Chapter 10

The next afternoon I lace up my cleats in the locker room.

“Bailey!” a voice booms through the locker bank.

“Yes, sir?” I say.

“My office,” Coach shouts.

“Yes, sir.”

I follow him to his office. He grunts to the chair on the other side of his desk.

I sit.

We sit there in silence. As usual, his face is red and sweaty. We haven’t even started practice but sweat drips off the brim of his cap. It darkens the gray tufts of hair by his ears. His sharp cheekbones are scarlet. It’s as if his blood really is boiling. Half of me expects the sweat drops to sizzle when they land on his desk.

“You’re going to take a few more snaps than usual this week,” he says.

“Really?” I say. The comment catches me so off guard I can’t help also blurting: “Why?”

Coach sighs. “Because I’m tired of this,” he says. On cue, the blood drains from his cheeks and then the rest of his face. I honestly didn’t know Coach was capable of being tired. “The only game I’ve ever liked to play is football,” he says. “But if your friend insists on playing the media game, I guess I’ll play too.” He shakes his head. “We’re undefeated and our fans are booing. You ever heard of such a thing?”

I don’t answer because I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to. He’s staring at the ceiling as he talks, still shaking his head.

Another sigh.

“So fine,” he says. “I’ll play along. I’ll talk to the media. Tell them you’re getting just as many snaps in practice as Curt. When they bring their cameras, they’ll see that’s the truth. They’ll report that you have just as good a chance of starting on Friday as Curt. How’s that sound to you?”

I don’t answer because I have no idea what to say. I’m stunned. I feel like I can’t move my body, my tongue, my mouth.

“That’s what I thought,” Coach says. “That’s what I’ve thought all along. I’ve been doing this a long time, son. I know a scared kid when I see one. You might have others fooled, but not me. You don’t want to have anything to do with football, do you?”

Is this another rhetorical question? Is he going to make me say it?

“Every time I look your way, you are hiding in a crowd of players. If I meet your eyes, you looked away. You’ve never acted like someone who wants the bright lights on them. I just have one more question, son. If you don’t want to play, why are you still on the team? Why didn’t you do the honorable thing and quit. It sure would have saved us a lot of grief.”

This is the second time in less than two days someone has described quitting as the honorable thing. Lance was talking about Curt, but Coach is right. I’m the one who should have quit.

“Forget it,” Coach says. “I’m not about to tell a kid who shows up for practice every day and keeps his mouth shut that he has to quit. Not you. Not my son, even though—believe me—I’d understand if he did want to quit.” The blood is boiling in Coach’s face again, but he lets out another sigh. “Maybe you could have prevented all this nonsense, but that doesn’t make it your fault.”

“Thanks,” I say. I’m not sure he hears me, though, because I’m practically whispering. I’m surprised by how good it feels to have someone say this isn’t my fault, whether or not I believe him.

“So,” Coach says, “we’ll play the media game this week. We’ll pretend you have a chance to start on Friday. But between you and me, as long as Curt is able to stand, you’re never going to get on the field again.”

I’m almost positive I don’t say thanks again—not out loud—but maybe I do.

Because Coach says, “You’re welcome” as I walk out the door.