Got a few bucks to spare? Short on rent.
My father’s text drops the smile right off my face.
Fuck.
I close my eyes.
He swore up and down he’d use that money to pay his landlord.
Motherfucking fuck.
Jaw clenched tight, I remind myself I need my hands. I can’t put my fist through the wall if I hope to throw any touchdowns this year.
I get four disbursements from my scholarship per semester, and my father already blew through a chunk of the first one single-handedly. What the hell am I supposed to eat for the next month if I give him any more cash? At least athletes from marquee sports can grab one meal a day on campus, so I guess I won’t starve, but that still requires juggling my schedule so I can get to the cafeteria before it closes.
The game begins. The one where I try to shuffle around my father’s debt and my meager income so we don’t both end up on the street.
He was doing better this summer when I was home, laying off the sauce long enough to do some odd jobs. I hoped and prayed he’d keep it together my senior year. Because this will all be for naught if I can’t make it to the draft. And I’ll be damned if I spent high school and college busting my balls to come up short on the fourth down.
Suddenly, I’m so damn tired I’m not sure how I’ll tie my cleats, much less run my offense.
If my father had his way, I’d give him every last cent and be stuck selling my fucking plasma to buy ramen.
I plunk into a chair in the conference room and scrub my hand over my face.
Tank takes the seat next to me and whispers, “Coach is looking rough.”
It takes a second for his words to register. I open my eyes and focus on Sully, the man who’s more of a father than my biological parent. Coach is basically the antithesis of Hank Kingston.
As he heads to the small podium, Sully shucks off a long-sleeved button-up, which leaves him in a Bucking Broncos t-shirt. Why he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt in the Texas heat is beyond me.
Coach isn’t a spring chicken anymore. He has to be pushing seventy, and it’s starting to show. He had pneumonia the last week of training camp, but only took a few days off to recover. Maybe he needs more time to rest. We’ve all been worried about him since his wife died a few years ago.
“Boys, it’s good to have everyone here at once.” Sully’s raspy voice is warm with affection. He’s not like the coaches who throw clipboards at kids and browbeat them when they make mistakes.
We lean closer since he can’t project his voice the way he usually does.
“Summer camp was great, but there’s nothing like the first practice of a new school year, and I have a feeling this is our season to go all the way.”
The guys hoot and howl and stomp their feet in agreement.
Sully reviews the plan for the day before he leans one arm on the podium. “Just want to share a few last thoughts, something to focus on for the year, which I’m sad to say will likely be my last as head coach. Retirement is in the cards for this old codger.”
A collective gasp goes through the room. I’m a little heartbroken to hear the news, but also grateful as hell I’m a senior and will get to end my college career with this awesome coach.
He waves his hand. “I love going out on a high note, boys, and this room has the best talent I’ve ever had the honor of recruiting. And as much as I love the game, I want to remind everyone that no matter what happens in the future, I hope you carry the lessons we’ve learned here into your everyday lives. That you’re men of honor and respect.” He pauses for a second and arches his bushy eyebrow. “I hope I don’t need to say this, but please stay out of trouble. No crazy pranks this year, and definitely no arrests or too many wild parties. Let’s end this being the best versions of ourselves.”
I think back to our impromptu pool party a few days ago, which we kept fairly tame. Nothing to get arrested over, at least.
“We promise we’ll be good, Sully!” someone shouts. “Home by midnight before we turn into pumpkins!”
Coach chuckles. His tired eyes meet mine as he looks across the room. “Keep your eyes on the prize.”
For a flash, my mind inexplicably goes to my neighbor. To her wide, beautiful smile. The one she never shoots my way anymore.
I shake my head, wondering where the hell that thought came from. Because thoughts of Gabby have no business in this locker room. It’s why we parted ways.
Irritated with myself, I lean forward to focus on Sully.
“Commit this year to excellence, boys, not only in football, but in your personal lives. Be the gentlemen I know you to be, bright stars both on and off the field. I’ll do everything in my power to take this team to the top, but I want you to know y’all are already champions in my book.”
Someone sniffles.
“Coach, don’t make us cry!” Tank shouts, and everyone laughs.
As our meeting wraps up and we take the field, the guys are talking about one thing and one thing alone: Winning a national championship for Sully.
And we all agree, no sacrifice is too big.
4
GABBY
With a swipe of my elbow, I attempt to get the flour off my mom’s recipe card. Thank goodness for sheet protectors.
Pride fills me as I survey the pan filled with my newest creation—pumpkin and cream cheese sopapilla bars. It’s a twist on the original concept, but so darn tasty.
“Que piensas, mami?” I ask my mom.
I think she’d love them.
My mom’s cookbook—a collection of her recipe cards I’ve preserved in a binder—is one of the few things of hers I got after she died. The best part is that she hand-wrote so many of them.
After tucking away a few bars for my boss to try, I clean up for my shift at the Rise ’N Grind.
On the way to my barista gig, my day gets better—I get the call from Archer Academy.
I got the job!
Even though it’s only an entry-level administrative assistant position and I still have to pass the background check, I know I can turn this opportunity into more down the road.
Archer is an elite private school. If I have any hope of getting a teaching position there after I graduate, I need an edge over other candidates. At least this way they’ll know firsthand I’m a hard worker and a solid employee.
My mom used to tell me she hoped she’d have enough money to send me and Benny there. Now that I know what tuition costs, I realize that was a pipe dream, but it’s the thought that counts. I think she’d be proud of me if I could get a job there, though.
I blend into the crowd of students and townies, bustling across Charming’s quaint downtown in the mid-afternoon sun. Whiskey Row is teeming with patrons, and old-school rock echoes down the street from the breweries. I head toward the rustic brick facade of the best coffee shop in town.
Glancing around, I smile. It’s hard not to. Everything in this town belongs on a postcard.
From the absurdity of Longfellow’s, which sells foot-long hot dogs and those ridiculous weiner dog warmers, to the Buck ’Em Brewhouse, where all the patrons yell “Buck ’em!” at the top of their lungs at midnight, or the Crazy Horse Saloon that hosts Wild West shootout reenactments—it’s hard not to be enchanted with this place. Now that I’m not brimming with animosity for the idiots across the street, I can admit the football team is a good draw for the town too.