Page 88 of Against the Clock

From the way the coaches are watching me in practice, they know it too.

Even Rhett, who’s shaping up to be a great defensive lineman for us, eyes me with concern.

Different now that we’re on the same team.

The whistle blows, signaling practice is finally fucking over.

I used to dread it, the moment the coaches decided we were done for the day. Used to dread walking off the field, having to be someone besides the quarterback. On the turf, everything’s easy. Easier than going home to a wife I could never figure out how to make happy. Easier than dealing with parents who didn’t understand what I was doing with my life.

Now, I try not to count down minutes until they call it for the day. I’m tired. I’m not as fast as I used to be, and from the way my team’s looking at me, I think they know it, too.

Plus, I want to see Kelsey. I want to go home and pull her into my lap, and talk about her day. Make her laugh.

Sweat soaks my lower back and I tug my helmet off.

“Harrison,” the offensive coordinator, Dale Smith, yells. “With me.”

With Dale, it’s always with me, like we’re fucking walking into war together. Usually, it makes me laugh.

Today, I just want to get in the shower and head the fuck home, call Kelsey, and ice my aching shoulder.

I jog over to the sidelines where he stands, though, like a good little soldier, and he claps a hand on my bad shoulder.

I hide my wince.

“Coach Morelle wants to talk to you.”

My stomach sinks.

“Yes, sir,” I tell him. Can’t say no to the coach. I cast a longing gaze at all the other guys, who are chatting and walking off the field, headed for the locker room. Instead of joining them, I walk side by side with Dale, who likes to try and edge in front of me. It’s some weird power move, but I never quite let him push past me.

Finally, we’re in front of Coach’s heavy wooden door, a brass plaque engraved with his name shining in the fluorescent hall lights. It smells like cleaner and cigar smoke, the latter a scent that will always remind me of the summer I lived with the Morelles in college.

I knock on the door, and Dale nods at me once when Coach yells out, “Come in,” in his gruff smoker’s voice.

“Daniel, Dale, take a seat, gentlemen.”

We do as he says, because that’s what you fucking do when Coach Morelle tells you to do something. He’s in his late sixties now, a giant string bean of a man, all lean muscle and sharp green eyes that we used to joke could see everything like a hawk. He doesn’t look old, though, just tougher. Meaner, even, like time’s tried chewing on him and just spit him back out.

“How are you, Coach?” I say, settling back in my chair.

“I’m fine, son, just fine. Daniel, do you know why I called you in here today?”

“Can’t say that I do,” I reply. It’s a little dance we’ve done since I was nineteen and greener than the turf that stained our pants and skin. He asks if I know why I’m in trouble, I feign innocence.

“Neither of us are as young as we used to be,” Coach Morelle says, pushing back in his chair, relaxing his hands on the arms.

“That’s true enough,” I say, and Dale laughs.

Fuck you, Dale, I think at him. His job isn’t any more secure than mine, but age isn’t going to be what gets him cut.

“You looked good on Sunday, son. I’m real proud of what you did out there. That was the champion Harrison.”

I grit my teeth, steeling myself for what I’m pretty sure is coming. “Thank you, Coach,” I say blandly.

“You got hit hard by Rhett Edwards.” He shuffles some papers on his desk, his gaze dropping to them.

I follow the direction of his eyes.