“Can we run that last routine one more time?” I asked, searching for the clock on the far wall. Crap. Out of time. “Okay, tomorrow, then. Let’s cool down.”
The team spread out on the track and followed me as I led them in stretches. Molly, a junior standing near me, focused on the assistant coach. “What’s our report time for the booster breakfast thing?”
Heidi, the assistant coach, was leaning against the wall, but straightened at the question. “What booster breakfast thing?”
I stopped mid-stretch.
A trickle of worry inched down my spine. Heidi was new this year and still catching up on all our traditions. We always performed at the booster pancake breakfast the last home game of the season. Since my dad had been a coach, I knew a lot of the boosters personally, including the president.
Who had approached me several games ago after the parade and confirmed we’d be there. I’d told the squad, but if Heidi didn’t know about it, that was a very bad sign. “Did Glenn Bauer reach out to you?”
“Who?”
“The booster president. We’re supposed to perform at their pancake breakfast before the game.” I’d made a note when I got home from the game . . . hadn’t I? I thought back, and realized it’d been the night Jay showed up at the Buckeye Bar. With everything that happened, I’d completely forgotten about it.
Heidi shook her head slowly.
“Oh, no,” I whispered.
Lisa was tuned into me from all the way across the space. “What’s wrong?”
“Where’s the breakfast?” Heidi asked, already getting to the heart of the problem. “On campus?”
“No,” Lisa answered for me. “They do it at a banquet hall over on the west side of town.”
“I can try to see if I can get a bus scheduled.” Heidi looked displeased as she pulled her phone out. “But if not, that’s not really our fault. Someone from the boosters should have given me a heads-up.”
I had the exact same feeling I did when my mistake caused a stunt to collapse. “They, uh, did. The president asked me about it a couple games ago.”
One of the freshman in the back piped up. “So, if we can’t get a bus, we’re going to have to walk? It’s like a fifteen-minute drive.”
“Way to drop the ball on that one, Captain.” Lisa’s tone was condescending. Why did she get so much pleasure reveling in other people’s mistakes? She turned to address the group as if she suddenly had all the authority in the world. “Guess we’re going to be carpooling. Show of hands: who’s sleeping with someone who owns a car?”
She put her hand up in the air and looked around for others to do so.
-31-
JAY
My classes were kicking my ass, and even though I’d gone out with my O-line for drinks after the Minnesota game, it hadn’t helped. Some of my teammates were being fucking babies. When I was on the field, no problem. But the moment I stepped on the sideline, I didn’t exist.
Well, that wasn’t true. I got hit harder during scrimmages, and one day I came out of the showers post-practice and discovered my street clothes were soaking wet. It wasn’t a prank by Darius. Yeah, his pranks were always unimaginative, but he wasn’t an asshole with them.
I was pissed. My boys knew my loyalty was to Michigan. Did I need to show them my fucking ink every practice to remind them?
Press coverage had grown over the last week. When we traveled to Northwestern on Friday afternoon, it’d been a circus. Cameras and microphones all over the place. Everyone wanted a clip from the 10-0 Wolverines.
Our coaching staff had a tradition the night before a game where the head coach visited each player, wished them good luck, and shook their hand. So, I wasn’t surprised when Coach Weiss knocked on my hotel room door at nine, interrupting the studying I was cramming in while Darius was hanging out in Amos’s room.
“Harris,” Coach said. “How you doing?”
I gave him a strained smile and pretended the stress wasn’t a big deal. “Fine, sir. Just studying.”
“That’s good.” He was great at reading the mood of his players, and saw right through me. His expression was thoughtful. “I know you’ve got a full plate, son. There are a lot of eyes on you and your career. But I also know a smart kid like you can handle it.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Best advice I can give you is to focus on one game at a time right now. Don’t think about the postseason, or whatever comes after.”
Even as he said it, it was impossible not to think about the potential playoff series, or the combine, or the dozens of agents who’d come crawling over me with offers to sign—but only if I kept my grades up and continued to play well without getting injured. One screw-up or bad break and it would all go away. Everything I’d spent the last four years working toward could vanish. If I thought about it too much, my stomach ached.