by Zoey Shores
And, unfortunately, he has reason to believe so.
Greg is one of the thousands of rich kids who populate Winthrop. His father owns television stations and local newspaper across the country. A true media mogul. His privileged background, and high-school-jock-turned-frat-boy personality, make him and the Alpha Kappa guys natural friends. With that connection, all last year he was the guy with the inside scoop on the drama that was engulfing the team.
And no matter how much of a jerk you are, if you have the scoop, Dr. Gasten is going to give you column space over those who don’t.
Of course, his perspective was always that of the Alpha Kappas. But since no one on the paper had any kind of “in” with the new transfer students who were shaking things up, Greg was the only one whose reporting was in touch with anyone personally involved in the story. And that gave him a major edge over everyone else.
Greg was able to parlay his contacts and insider information into getting by far the most column space out of any of us last year. Word is, some of the biggest newspapers in the country have already offered him internships for this coming summer. Not that he even needs it, with the media connections he already has thanks to his family.
Talk about the rich getting richer.
But if someone could get the other side of that story … if someone knew one of the transfer players, had a rapport with them, could get a glimpse of the story from an angle that no one else has been able to report on yet …
Okay, I’d might as well just say it: if I could take advantage of my past with Luke and use him as a source close to the story to do reporting from an angle that no one else has gotten yet, Dr. Gasten would appoint me to this flagship assignment in a heartbeat.
Although the thought does awaken a spark of ambition in me, that excitement that any journalist gets when she realizes she has a possible “in” to a hot story that no one else has … at the same time, there’s something about the idea that just doesn’t sit right with me. After all of last year basically avoiding Luke, for all the reasons I had, and now suddenly seeking him out only to use our long-past relationship for my own career advancement?
Then again, last night … he seemed, actually, happy to see me again. But, then again, maybe that would change once he realizes that the reason I’d be trying to get reacquainted with him were only to get my name and writing on the front page of the student newspaper.
As all the other writers around me are chattering excitedly and optimistically about the year that lies again, with all these thoughts rolling around in my mind, I can only sink back in my chair, lean my head back, and expel an unsure and frustrated sigh.
“Look like you’re deep in thought there, Heidi. Trying to think of a way to make it to the second page this year?”
I roll my eyes at the grating voice that enters my ears. Greg’s voice. I turn to face him, seeing that over-confident smirk now up close and personal.
Last year, Greg creepily hit on me over and over again, even though he knew I had a boyfriend at the time. I tried to brush it off, but he only got more brazen and more entitled. After I finally put my foot down and let him know in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t interested and that he needed to stop hitting on me – in front of a packed newsroom where all the other writers could hear the conversation, no less – he turned into an outright jerk.
Of course, his quip about me trying to make it to the second page was an obvious insinuation that I wasn’t going to make it to the front page with the flagship football team assignment – because, in his mind, him getting that assignment is already a foregone conclusion.
The glint of arrogance in his eyes and the entitled, haughty energy he exudes is all enough to make up my mind. I’m not going to let him get this assignment lying down.
Luke mentioned last night that the fight he got into at the Alpha Kappa house was over the AK’s hazing a freshman on the team.
There’s no doubt that the reporting on the fight, which is already the talk of the entire campus on social media, is going to be the biggest story in the first edition of the paper this semester, and the story that by far is going to generate the most reader interest. There’s also no doubt that Greg is prepared to write that story, with quotes and first-person perspective from his Alpha Kappa buddies – and that only their side of the story is going to get told. Again.
Not this time. Luke’s side of the story deserves to be told this time. And the transfer students’ side of the story deserves to be told in general.
And I know that if it’s not going to be told by me, it’s not going to be told, period.
“We’ll see about that, Greg,” I answer, intoning his name with the disdain it deserves, before swiveling my chair around back to facing my desk, to focus on my laptop.
Greg simply expels a hmph of amused condescension before walking away.
We’ll see about it, alright.
CHAPTER NINE: LUKE
It’s the first full practice of the year, and we’re inaugurating it with something we’d all grown well acquainted with last year: getting chewed out by Coach Riker.
“Before the first damn snap of the season, I gotta hear about you boys fighting? Fighting, like a bunch of middle schoolers?”
His tone is composed, but sharp. Coach Riker isn’t the type to fly off the handle or go red in the face screaming, like so many coaches are. But that only makes him even more intimidating when he’s angry. Because when he gets angry, and when he chews you out – you know you’ve really done something to deserve it.
And frankly, we did.
Obviously, Carson and his buddies definitely did. Trying to haze Sage like that was way out of line. But I was out of line, too. Once I got Sage away from them, I could have just walked away without further incident. But my ego wouldn’t let me.
“As if we didn’t have enough damn problems working as a team last year,” Coach laments. He stands on the sidelines of the practice field, with the team gathered in front of him in full gear. He stands up straight and authoritative, his hands placed squarely on his hips and his gaze unwavering over us.
He’s a tall, imposing figure. He has a wide frame, and though with age he’s accumulated the beginning of a gut, he’s still well-muscled and sturdily built. Even if you didn’t know his background – a star college Tackle whose NFL career was cut short by an injury, leading him towards coaching – you'd still be able to tell that he must have been a formidable athlete in his younger years.
My heart skips a beat as his gaze scans the crowd of us in front of him and falls pointedly on me. I’m not someone who’s easily – or ever – intimidated, but after last year, I respect Coach Riker more than I’ve ever respected another man in my life. He’s done so much for me, from bringing me here in the first place, to mentoring me both personally and as an athlete, bringing me from a promising but unpolished diamond in the rough, to a genuine high-level starter with draft potential.
I don’t want to disappointment, but I know that I have.
“And you, Tanner, you’re supposed to be the team leader. Is this how you think a team leader acts? Getting into brawls at a frat party?”
I don’t know if he knows the full story of what happened last weekend, and why Carson and I ended up fighting. But Coach Riker isn’t the type of person who tolerates excuses, so I know it would be pointless to try to defend myself.
“No, Coach,” I answer.
“And you, Wright,” Coach continues, turning his accusing stare to Carson. “You’d better be glad that there’s no actual evidence of the rumors I’m hearing about what happened that night, or else your ass could be riding the bench. You hear me?”
“Yes, Coach,” Carson answers.
I know Carson carries a lot of disdain for Coach Riker, thanks to the way he shook up the whole football program, cut a bunch of his buddies from the team, gave a bunch of his other buddies’ starting position away to more talented new students, and, of course, gave his starting QB position to me. But Coach Riker m
ade it clear very early on that he wasn’t going to tolerate the least bit odisrespect or insubordination from his players, so Carson toes the line and gives him the respect he deserves.
Coach Riker removes his Wintrhop Wolves cap and rubs the top of his head, covered in slightly thinning salt-and-pepper hair, in frustration. “Alright, men, give me three laps.”
“Yes, Coach,” we all reply in unison.
I start to jog with the rest of the team, but quickly Coach Riker’s voice cuts through the air. “You two!” I turn and see Coach pointing at both me and Carson. “Give me six,” he finishes, disappointment and frustration still laden in both his gaze and his voice.
“Yes, Coach,” Carson and I sigh.
The rest of the team finish their three laps and then meet back on the sidelines to go over the practice itinerary for the day with Coach. Carson and I continue jogging around the outer perimeter of the field three extra laps. Carson keeps his lead on me and finishes his run about half a lap before I do. Carson Edwards does have speed over me, I’ll give the asshole that.
But that’s all he has over me – and it’s all I’ll give him.
Once I’ve completed by six laps, I walk over to the middle of the sidelines where the rest of the team is gathered with Coach Riker, discussing the drills and practice plays that we’ll be focusing on for today.
“Pick up the pace, Tanner!” Coach yells toward me, not giving me even a second of slack. I nod and suck a deep breath, jogging over to the huddle.
“Alright, boys, this year, we’ve gonna be going more vertical,” Coach begins, pointing to some plays he has drawn up on the white board he’s rolled from his office out onto the field. By “going vertical,” he means we’re going to be throwing the ball further down the field, which means a greater emphasis on speed from our receivers, and a much greater emphasis on accuracy from me as a passer.
“I think you’ve all met our newest receiver, Sage Tatum. I hand picked him for his speed, and he’s going to be getting a lot of snaps this year.”
Lincoln pats Sage on the back. Lincoln’s already basically taken the kid under his wing like an older brother, and Sage seems like a good guy so far. I have a feeling we’ll have good chemistry on the field.
“Today, Tatum is gonna be doing route drills until he pukes,” Coach declares, drawing laughs from the guys. Coach Riker is known for his grueling practices, and every one of us have puked more than once as a result of pushing ourselves to our limits. But the hard work always pays off on game day.
“If he has anything left in there, that is,” Archer quips. The whole team, especially Archer, Chase, Lincoln and myself, laugh even harder.
Coach finishes up discussing what drills each part of the team will be focusing on today. It’s probably no coincidence that for the first practice after the scuffle we had at the party Saturday night, Coach has me and Carson working together, running medium and long-distance passing drills.
We’ve got the offensive and defensive lines involved in the drills as well. Coach wants us to really get right back into the swing of things, so we’re doing a full practice. Our defensive line will try to rush me, and our offensive line will try to protect me while Carson and I practice our passing drills. Just like it’ll be out on the field during a real game, starting this Saturday afternoon.
We practice for about an hour. Our defensive line is in great shape, and they’re giving us a hard time. Still, Carson and I are able to make plenty of completions.
Despite our animosity, we were able to play well together last year. So far, it looks like neither of those two things will change, if both this practice and this weekend are any indication of things to come. Our chemistry on the field is still strong, and our animosity off the field is still, if anything, even stronger.
After several drills, though, one of our defensive rushers, Kyle, starts to get into the zone and making great plays, powering through the offensive blockers protecting me, and either sacking me or forcing bad throws that fly way out of Caron’s range.
“Shit,” I mumble, as Kyle helps me up from his latest onslaught. As much as getting my play blown up feels bad, it’s tempered by the optimism that Kyle’s outstanding performance fills me with. On game day, once we’re out there for real, it’s not me who’s going to have to worry about Kyle. It’s opposing team.
I think I’ll enjoy watching his improved level of play a lot more once it’s the other team taking these brutal sacks.
Carson, on the other hand, seems to be seeing a lot more of the negative.
“Damn it, Tanner, is it gonna fucking kill you to extend a play?”
I narrow my eyes and try to suppress the urge to fire back with some choice words of my own. “Just line up for the next drill.”
“Fuck that. You’ve got no legs as a Quarterback, Tanner. Back when I was QB, I could at least do a little running to avoid a sack if a defensive rusher got through the line.”
My patience reaches its limit, and my frustration boils over. I throw the football to the turf and pull off my helmet to confront Carson. “Yeah, Carson, you could run, because you fucking had to. You couldn’t read a defense, you had no accuracy, and it took you a million years to find a target. You lost your spot for a reason.”
Carson pulls off his own helmet and flings it to the ground next to him. His eyes are vivid with anger, because he knows what I’m saying is true. “Oh yeah?” he responds, walking up towards me, knowing that he has no actual response to what I’m telling him.
“That’s right,” I hold my frame. “And you’re fucking lucky that I did take your spot. If you finished your college career as a Quarterback, you’d be lucky to even make it to an NFL practice team. Now that you have the privilege of catching my passes, you just might get drafted.”
A low rumble comes from the other plays gathered around is, gasping and mumbling about our confrontation. Carson narrows his eyes and squares his shoulders as he takes another step toward me, looking me dead in my eyes. It feels more and more like this is about to be a replay of what happened last Saturday at the Alpha Kappa house.
The sharp tone of a whistle cuts through the air before the standoff can go any further.
“Damn it, you two, can you act like athletes for one damn day?” Coach Riker’s harsh tone carries towards us and causes both of us to drop our aggressive stances.
He gives both of us a cursory look and then waves toward the side of the field. “Both of you, in my office.”
He turns on his heels and walks quickly in the direction of his office, his heated body language making his annoyance and disappointment palpable. Carson and I walk behind him, more slowly, silently.
Once inside Coach’s office, he motions for both of us to sit down in the two folding chairs set up in front of his desk. Coach Riker leans back against the side of his desk and folds his arms over his chest, looking down on us with exasperation written on his face.
“Look, boys, a Wide Receiver and his Quarterback not getting along with each other is nothing new. Shit, more than a couple teams that’ve gone on to win the Super Bowl had Quarterbacks and receivers that hated each other. But they were able to put that behind them on the field, and play effectively. And not only that, but even off the field, they were able to control their emotions at least to the extent that they didn’t get into fights. You aren’t kids anymore, you’re juniors in college. And you’re the leaders of this team. Both of you are. If you two can’t act professionally, we might as well just call this season quits. Is that something either of you want?”
“No, sir,” Carson answers.
“No, Coach,” I second him.
“Good. That’s what I thought. I’m not asking you two to be friends. But I am asking that you work together when you have to, keep your differences under control, and stay away from each other off the field if you can’t keep your emotions under control. Can I trust the both of you for that much?”
We both nod.
Coach pushes his weight off
his desk, bringing him back to a standing position. “Alright, them, both of you, on your feet. Shake hands.”
Carson and I stand and lock hands. Although we’re trying to keep our still simmering animosity under control for Coach, both of us still exert a little more pressure than necessary as we grip the other’s hand. Neither of us wants to cede any ground to the other, or to feel like he’s the one backing down.
However Carson feels, I’m serious about my vow to Coach. I know that he’s right that if we can’t get our rivalry under control, it will spin out of control and cost us the season. I wont, I can’t, do that to Coach. He’s done so much for me, so much for everyone on the team, that he deserves our best during the season.
After showering, Archer, Chase, Lincoln and I all walk home together, talking about the practice and pondering what the upcoming season has in store for us. Chase was working with Sage, helping him understand our playbook and playing style as a receiver, and he’s very optimistic about what Sage will add to the team this year. I try not to mention my face-off with Carson – I just want to put it behind me and get on with the season.
Once we get home, the other guys start to relax, but I don’t have the luxury. On Mondays I have a late Physics 201 class. Although most of the guys on the team pick easy majors in order to put all of their time and energy into football, and I can’t blame them, personally, I’m taking full advantage in the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity I have here at Winthrop University.
I know that if football doesn’t work out for me long term, without a real education, I won’t have anything to fall back on. And as good as I am, football is never a sure thing.
A bad injury could ruin everything at any moment. Besides that, sometimes even good players don’t get picked in the draft. Most guys here at Winthrop have it made no matter what, and don’t have to worry about the future; but I can’t afford to put all my eggs in one basket.