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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Terrell, Brandon, 1978–
Take away / by Brandon Terrell.
pages cm. —(The red zone ; #5)
Summary: After a clash with Coach Z, the Central High Trojan’s star wide receiver, Orlando Green, decides to play for the Trojan’s archrival, the Athens High Raiders, leaving his best friend Devon to deal with the consequences.
ISBN 978–1–4677–2130–1 (lib. bdg : alk. paper)
ISBN 978–1–4677–4653–3 (eBook)
[1. Football—Fiction. 2. High schools—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Loyalty—Fiction. 5. Conduct of life—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.T273Tak 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2013046624
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 – SB – 7/15/14
eISBN 978-1-4677-4653-3 (pdf)
eISBN 978-1-4677-7424-6 (ePub)
eISBN 978-1-4677-7425-3 (mobi)
1/MONDAY, OCTOBER 28—AFTERNOON FILM REVIEW
“Pathetic! You guys call yourselves a football team?”
Even in the dim light of the school library, where the entire Troy Central High Trojan football team sat watching game film, I could see Coach Z’s face turning about ten different shades of red. Even the vein in the middle of his forehead made an appearance.
“You don’t deserve a state championship,” he continued. “Not after what I saw last Friday night.”
The team sat in rows of uncomfortable metal folding chairs. I was in the back, behind a couple of massive offensive linemen, slouched low in my chair. The linemen blocked for me on the field. On footage days, they did the same off the field. Coach Z stood in front of us, hands balled into fists. Behind him was a flat-screen television on a librarian’s cart. Coach had paused the game film from last Friday’s loss at a crucial offensive drive late in the second quarter.
Coach Z—his last name was really Zachary, but no one ever called him that, probably not even his wife—had every right to be angry. Last Friday night, we’d lost to a team we should have beaten. At home, no less. It was embarrassing.
“Devon!”
My heart jumped as Coach Z called out my name. I didn’t like to make waves, except on the field. My philosophy for life was the same as it was for football: keep your head down, keep moving forward, and do what’s required of you. Right then, though, what I was required to do went against the first part. Because right then, I had to answer Coach Z.
I straightened up in my chair. “Yeah, Coach?”
“Maybe my eyes are just getting old,” Coach Z said, sarcasm dripping off his words, “but it seems to me like Davis spent all game searching for a linebacker to hit and didn’t find any. Am I right?”
I paused. Dylan Davis was the team’s fullback. His thankless job was to block for me, the team’s halfback. He didn’t mind—Dylan loved knocking guys down, linebackers especially—but he’d missed some pretty crucial blocks on Friday. I didn’t want to call him out, but Coach Z already knew the answer to his own question.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Hard to score if you can’t find an open seam, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Coach.”
Dylan shot me a glare as Coach started up the game film again. On the screen, Orlando Green, our bullet-fast wide receiver, ran a corner route. As he cut toward the back left corner of the end zone, Shane Hunter, QB1 and class-A jerk, lofted a tight spiral that danced off Orlando’s fingertips and landed in the grass.
Coach Z paused the film. “There was nobody even close to you, Orlando. You could have walked into the end zone, for crying out loud. That’s a routine catch, and you managed to flush six points right down the toilet.”
Orlando, whose ego was about as big as the town of Troy, shook his head. “Ain’t my fault, Coach,” he said. “The ball sailed on me.”
“Whatever, dude.” Shane piped up, defending himself. “That throw was perfect. You just couldn’t pull it in.”
“Shane’s right,” Coach Z said. “Your head wasn’t in the game, Green. You botched routes. Missed blocks.” He jabbed a finger at the TV screen. “Dropped balls.”
Orlando could be a hothead. It was only one of his many wonderful qualities. I could see his anger had nearly boiled over. He stood up, stepped toward Coach Z, and said, “I’m the best player you got on the field, and you know it.” His voice echoed off the library walls. “If that ball had been catchable, I would have caught it. So don’t be acting like I’m the reason we lost that game.”
“Don’t you talk to me like that,” Coach Z said. “Sit down, you disrespectful punk.”
“Why don’t you make me?”
Nobody said a word. The library was so quiet, you could have heard a penalty flag drop. Which is actually pretty common for a library, come to think of it. But seeing Orlando and Coach Z face off like that? It was like watching two bears clawing at each other. No way was I getting in the middle.
Coach Colby, who ran the defense, was the brave soul who stepped in. “Take ten,” he said, placing a hand on Orlando’s chest. “Cool off. Then suit up and meet at the fifty-yard line. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Orlando answered, not taking his eyes off Coach Z.
“Everybody,” Colby added, “On the field in ten.”
The team mumbled in acknowledgment. We hit the locker room a few minutes later, going through the almost religious routine of strapping on our pads, lacing up our cleats, and taking the field. I ran down the tunnel leading to Willard Auto Parts Field alongside Orlando. He didn’t say a word. He was still fuming.
In the world of high school football, Coach Z was immortal, a titan who demanded respect. Everyone on the team—and even some of their parents—lived and died by what Coach Z said.
After warming up, we split into offense and defense. I was one of the major offensive playmakers, known around the school as the Big Six. The name didn’t bug me. I tried not to pay too much attention to it. Instead, I focused on what I needed to do on the field to win.
We lined up on the twenty-yard line. Coach Z, wearing the same red-and-white hooded sweatshirt he always wore, called plays from the backfield.
“Run the corner route!”
This was the same play that had led Orlando and Coach Z toward a shouting match in the library. Shane took the snap, and I sprinted into my spot near the right guard. During the game, my job would be to pick up a block on any blitzing defender. At practice, though, I kept my eyes downfield and saw Orlando sprinting along the right sideline. He cut hard and dashed toward the middle of the field. Shane slung the ball in a high arc. It dropped right into Orlando’s waiting hands.
“Good,” Z said. “Run it again.”
Orlando hurried back, took up his spot on the line, and broke downfield once more. Like before, he ca
ught the pass easily.
Coach Z was not impressed. “Again.”
Orlando jogged from his position thirty yards down the field back to the line.
“Hustle it up, Green!” Coach Z shouted. “Easy to make a catch like that when you don’t have a safety or two buzzing around you, isn’t it?”
Corner route. Spiral. Fingertip catch. Perfect.
“Again!”
My stomach turned to stone. I knew what was going on but took my place behind Shane like I always did.
Orlando, winded, caught the ball for a fourth time.
“Nice work,” Coach Z said. Then he added, “Again!”
Orlando stopped ten yards from the line. I could see his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
“Let’s go, Green!” Coach Z said, clapping his hands. “I thought you were the best player I had on the field.”
Orlando began to walk toward us, hand on his hip.
“Pick up the pace!”
“Screw this.” Orlando unstrapped his helmet and peeled it off. In the cold evening air, steam swirled off his head.
“Hey! Nobody takes off their helmet on my field!” Coach Z threw his clipboard down onto the grass. “You hear me?”
Orlando turned his back on Coach Z. He walked to the sidelines, bent over a bench, and puked his lunch all over the ground.
The whole team had stopped practicing. Everyone was watching Orlando.
“I’m outta here,” he said. He began to walk back toward the tunnel.
Coach Z bellowed after him, “You leave this field, you’re never stepping foot on it again! You hear me?”
Orlando didn’t react. He let the shadows of the tunnel swallow him.
2/MONDAY, OCTOBER 28—DOYLE’S PIZZERIA
I’d just left the locker room and was slinging my backpack onto the passenger seat of my busted-up car when I got a text from Orlando: MEET ME @ DOYLES.
Doyle’s was a pizza joint in the oldest neighborhood of Troy. The interior was dark, with wood-paneled walls and booths that had been around for almost fifty years. The place was also a shrine to all things Troy football. Its owner, Wally Doyle, had played for the Team, the undefeated Trojans squad that included Coach Z, Coach Whitson, and a number of other men still associated with our team.
Wally Doyle was also a member of the Friends of Troy Football Board, a bunch of explayers and dads trying to relive their glory days through their kids. The walls of Doyle’s were covered in football gear, programs, and photos of every team to hit the field at Troy Central High, from the 1950s to the photo of our squad taken at the start of this season.
Wally stood at the front counter. He was a tall man with a shock of silver hair. He spied me the minute I walked into the place.
“Well, if it ain’t the fastest halfback in Ohio,” he said, a wide grin on his weathered face.
“Hey, Wally,” I said. “Orlando here?”
“Indeed he is. The usual spot.” Wally reached behind the counter and snatched a giant plastic cup. “Fill her up. And of course, pizza’s on me tonight, Devon.”
I hit the fountain soda and filled the cup with a mixture of every flavor. A suicide, we called it. Then I found Orlando sitting alone at a booth in the back. He was sipping from a matching monster cup, his head craned toward the TV mounted on the wall. Monday Night Football was about to start, the Cowboys taking on the Bears at Soldier Field.
“Hey, Orlando,” I said.
“’Sup.”
I slid into the booth across from him and shed my coat. We didn’t say anything for a bit, just stared at the broadcasters on TV breaking down yesterday’s NFL games. Doyle’s wasn’t too crowded, making it easy enough to hear the small TV.
I always felt a little strange eating at the place. All of the Troy memorabilia. All of the history. My family and I moved to town a couple years back, when my dad got a job at the soybean plant outside of Troy, so I haven’t always bled Trojan red and white. Unlike the rest of the team.
Right around kickoff, Wally dropped by our booth with a basket of garlic bread and a large supreme with extra veggies. “Gotta keep you boys fed and ready to play,” Wally said. “Tough loss on Friday. Lot of missed plays and dropped balls, but that’s easy to correct, am I right?”
Orlando held his tongue.
“Thanks, Wally,” I said.
We noshed on pizza and watched as the Bears drove the length of the field and stalled in the red zone. As they lined up to kick a field goal, Orlando tossed his slice of pizza down and said, “I’m done, man.”
“Dude, we still got half a pizza,” I said, taking a huge bite. A strand of cheese hung down my chin.
Orlando shook his head. “Not what I mean, D. I’m done with Coach Z. With Troy football. I can’t take it anymore. Not after today.”
I laughed. “Whatever. You had a bad practice. Get over it.”
“Nah, man. Don’t you see it? Coach Z? He don’t care about us. He just wants another trophy in the case, and he don’t care how he gets it.”
“Yeah, that’s the point. Trophies. Championships. Legacies. Look around, man.” I waved a hand at the red-and-white-cluttered walls of Doyle’s. “That’s what this town is all about.”
“Not me,” Orlando said. “Yeah, I wanna win. But I want respect. I’ve got more skills in one pinkie than Z ever had in his whole body. He wants to win, he’s gonna need me.”
“What are you saying, Orlando? That you’re just gonna quit the team? With two games left? Dude, if we want to even make the play-offs, we have to win both games. You’re willing to just…give up on us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
Orlando kept his eyes on the television. I couldn’t believe it. Yeah, Orlando thought pretty big about himself, but he had the talent to back it up. He really was the best player on the field. He danced around defensive secondaries and held a couple of school records, including most receiving touchdowns in Troy Central High history. Losing him this close to a state championship run would be devastating.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Orlando slipped out of the booth. “I’ll catch you later, Devon,” he said.
He wove his way between booths and tables, stopping when he reached the massive vintage photo of the Team on the wall near the door, where everyone who entered Doyle’s was sure to see it. Orlando flipped off the photo’s young, smiling Coach Z. Then he shouldered open the door and left me with half a pizza and a bunch of questions.
3/TUESDAY, OCTOBER 29—TROY CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL
Coach Whitson always unlocked the outside door to the locker room at 6 a.m. And I was always there at 6:01 to hit the weight room before school. It felt good to get my reps in before class. I liked to drive myself to the limit and loved the sensation of burning muscles. It woke me up far better than a jolt of morning caffeine.
Usually, Orlando was there with me, blasting hip-hop from the stereo at a volume high enough to rattle the walls. The morning after our talk, though, I’d had a sinking feeling that he was going to be a no-show, and I was right. The only players joining me in the weight room that morning were Brian Norwood and a couple of defensive linemen.
Brian spotted for me while I did my reps on the bench press. On the ceiling above me, in letters made of black tape, were the words PUSH YOURSELF. Orlando had been the one to add that bit of motivation for the team at the beginning of conditioning, way back in June.
Sweat stung my eyes, making my vision blur. My arms quaked as I pushed up the last rep and locked the bar back onto the bench. I sat up and wiped my face with a towel.
How could Orlando just abandon me—abandon the whole team—this way? It was selfish, which, in all honesty, meant it was a pretty Orlando thing to do.
The first bell was about to ring, and I had to hit my locker before getting to class. I ate a couple of energy bars as I walked. Breakfast of champions.
As I rounded a corner, I almost ran right into Shane. He was walking with a coupl
e of the guys—our left guard, Truman, and Terry Foster, who had once played for our rivals, the Evil Empire of Athens High. Shane smiled ear to ear when he saw me.
“Hey, Shaw, where’s your boyfriend this morning?” he asked.
“No clue, Hunter,” I mumbled. I wasn’t in the mood to take Shane’s garbage.
“Nice little hissy fit he threw on the field yesterday.”
“Lay off,” I said, defending Orlando. “It was one dropped pass. Coach Z didn’t have to be so hard on him.”
“That was nothing,” Shane said. “Green’s lucky he’s Big Six. Otherwise, he’d be watching the game from the sidelines after a tantrum like that.”
The first bell echoed through the hall. Kids around us hustled to get to class before the second bell made them tardy. I lowered my head and brushed past Shane.
“See ya, Shaw,” he said. “And if you talk to Green, tell him it’s okay if he wants to bring his pacifier to practice.”
Shane and the other dudes laughed. I just walked away.
Orlando and I didn’t have class together until third period, Coach Whitson’s easy-A business class. I found my desk near the back and glanced over to where Orlando should be sitting. Empty. Crap.
Shane and a couple of the other guys sat up front, and they didn’t seem to notice—or care—that Orlando was absent. I’d hoped that this morning was just a fluke, that our conversation at Doyle’s was nothing to worry about, and that he’d still be in class. Knowing Orlando hadn’t been at school all morning was twisting my stomach into knots.
I sent him a quick text: WHERE R U?. Then I crammed my phone back into my pocket before Coach Whitson saw it and confiscated it.
I spent the rest of the day hoping that Orlando hadn’t done anything rash or stupid. As I walked into the locker room after classes to suit up for practice, my phone buzzed in my pocket. My fears were officially justified.
Orlando had sent me a message.
It read: NEW COLORS YO!
Below the words was a photo of Orlando wearing the red and black of the Athens Raiders.
Take Away Page 1