Page 84 of Spiral
49 | Henry
COACH BRYER’S SCOWL burns into me from across his office, the threatening tap of his pen matching my pounding heartbeat. As I step over the threshold of the door, I notice a figure sitting in the corner of his room, behind his desk. Chocolate brown ringlets frame her sharp features, which are set in a dramatic pout.
Natalia.
“Um, you wanted to see me, Coach?”
He called me into his office this morning – the morning of our NCAA Championship game – for a “talk.” I know enough about Coach Bryer to know that a “talk” is never about something good.
“Sit down, Anderson,” he demands, his voice hoarse and irritated. “Listen, boy. A little birdie told me that your girlfriend used my game to raise money for the Tribune. The Tribune I cut.”
My jaw tightens as I remember the thousands of flyers we’d passed out to TU Titans fans at the last playoff game. I glance at Natalia, who still sits motionless in the corner. Her pouting face, which had been on full-display when I entered the room, has now transformed into a smug smirk.
“Dr. Randie had said we needed to raise money to keep the Tribune. It wasn’t yours to cut anyway.”
My tone is defiant, my expression grave.
“Every damn thing at this school is mine to cut, boy. Do you know how much god damn power I’ve got? Well, you ought to! That Tribune did nothing for us but suck up good marketing money. It had to go.”
“We’ve got enough money. Georgia has worked her ass off for years on that newspaper, Coach.”
He glares at me, jaw clenched in frustration as I speak.
“I don’t want to hear it, Anderson. I already spoke with the dean. It doesn’t matter how much money that girl’s got, she ain’t getting the Tribune back. And that’s final. I don’t need any more distractions before the championships – and, as Captain, you better make sure that’s understood by everyone on this team. Got it?”
The room fills with silence as he leers in my direction, his body stiff and unwavering.
“Got it,” I mutter, hurriedly rising and exiting his office, not giving him a chance to say more.
“What the fuck?!”
Eleanor’s screech reverberates through their living room as I break the news, a shocked expression clouding her features.
“So, we raised all that money for nothing?”
I look at Georgia as she speaks, her soft, gentle voice overcome by sadness. Her green eyes are wide, but somber, and I can tell she’s holding back tears.
“No,” I interject, before I can truly think about my response – or know if it’s possible. “It wasn’t for nothing. We’re getting the Tribune back no matter what.”
“But, how, Henry?” Eleanor sneers. “Your asshole coach won’t allow it.”
I pause for a moment, allowing the room to fill with a noticeable silence. The living room is strewn with textbooks and Georgia's novels as finals approach, and I can tell she’s been studying non-stop.
I can’t stress her out more – and I can’t let her down.
“Well,” I start as I clear my throat anxiously. “I might have a plan that could work.”
The Mason Field locker room still lingers with the stench of sweat from this afternoon’s practice as my team gathers around me – some fully dressed in their gear, others not.
“Well, boys,” I start, projecting my voice over the distant rumble of cheering Titans fans. “We’ve made it to the Championships—”
The entire locker room bursts into hoots and hollers; players dap each other up and roughhouse from adrenaline, banging on lockers and jumping to hit the ceiling.
“—but we aren’t going to play in them.”
The room immediately falls into deathly silence.
A few moments pass before somebody speaks up from the back of the crowd of players, asking for an explanation.