Page 15 of Forever Defiant
“You warmed up?” Coach Merriman asked as he walked over.
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded. “Good. Do it again.”
I didn’t argue. I’d done enough this morning on my run to fire up the engine. Now I did a simple jog from the end zone to the thirty-yard line and back. I moved into hip-mobility stretches, next were ankles, then calf activation. Receivers live in their ankles; all my power came from there. I finished with high knees, and all the while, Coach watched, unimpressed.
“Open your stride,” he finally barked.
“Coach.”
We moved on to releases. Hand-fighting drills. Press coverage footwork. Coach held the pad like a defender and kept crowding my space, making me earn every inch. I didn’t mind. I liked the fight part. I liked the part where I got to win.
“Stop thinking,” he barked when I hesitated half a beat coming off the line.
“I’m not thinking,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the problem. Run it again. Work on it.”
His feedback could use some work.
We moved to routes. Slants, outs, digs, posts. Full speed, no walk-backs. Catch, tuck, sprint to the line, reset. My lungs burned, but burning was familiar. Burning was home.
Then ball skills — reaction catches, high-point drills, over-the-shoulder fades. I snagged every one just as I always did. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was the half second of static in my head every time I exploded off the line.
Something wasin therewith me. I hadn’t left all of last night behind when I walked onto the field, and that was unacceptable.
Life stayed on the sidelines when I played. That was the rule. I put my head down and worked harder.
When we finished, Coach didn’t say good job. He just looked at me, somehow seeing every thought I didn’t say.
“You want to run from something,” he said firmly, “you better be faster than this. Run five more laps, work it out.”
I didn’t have a snappy answer. But I ran. Because I was not about to get caught. All that mattered was my feet on this field and how well I played.
When I was done, Dante was waiting with a towel and a bottle of water. His sessions were lighter because of his shoulder. He was already showered and changed.
“You look good out there,” he complimented me. “Faster than I’ve seen you in a while.”
I nodded at the compliment, reaching for the water. “Got to stay sharp.” I gulped down my water. “Fuck, needed that.” I looked across the training field. “Where’s defense?”
“Holt has them running drills in the stadium.”
“We have film next?” I asked as we headed to the locker room. “You joining?”
“Yeah, Merriman told me to tell you that you have five minutes to shower.”
“And you were going to tell me when?” I asked him as I picked up the pace.
Dante grinned. “Truthfully? In about six minutes.”
“Such a dick.”
I sped through my shower. I’d booked an appointment later for a massage for my muscles, and I barely made it into my seat beside Dante when the lights dimmed and the film replay started. A game from last season against the Cardinal Saints. I heard Dante’s low grumble.
Jett was on the screen, his familiar voice loud over the speakers as he called out the play. Jett was my QB in high school. Damn good QB too. Better than Dante in some ways — raw instinct they both had, but where Dante was smarter, Jett was fire. Sometimes you needed the fire.
But I would never say that out loud.
