Page 12 of Spiral
“Georgia, do you know Coach Bryer?” She looks at me with an eyebrow raised, her lips still pursed.
Do I know the TU football coach? What on earth does that have to do with anything?
“Do I know him? No, ma’am, but I know who he is. The football coach.” I bring my thumbnail up to bite it – a nervous habit – but quickly stop myself.
“Yes, the football coach. He recently contacted me and brought to my attention that his team, for the first time in many years, is in the running for the NCAA national championship this season.”
So?
“He says, more than ever, they are needing student support to encourage the players through their games. He asked that the Tribune run a multi-week piece over the football team – what they do at practice, how they play at their games, biographies on the players, et cetera, to draw interest from the study body. And I’d like you to write it.”
My throat goes dry.
“Weeks with the football team? But I… what about my literature column?” I plead, before I can stop myself.
She smiles at me, in her own Dr. Randie way – just barely a half smile.
“I really need you to do this, Georgia. Coach Bryer rarely asks favors, and I’m afraid we’ll lose funding if we don’t listen to what he wa-”
“So, we’re just going to let him control the Tribune?! How is that fair? Coach Bryer doesn’t run this school! Other things matter that aren’t football!”
My cheeks flush hot with my temper and a lump forms at the base of my throat. It’s not about the fact that I need to write a football column – it’s that my literature column is still a figment of my dreams and that the TU Tribune, which I have worked so hard to make successful, could apparently be gone in the blink of an eye if Coach Bryer isn’t satisfied.
“Please calm down, Georgia. If you do this for me, which allows the TU Tribune to continue receiving funding and, therefore, continue to exist… I will grant your wishes for a book column.”
My heart starts to pound, my eyes lighting up with excitement.
Is she being serious right now?
“But,” she finishes, “only if you do what Coach Bryer asks and write about the topics he requests. I know you can do this well, Georgia.”
She looks at me with sympathy, her expression softened. “You’re the best writer we have.”
I know that I have no choice.
9 | Henry
MEET ME IN my office in ten minutes.
The text from Coach Bryer lights up my phone as I hurriedly check my email. I’m running, sweat dripping down my cheeks, to yet another class that football practice has caused me to be late for.
I groan. A text from Coach Bryer is never good – let alone one that requests that I meet him alone, off the field.
I knock on the door to Coach’s office, clearing my throat as I do so. To my irritation, my palms and forehead are sweaty with nerves.
“Who is it?” His gruff, southern accent filters through the door.
“It’s Anderson, sir. You wanted to see me.”
“It’s open.”
Coach Bryer is sitting at his desk, dressed conservatively in a TU Football polo shirt and khaki slacks. His snow-white hair is neatly styled, a stark change to his usual baseball cap. His eyes, framed by deep purple bags and wrinkles from years on the field, look up at me. His scowl softens slightly.
“Sit down, Anderson.” He gestures towards the chair in front of him.
Coach sighs as I sit, the grit of his voice clear even without speaking. It suddenly occurs to me how much more fragile he appears compared to when I was younger.
40 years ago, Lindsey Bryer was the number one football player for Texas University, my family’s legacy school. My dad, a former TU University football player himself, idolized Coach Bryer and taught me to do the same. In those days, he was an incredibly fast, strong, and handsome football star with a rigid jaw and arms of steel. When he became Texas University’s head coach during my high school years, I knew there was nobody else I could play for. Nowadays, though, his once rigid jaw has been softened by aging skin. His arms of steel now appear frail next to my own; his handsome features have grown sunken with time.