Getting Schooled (Getting Some 1)

Yep, my thoughts exactly.

~ ~ ~

After school, I tell the assistant coaches to get practice started without me and I head over to the freshman field.

“Tell me you’ve got something for me, Jeffrey. A wonder rookie, a new kid who just moved to town . . . a foreign exchange student with a golden arm.”

Jeffrey O’Doole is the freshman coach and an old teammate of mine from back in the day. He scans the team roster on the clipboard in his hands, then glances up at the players running drills on the field.

It doesn’t look good for me.

“You know all the kids as well as I do, Daniels. Dylan was my starter last year; when he moved up, I knew it’d be a rebuilding year.”

I tilt my head back, cursing the sky and hating the words “rebuilding year” with a passion hot enough to melt steel.

But when I open my eyes, across the field, I see a small, scrawny kid step back and throw a sweet pass to his receiver. It was short, only a few yards, but it was nice, and his form wasn’t half-bad.

“Who’s that?” I point.

Jerry follows my finger with his eyes.

“Parker Thompson. Second string, a young freshman, good kid, but kind of the runt of the litter—hasn’t hit his growth spurt and don’t know if he’ll have one. His brother was already a monster his freshman year.”

Thompson, Thompson . . . Thompson.

“James Thompson’s little brother?”

James Thompson was a player of mine six, seven years ago. He went on to be the quarterback for Notre Dame until he was sidelined by multiple concussions.

“One of them, yeah.”

“I thought Mary wouldn’t let the other boys play after James was injured?”

Jeffrey shrugs. “Guess she changed her mind for Parker. He’s the youngest.”

You can’t underestimate the power of genetics—the natural athletic gift that’s impossible to duplicate through training alone. And desperate times call for working with what you’ve fucking got.

I watch the kid throw another pass. And another. Then I watch him for the next fifteen minutes—his feet are decent, his attitude is good—he’s scrappy, quick, and it’s obvious he loves the game. I can work with him.

Jeffrey calls Parker over.

He’s even shorter up close—a kind-looking boy—with gentle bone structure, intelligent eyes, and light-brown hair.

When I tell him I want him to be my starting varsity quarterback for our first game two weeks from today, his lips go gray, and his face, cloud white.

“I’m not . . . I’m not my brother, Coach Daniels.”

“You don’t have to be. You just have to do what I say. The greatest skill the best athletes in the world possess is their ability to listen. I’ll work with you. If you listen to me, Parker . . . I’ll take care of the rest. Okay?”

He thinks it over, then he nods jerkily. “O-okay.”

I put my hand on his shoulder and try to sound enthusiastic.

“You’re gonna do great. I believe in you.”

He nods again, forcing a smile.

And then he bends over . . . and pukes all over my shoes.

~ ~ ~

After cleaning off my shoes, I walk out of the faculty bathroom in The Cave and spot Callie coming down the hallway. And she looks . . . a lot like Parker Thompson before he upchucked. Shell-shocked, drained, the curls at the end of her long blond hair limp and defeated on her shoulders.

“Cal?” I ask tentatively. “You okay?”

Her mouth opens and closes. “I . . . they . . .”

Her chest rises and falls quickly and a barky hiccup bursts from her lips. “They were so mean, Garrett. I didn’t think kids could be that mean.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” I grimace. “High school kids are kind of assholes. Somebody should’ve told you.”

She shakes her head, covering her sweet face with one hand. “They were—they were total assholes! They knew where I went to grammar school, what roles I played in the high school plays—they had pictures! That really awkward one from fourth grade when my mom permed my hair and I looked like an electrocuted poodle! They passed it around. And they had one from my friend Sheridan’s divorce party—of me kissing a sex doll! They called me a degenerate!”

Huh—that’s a picture I’d like to see.

I put my arm around her, patting her shoulder.

“Social media’s evil. You need to slash and burn your accounts if you want to survive.”

Dean’s voice called out from midway down the empty D-wing hallway. “Yes! We have tears—pay up, Merkle.”

“God damn it,” Donna Merkle curses next to him, then slaps a bill in his hand. She shakes her head at Callie. “I believed in you, Carpenter. And you let the team down.”

Merkle walks away, and Callie narrows her eyes at Dean. “You bet on me? You bet on how bad my first day would be?”

“Sure did.”

“You . . . dick.”

He holds up the folded bill between his fingers, grinning. “Easiest fifty I ever made.”