadn't been the only one to fuck up. I'd just been the most noticeable. "Get your head off your dick," Russ whispers after he grabs some water. "I can't deal with this shit much longer."
"First team D! Scout team O! Let's get fired up, gentlemen! Get those war bonnets on!"
Coach Jordan, the linebacker coach and our school's defensive coordinator, looks around the huddle as we gather together. "All right, Troy, lead your men. I want thirty-four reads."
He steps away and I look at the defense, seeing doubt in some of their eyes. Shit. I'm the fucking boss, I don't get doubts. "It's cool, guys. Thirty-four Fireman Sam slant."
Russ, who as the free safety is to call the defensive backs, gives me a hopeful smile and nods. "Cover three tight."