by J Santiago
OTHER NOVELS BY J. SANTIAGO
Lex and Lu
Bliss
Copyright © 2015 J. Santiago
Published by Angela St. James, LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Visit my website at www.santiagonovels.com
Cover designer: IronDan
Cover images: Shutterstock and Adobe Stock.
Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9969558-4-3
To Brandi and Ochuko—
Thank you for my best professional memories.
To my PSL boys and those who know—
Here’s to family nights, Ninja, and Left, Right, Center.
To Tauara, Xander, Nico, and Lucas.
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
Signing Day
Athletic Director Sammy Day stood back to survey the scene. They set it up in the back of the media center. The black pipe and drape hung against the back wall. A skirted table, flanked by two artificial trees, took center stage underneath the fiery mane of their mascot, the Lion.
Sammy wasn’t one to invite attention, but the celebrated football season and the national attention on his students had forced Middleton High, buried under the three 6A schools in his county, into the limelight. Since this was a first for his small school, he wanted to make sure that the people watching would be impressed with what they saw.
Turning to the football coach, Don Hayes, he asked, “Should we move it to the gym? It’s a much newer facility. Might look better on TV.”
Don patted Sammy on the shoulder. “No one is going to see anything but Tank and the banner. And maybe his mama. You know how this works.”
“I’ve watched, but I’ve never been a part of it.” He pointed to his tie. “You ever see me wear one of these on a Wednesday morning?”
Don smiled. “You look great, Sammy.”
“I’ve got all the hats. Just waiting for the table to be set up.” Sammy looked over at Don. “Seems a little silly to be doing all of this. Everyone knows where Tank’s gonna go.”
Don laughed, somewhat humorlessly. “Yeah. He would have committed a long time ago if it weren’t for his dad. Tank’s not one for all this attention.”
Don thought back over the last two years since Tank Howard had been discovered by the college football coaches of America. He imagined that Tank had probably received over two thousand pieces of mail in his junior year alone. He’d changed his cell phone number three times. Don chalked that up to Tank also avoiding his father as much as overzealous recruiters.
It wasn’t only Tank who had been receiving attention. Don, his coaching staff, and even Sammy had been caught up in the media hype of having a five-star recruit in their midst. During the contact periods, it’d seemed like college coaches were roaming their halls on a daily basis. He could see how some high school coaches got caught up in the merciless tide of recruiting with phone calls pounding like waves in a constant stream. Yes, Don was ready for this day to be over. Unfortunately, Tank’s father had arranged for Tank to be the final signee of the day. That meant, it wasn’t over yet.
Chantel Jones woke up, knowing. She had that feeling in the pit of her stomach—the one that told you something wasn’t right with the day, the one that made you want to crawl back into bed and start all over. But this was Tank’s big day. There was no starting over. It had taken too long to get here. So, she got out of bed and headed for the shower.
She’d had her hair re-twisted yesterday. She’d bought a neutral-colored outfit to protect Tank’s choice.
Her boy.
She couldn’t believe it had already come to this. Her son was to the point where he was making decisions about his life. He was maneuvering people and events. Somewhere along the way, her precocious, charming boy had grown up, despite being denied, then ignored, and then embraced by That Man.
She couldn’t think about That Man without getting heated. And not a good heated. This was a gut-wrenching, pissed-off, wanting-to-throw-something heated. That wasn’t normally her style, and it made her all that much madder. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she stopped her mad. It was that quick. She’d definitely wasted enough mad on That Man in her lifetime. And today wasn’t about the insignificant fact that his sperm had fertilized her egg. It was about the amazing result. Antony Howard, aka Tank.
Chantel finished getting dressed and checked the time. It was six forty-five a.m. She had to get Tank up.
Leaving her room, she began their daily ritual. “Tank, time’s up. You need to get out of bed.”
She walked toward his room, expecting their normal morning struggle. Tank had always been a night owl. But she opened his door and found him sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, elbows braced on his knees, his beaten-down hat in his hands.
She stopped abruptly. “Hey, baby!” she exclaimed in an overly loud voice.
But she knew then and there that the quivering feeling in her stomach was right on. Because she’d never seen Tank up before his alarm. And she mentally braced herself because she knew today wasn’t going to go as planned.
At six thirty a.m., the activity in the offensive war room at State rivaled the trading floor on the New York Stock Exchange. Ten coaches, one player personal director, one director of football operations, and several minions filled the conference room. The television was set to ESPN, but for now, it was muted.
Surrounding them was the recruiting board. They’d played this board for months, moving pieces based on their evaluations, rearranging by commitment and position needs, dreaming of bringing in specific players. All of their work came down to twenty-five seventeen- and eighteen-year-old boys. That was one of the ironies of all of this. Yeah, coaches made a shitload of money, but in the end, their fate was in the hands of children.
In the midst of the chaos, head coach Mickey Whitehurst leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head. A success story in the making, he surveyed his domain. He had assembled this group with care.
“Well,” he said—instantly, silence ensued
—“it all comes down to this. We can either have a top twenty-five recruiting class or a number one recruiting class. We’ve worked our asses off. We’ve got nineteen commitments and six wild cards. We get five of those six wild cards, and we’ll be in the top ten. We get Tank Howard, and hands down, we’ll be number one.”
“You heard from him, Whitey?”
Tank Howard had a recruiting coach, but he was special enough that the head coach was heavily involved.
“Yeah, he called last night.”
The faces around the table looked at him expectantly. He shifted positions and moved toward the table. Dropping his elbows on the edge, he leaned forward and picked up his Sharpie, doodling on the list in front of him.
Whitey had been in the game for a long time, and he was quite certain he hadn’t met any kid like this one. Tank was smart—football smart, people smart, classroom smart. Talking to Tank, one would never know that they were conversing with an eighteen-year-old. Whitey wanted this kid more than he wanted a recruit in his illustrious career.
He and Tank had spoken for a while last night. In his methodical way, Tank had asked Whitey the plans for the team and how he’d fit into those plans. Whitey wasn’t sure if the questions were Tank’s or if his mother, Coach Hayes, or his father but the kid knew what to ask and how to ask it.
It was no secret that Tank had grown up as a State fan. It was also no secret that he had wanted to commit a long time ago, but his father had wanted him to keep his options open and had convinced his mother that it was the smart thing to do. And he was probably right. Whitey would advise his own son to do the same.
He looked back up at the faces around the table. “Everything tells me that we should get Tank. That when ESPN points their cameras toward him, he’s gonna pick up our hat and say he’s coming here.” His announcement was greeted with smiles. “But”—he paused—“it ain’t over till the fat lady sings. And until it’s four thirty-two when the announcements have been made and I see our damn hat on his head with a freshly signed National Letter of Intent, you just never know.”
Coach Mike Franco surveyed his new offensive coaches’ meeting room with both trepidation and elation. Finally a head coach at a Division I institution, he couldn’t stop the small grin that stole across his face. He’d had one month to recruit for his alma mater—one crucial short month to attempt to put together a recruiting class that the top seventy-five hadn’t seen, one month to shift gears from recruiting coach at a major program, a Division I perennial power, to a coach of a blip on the radar of college football.
Franco didn’t mind being the number two. In fact, he’d sort of relished being the sounding board but not the buck-stops-here person. Yet, when the president of the university had called, he’d surprised himself with his quick answer. He had been poised at State to sign the most impressive recruiting class to ever be assembled, set to coach the most promising high school prospect in history. But Franco had called his agent and negotiated his contract in record time. Then, he’d hit the recruiting trail in different colors.
The first stop he’d made was to the hometown of Tank Howard. He knew Tank would never, could never sign with his school. But he’d been recruiting the kid for three years. They had a relationship. Franco wanted, if nothing else, to explain. He’d also wanted to assure Tank that he’d still have a place at State, still get a top-notch coach, still be part of a national championship program. He didn’t have to do that, but he had worked hard to put State on top. And even if he couldn’t be there to reap the rewards, he still thought they deserved it most. And maybe he’d squeezed in an offer for an official visit to Kensington State and the promise of a scholarship if Tank wanted another option. But, even as he’d made it, he had known it was like trying to substitute Goodwill for Neiman Marcus.
They’d gotten all of their National Letter of Intents back. It wasn’t a rock-star recruiting class that the college football analysts would be salivating over, but it was solid. And Franco had been smart enough to demand time to put his team together.
Glancing at the newly installed TV, something else he’d negotiated, Franco sat back and waited for Tank to appear. He almost called Whitey but figured he’d wait until he could officially congratulate the State coach on the addition of Tank Howard to his team.
Tank sat—well, hid really—in his coach’s office. He’d been calm all day, but now, thirty minutes before airtime, he could no longer contain his excitement. His face was split wide by a white-toothed smile, and his eyes sparkled. He couldn’t wait to make it official.
They would be the number one class, potentially one of the best ever brought together. Most of them had met at seven-on-seven camps they’d traveled to throughout the southeast. They’d kept up their tentative friendships via Facebook and text-messaging. They’d offered each other congratulations when their respective teams had won big games. They’d taken official visits together. And he’d turned a few of them. Not sure where they were going to go, he had exerted gentle pressure as the unofficial president of the recruiting class.
Tank hadn’t liked waiting. He really didn’t need this big announcement. He didn’t want to be on TV. He’d wanted to commit two years ago when Coach Whitey had been named the head coach. It seemed stupid to wait, as it was surely the worst kept secret in college football. He wasn’t sure how his father had convinced his mother that this was a good idea. They hadn’t had a civil conversation since he’d shown up in their lives after years of denial. So, why she’d listened and forced Tank to keep his options open was beyond him. Since he wasn’t going to go against his mother, he had gone on his five official visits and honestly listened to what all the coaches were trying to sell him. But he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t believe most of what they’d said.
On his only visit to a non-BCS conference school, Tank had been hosted by a Tilly Lace. Tilly was a freshman lineman, who had been honest with Tank. He’d told Tank not to believe what he heard on his visits.
“Tank,” he’d said, “I’m gonna be real with ya. When I got here, I asked my coach about something he’d told me. He said, ‘Did I say that during recruiting?’ I said, ‘Yeah.’ He said, ‘Till, if I said it during recruiting, don’t believe it.’”
Tank had listened. And he’d listened to the coaches and the people he met with. He knew what was real and what wasn’t. But he was glad that he’d gone into the rest of his visits with Tilly’s advice filtering what he’d heard. He was also glad that he’d already known where he wanted to go. It made the whole process a lot easier.
“Tank, you ready?” Coach Hayes asked, bringing him out of his memories.
Tank stood and accepted his mentor’s hand. Coach pulled him into a quick one-armed man hug and released him.
“Let’s do this!” he said, clapping his hands once for emphasis.
Tank followed him out of the room and into his future.
Long before today, the administration of Middleton High had delivered the message to the school that only the senior football players and the faculty and staff could be at Tank’s signing. So, while many people weren’t there, the size of the library made it seem like thousands were in the audience.
In front of where Tank would sit, the microphone and five hats had been arranged. Tank entered the library with his mother and his coach. Already miked up, he made his way to the small stage and escorted his mother to her chair.
Tank surveyed the hats. They’d briefly discussed how to arrange them. He was pretty sure Mr. Day had watched YouTube to see how the signees from last year had set up their hats. Tank wasn’t sure what had been decided, but he studied the hats and their alignment, so he knew where his was.
“All right, Tank. Ready?” asked the producer.
“Yes, sir,” Tank replied.
“We’re about to go live. We’re going to show you sitting with your mother, and then we’ll go to a commercial break. You’ll have about two minutes. Then, it will be your show.” He smiled at Tank and said, “Good luck.”
>
Tank leaned back in his chair and turned to Chantel. “Well, Mama, here we go.”
She reached out and laid her hand on his cheek. “I’m so proud of you, baby.”
“All right, Tank, we’re on you.”
Tank wasn’t sure what people were seeing, so he kept his arm around his mother and smiled at the camera.
“We’ll be right back with our last, most-anticipated announcement of the day.”
“We’re off.”
“You ready?” Chantel asked. “You know what you’re going to say?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m so ready for this.”
“I know. And I know this isn’t the way you wanted to do this, but I’m glad that you went on all of your visits and that you took some time to consider what would be best…even though you wanted to be grown and pick a long time ago.” She finished with a smile.
“Mama,” he whispered, “I think the TV people can hear you.” He laughed.
“We’re ready in five, four, three, two, one.”
“Tank, you are the last signee of the day. People have been waiting to hear this announcement for a long time. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where will you be going to school in the fall?”
Tank paused. “I’d like to say thank you for all the support I’ve gotten over the last couple of years. It has meant a lot to me to have so many people cheering for me.”
He waited as cheering and clapping broke out in the crowd. During the pause, the library door opened.
“I’d also like to thank all of the schools that recruited me. There are a lot of great programs and that made my decision tough.”
Tank paused. In the back of the room a small commotion began. Tank heard the word father. He turned quickly to look at his mother, and the expression on her face filled him with dread.
Richard Howard made his way through the parted crowd. He was a big man, which made him hard to miss. He pinned Tank with his eyes, but all Tank could see was the State billboard the sperm donor was wearing from head to toe. Towering over all, Richard muscled his way up onto the stage, casting his large shadow over the skirted table and eclipsing the spotlight reserved for Tank. Even with his faded good looks and his dubious past, Richard still knew how to command a room. He faced the masses, wearing State’s hat. The stunned crowd didn’t know what to do. Someone clapped, and everyone else joined in.