Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105815 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“These young guns. They can’t wait for us to get out of here,” Crew says when I return.
Benji slides his gloves on and starts his first set on the bench press.
“Put some more weight on that,” Hollis calls out, and Benji glares at him. He gets up and slides two more weight plates on the bar, muttering the entire time.
“Chris is a good kid,” I murmur. “He’s like the rest of us, doesn’t know what he wants.”
“Speak for yourself,” pants Benji. “I know I want to stop working out with you assholes.”
We laugh and do a few sets of arm curls before working on our legs.
“Coach Taylor, you gonna work out with us? Show us what you got if you still got anything,” Chris calls out as our coach enters the room.
Coach gives off a subtle chuckle as he eyes the young wide receiver up and down. At six five, he’s built like a tractor.
My chest tightens, a feeling of loss hitting me. I let him down this season.
Coach puts a hand on Chris’s shoulder and replies in a deep gravelly voice. “Kid, there ain’t enough weight in this room for me to waste my time on. Get your shit done then get in the film room and figure out why you can’t get off the line against press coverage. Speaking of someone who does know how to get off the line—Tate, there’s a man who wants to see you.” Coach swivels his head toward me. “My office.”
I start.
“Who’s here to see you?” Benji asks.
“No clue,” I tell them then call out, “Coming, sir,” to Coach as I grab my towel off the bench and wipe my face. “See you guys later.”
“Pizza at the house tonight,” Benji says as I leave. “Spike misses you. Wants you to hold him.”
I roll my eyes.
Coach is waiting for me and we walk down the hall together. He asks me about classes and my mom. I answer automatically. Fine and fine. That’s me: living a lie. At first when people would ask about her, I’d go into detail, her treatments, her day-to-day, but not anymore.
Her cancer is progressing…
She keeps telling me everything is okay…
I lie to myself all the time. I never believe me.
My pulse ramps up.
In Coach’s office is a man with his hands in the pockets of his khakis as he looks out the window. He turns as we enter: older, white hair, nicely dressed. He narrows his gaze and checks me out, assessing. I straighten my shoulders, recognizing that look.
Are you worth it? it says. Show me what you got.
Men with an eye for talent have been assessing me since I caught my first football.
“River, I’d like you to meet an old teammate, Dan Simmons. He never got much time on the field, but he practiced a lot and got paid for it.”
They chuckle.
The man moves forward and stretches out his hand to shake mine in a firm grasp. “Don’t listen to this old man,” he says in a smooth voice full of energy. “I started three years with him in Philly, and he knows it. Most people feel like our ’87 line was the best in history.”
I rack my brain, and surprisingly find what I’m looking for. “That was the year Philly had Jack Smith and Savage Carter. I can never remember who that other guy was.”
The man scoffs. “Exactly. I was the ‘other guy’ on the greatest defensive line in history. Nice to meet you. Heard a lot about you from Taylor.”
I glance back at Coach. “Hope it was good.”
Coach nods. “Dan’s a scout for Houston.”
I let those words sink in.
A small kernel of hope unfurls. Nervous, I nod and murmur a greeting as I take a seat.
Coach says, “He knows you’re leaning toward coming back but wanted to talk. We good?”
“Absolutely.” I try to sit still in the chair but end up tapping my fingers on my knee like a madman.
Coach leaves, and the room fills with silence as Dan sits across from me and takes out a pad of paper. He chuckles. “You would think I’d take notes with my phone like everyone else, but I’m old school. You mind if I write some things down?”
“Sure.” Just don’t ask me to take any. There’s no way I could write a damn thing right now. My ADHD has spiked with Holy shit, NFL scout! bouncing around my head. “Feel free.”
He leans back and crosses his legs. His eyes hold a hint of calculation. “I hear you’ve already received your score from the NFL, and it wasn’t what you were hoping for.”
I twist my ring. “Yeah, second to fourth round is what they said. We won a national championship last year. I wanted first.”
“Every player hopes for first.” He pauses. “I’ve been watching you play the last few years, and I see what you can do on the field. Taylor has told me about you as a person. He’s says you’re special, a good motivator, a real hard worker. Back in Houston, we’ve had some discussions about you.”