Cora Carmack - All Lined Up

After my taste of it at tryouts, I didn’t stand, sit, walk, or sleep without aching for nearly three days.

Coach’s smile is the stuff nightmares are made of.

“Well then, gentlemen. Let’s get started.”

It’s Dad’s birthday, and we’re going out to dinner to celebrate. I had planned to wait for him in my car, as I had no desire to venture into practice, but here I am heading off to find him anyway.

I skipped lunch to squeeze in some extra time in the studio, and even though Dad said he’d be wrapping up practice early, I don’t trust him to actually stick to his word. My grumbling stomach pulls me out of my car, but my stubborn pride is what keeps me walking into the athletic complex.

As Levi said at the party, I’m here; he’s here. We definitely won’t be starting fresh, but I won’t be falling all over myself to avoid him either. College doesn’t have to suck because I’m sharing it with my ex and my dad—that frat party taught me that. I just have to take the good in with the bad and hope the good comes out on top.

That’s my plan for the meeting tonight with Carson, too.

So he pissed me off. (And made me confused and annoyed and self-conscious and a little bit hurt.) That doesn’t mean I have to completely shut down. That’s how the old me reacted after everything with Levi. That’s how I’ve always reacted with anything emotional. I can’t feel pain if I don’t let myself feel anything at all.

But I promised myself that things would be different in college. I’m starting over. And that means I can’t keep living the same way, afraid that everything is going to break me. I survived growing up without a mom. I survived a broken heart. I survived my first frat party and a stupid football player’s attempt to get me into bed just for kicks.

That’s why I’d decided in my little lunchtime dance session after my run-in with Carson that whatever he had to say, I could forgive him. Or understand. Or whatever. I’m not going to run away from the first real connection I’ve felt in years just because he didn’t text me back for a couple days.

I’ve spent too much time pretending, too much time on the outside, too much time feeling spineless. This time . . . I’m going after what I want.

I hear a whistle blow as I walk down the hallway that leads out onto the field. Tugging my messenger bag higher on my shoulder, I continue out onto the springy grass searching for my dad.

I pause, overwhelmed with the number of guys practicing and just how freaking big they are.

Toto, we’re not in high school anymore.

The players and coaches are scattered all over the field in small groups, all of them doing something different while a coach stands over them yelling. Normally, I would say that my dad would be easy to find. He’s the loudest person I’ve ever met in my life, but among all the coaches yelling and the players grunting and yelling back, it’s a barely controlled chaos. I walk along the perimeter, searching for Dad.

There are guys doing ladder drills, intimidating and tiring, but I like to think I’m quick enough on my feet that I could give most of them a run for their money. Not so with most of the other stuff I see. There’s one group of guys facing a set of hurdles, jumping over each one leapfrog style instead of using the form you see at track meets. There’s a group with guys crashing into one another whenever the coach says go, growling and trying to take their opponent down. Another set is doing monkey rolls, my favorite drill to watch because it’s just so damn impressive (and entertaining). Three guys all start out lying on their stomachs beside one another. In turns, they throw themselves up or roll across the grass, so it looks like they’re being juggled by large, invisible hands.

But I catch sight of Dad at the far end of the practice field. He has two lines of guys set up to form a narrow corridor, and while one player runs through carrying the ball, they all attempt to make him fumble.

Apparently Levi did just that, because I can hear Dad tearing him a new one from over here. “I don’t give a damn if you’re tired or bleeding or about to pass out on my field, Abrams. You don’t drop the damn ball. You’re the QB. You protect that ball like it’s the only one you have, because it just might be if I see it hit the ground one more time.”

I wince. Nothing like the threat of castration to brighten up your day.

“Again!”

Levi runs the gauntlet again, and the players are none too gentle as they try to strip the ball away, probably by Dad’s order. This time, Levi holds on to the ball. Dad sends him through a few more times, and when he’s satisfied, he moves on to the next player.

“McClain, you’re up!”

The guy on the end takes the ball from Levi, who fills his post as one of the last members of the gauntlet. The new guy tucks the ball close, keeps his shoulders hunched, and speeds through the middle, holding tight to the ball.

“Again. Faster.”

The guy had already appeared faster than Levi to my eyes, but maybe he’s a running back. It would make sense for him to be faster.

He turns around, runs back through the gauntlet, his feet even quicker this time.

Dad runs him again and again, pushing him harder each time, and the guy holds up.

Dad sounds angry, but he’s not. He wears this thoughtful expression on his face, and I can tell whatever he’s thinking . . . it’s big. He’s pleased.

I may not give a crap about football, but I know my dad well enough to know when he’s excited about something, when he’s inspired. I like to think it’s the same look I get on my face when I’m choreographing a routine, and my body seems to know instinctively what move should come next. I only wish he could see the correlation, see that dance does for me what football does for him.

Instead, he just sees a waste of time and money for a career he doesn’t think I’ll ever have. I know, logically, I know that he’s just worried about me, and this is how it manifests, but that doesn’t stop the part of me that hopes and dreams from hating him a little.

As I’m coming up closer to Dad, he asks, “Are you tired, McClain?”

“No, sir,” the guy barks back.

“You look tired.”

“No, sir.”

“Tired men drop the football. Tired men make mistakes. Are you tired?”

“No, sir!”

“Then do it again. Keep going until I say stop.”

Even I feel sorry for the dude. He’s done everything Dad asked, and done it well enough to actually impress my father (not an easy feat), and still he won’t let up. But that’s an aspect to my father’s personality with which I am intimately familiar.

“Geez, Dad. If this is how you like to spend your birthday, maybe we should skip dinner and you could just yell at people as they walk by. Maybe chase some mailmen. Chew on a bone or two.”

Dad whirls around, and he has his football expression on—eyebrows pulled low and close together, jaw clenched, eyes even beadier than normal. He looks at me for a few long moments before I see him begin to shake off his practice persona.

With a frown, he steps up beside me and places a kiss on my forehead that’s a not-so-distant cousin to a head butt.

“Am I running late?” he asks.

“Only a little.”

He nods and then blows the whistle, ending the players’ agony. I shoot his last punching bag, number twelve, a quick smile, and he drops the ball.

It just slips right out of his hand, bounces twice, and then rolls a few feet away.

Luckily, Dad’s attention is elsewhere, or his brain might actually implode due to anger. I raise my eyebrows and glance toward the ground, and number twelve picks the thing up so fast you’d think his life depended on it. Which, honestly, it kinda does.

I walk back and out of the way as the players jog over to circle around Dad. There are so many of them that I have to resist the urge to run to avoid getting swallowed up in the crowd. They take a knee, and I lean against the wall nearby.

I feel eyes on me, too many eyes, but it takes only a clearing of my Dad’s throat to redraw all of their focus. I fidget, crossing my legs and studying my toes.

Dad starts in on his wrap-up, his familiar rumbling voice carrying across the field with very little effort.

“You’re getting stronger,” he begins. “Quicker. Better.” I can see the team collectively straighten up under his praise. “But it’s not enough.”

Dad is inhumanly good at that—building you up just to knock you down a peg or two.

“How many games did you win last year?”

No one answers for several long seconds, then Dad turns on Levi, who is kneeling right next to him, facing in my direction.

“How many games did your team win, Abrams?”

Levi’s jaw goes stone hard, and a little warmth of pleasure uncurls in my belly to see him so agitated.

“Three, sir.”

“Three,” my dad repeats. Then, a little quieter, he says the number a second time. It’s the second time that makes a few players drop their heads. Not Levi, though. He’s staring at Dad in an angry way that makes me dislike him even more. As if I needed another reason.

“You are better than three,” my dad says. “You were last year too, but there’s a gap between your potential and your playing. Every second you push yourself on this field, every weight you strain to lift, every time you sit down to study plays or film, we’re closing that gap. But we will only completely close that gap as a team. I can’t will it closed, and a team isn’t meant to be carried by one or two individuals. If even one of you doesn’t pull your weight, it won’t work.” Dad paused and looked around the circle of players. “Don’t be the gap on this team. Be the person who fills it.”