“Look, deputy, you didn't strike me as the kind of guy to want details, but if you do, I’m not the kind of guy who gives them out. Sorry.”
Chevy looks horrified. “You think I want details about a woman who’s like a sister to me? Gross. No, man. No. Keep it to yourself.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that? Why ask?”
His mouth twitches, barely containing his smile. “I just wanted to see if you’d admit your wife made you sleep in separate bedrooms.”
Does everyone know everything in this town?
If I had been thinking about where I am, I wouldn’t have shoved Chevy—or at least, not so hard. I send him flying into the players making their way off the field. One or two are almost as tall, though not as broad, and yet they all scatter like bowling pins. Thankfully, none of them go down.
“Pull yourself together, Graham!” Coach Bright yells. It’s hard to take the man seriously when his mustache covers half his mouth. It makes him look like a walrus. “This isn’t Peewee football.”
And you are not Tom Select, Alex Trebek, or Sam Elliot—the only three men who, in my mind, can pull off a mustache. I bite my lip to keep the words inside.
“Pick up the cones and hit the showers,” Coach Bright calls, his face intent on his phone screen. “And I expect to see you bringing your A-game tomorrow or we’ll spend the last half of practice running sprints.”
Coach Bright disappears back into the locker room, and the players break. I overhear snatches of conversations reminding me how old I am. I’m not sure I know or want to know what a yeet is or what it means to be cheugy.
I can’t help but notice one kid not picking up cones. It’s number seventeen, the QB. His face is more memorable than the name—he’s a kid who could grace the covers of magazines, and he knows it too. He also seems to think he’s God’s gift to football. As another player bends to pick up a cone, number seventeen kicks it out of his way. A couple of the other guys laugh when he kicks the cone even farther.
“HEY.” I’m in front of Seventeen before I realize I’ve moved, blocking his way. “Everyone drop their cones. NOW.”
The players exchange looks with each other before looking to Chevy. He nods. “You heard the coach.”
Shifting uncomfortably, the guys all drop their cones where they stand. I haven’t broken eye contact with Seventeen yet. We’re having a regular old stare off. But I learned at the feet of Tank. I will not lose this battle. Especially not in front of the team.
“Seventeen is going to pick up all the cones.”
He scoffs. “I am?”
“Yep. You are.”
“I don’t think you know who I am. I’m—”
“The QB. Which means you need to set the tone for the team. And I personally do not like the tone you’re setting. Leaders don’t just get to ride at the front of the parade, basking in all the glory. They serve.”
His mouth flaps open, and I wonder if he’s ever been made to serve in his life. No better time to start than the present.
“Get started, Seventeen. The rest of you, hit the showers. Now.”
The moment stretches out, and I watch Seventeen’s internal debate. I offer him a flash of my teeth, the kind with an edge. Go on, boy. Try me. I kind of hope he does. The rest of the team is frozen, a pack of wolves waiting to see who will be their new alpha.
Spoiler alert: it’s gonna be me.
“Showers or sprints,” I say to the rest of the guys, my eyes still on Seventeen. “Your choice.”
That gets them moving. All but the one right in front of me. He’s got more fight than I thought.