by Kara Bietz
“You mean you didn’t know? Aren’t you the captain of the team?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
I walk away from the table without a word. The conversation I overheard at last night’s football practice between Coaches Marcus and Andrews must have been about Elijah. Does Birdie know? As booster club president, sometimes she knows things about the team even before the coaches do.
If even Evan knew before I did… I try to shake it off. Elijah was good at football. He worked hard. Maybe he’ll be good for the team. The defense could use a little help.
I mumble that to myself all the way through lunch and history. It’ll be good for the team. It’ll be good for the team. It doesn’t help. I’m fuming mad by the time I get to practice during seventh period. Birdie had to have known.
She could have told me last night. I’m the captain of this team. Shouldn’t that afford me some kind of privilege? Someone could have told me that Elijah was not only coming back to Meridien but was going to start playing on my team again. My team. The team I’ve been a part of for four years. I feel like I’ve been building this family since ninth grade. After Elijah left without saying a word. And he’s just going to waltz onto the field and start playing again?
I swing the heavy locker room door open harder than I intend to, and it slams against the wall.
“Take it easy there, Cap,” Bucky Redd says to me, tightening his shoulder pads. I’m not sure why we all still call him Bucky instead of Brian, even though orthodontia worked its magic in middle school, but I guess when you’re saddled with a nickname in second grade, sometimes it just sticks.
I flop down on the bench between him and Nate Connors and throw my bag on the floor.
“What’s eating you?” Nate asks, straightening his socks and pulling on his grass-stained cleats.
“Did you know Elijah Vance was going to be on the team again?” I turn to both of them.
Nate nods, looking everywhere but at me. “I just found out this morning. I ran into Elijah outside the guidance office before first period, and he told me Coach Marcus was giving him an unofficial tryout this afternoon.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me this?”
“Sorry, Cap. I thought you knew,” Nate says.
“What about you?” I ask Bucky, not even trying to keep the accusatory tone out of my voice anymore.
“I found out from Connors at lunch.” Bucky swallows hard.
“You told him and not me?” I stick my thumb out at Bucky and stare at Nate.
Nate busies himself with his other shoe and doesn’t look up.
“Didn’t either of you think that this might be information I might be interested in?” Now neither one of them will look at me. I roll my school shorts and sneakers into a ball and throw them into my locker. The heap makes a satisfying ping against the metal. “There’s a new player on the team, and no one thinks to tell me about it?” I slam the door and spin the lock before walking out of the locker room and onto the field.
Behind me, I hear Bucky. “Yikes. Someone better calm his ass down or we’ll be doing bear-crawl warm-ups all afternoon.”
Bear crawls. Now, that’s not a terrible idea.
I’ve always worked my ass off at football. It makes sense to me. There are rules and formations and a playbook to follow. Dad started teaching me the basics practically as soon as I could walk, and Birdie regaled me with stories about his football career at Crenshaw, and later Coastal Texas. I knew I could be just like my dad if I worked hard enough. Birdie thought I could be even better.
“I’ve never seen anyone work so hard,” she’d tell me after peewee and middle school practices. Football and grades. They were what mattered. Those two things, I hoped, might be my ticket to bigger and better things. It had been drilled into my brain since I was knee-high to a grasshopper that football could take me places if I put in the effort. All that work has always been for one reason: I want to be the kind of man my father would have been proud of.
And now, here comes Elijah and my head is all over the place.
I take a few minutes to look through the playbook on the bench before the rest of the team trickles out of the locker room. I’ve had most of the formations and running patterns memorized for days, but I always take a look at them when I have an extra minute. There are a few that I’m having trouble remembering, and there’s no such thing as too much studying.
Bucky and Nate join me at the bench.
“Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Elijah when I found out,” Nate says. “I really thought you already knew. Especially since you guys were… you know. I thought if anyone already knew about it, you would have.”
“Sorry I blew up at you,” I tell him. And I do feel guilty. “I just don’t like feeling surprised.”
“Honestly, I was a little ticked that you hadn’t told me,” he says with a little punch on my shoulder. “Anyway, sorry.”
I shake my head at him. “Nothing a few hundred bear crawls won’t solve.”
Bucky throws his arms up in the air. “Man! Not this week!”
I laugh and squirt my water bottle in his face.
I notice Elijah has come out of the locker room by himself and is milling around near the ice buckets, staring nervously around at the other players.
I know I should find a way to make him feel welcome. A good captain would do that. I’ve never been the new kid. Or the returning kid. Or whatever he is. I don’t know what that feels like, but from the look on Elijah’s face, I don’t think it feels too good.
He bounces on the balls of his feet and chews on his lip, pulling his hair back into a tiny ponytail at the back of his head. He tightens the pads on his chest and throws on a mesh jersey, his eyes darting around the group as we all stand around goofing off.
Coach Marcus gives two quick blasts on his whistle, and we all spread out across the grass. I take my place in front of the team and start leading them in stretches, trying to pay attention to my ribs. This morning, a small bruise popped up on my side. I put some tape on it before I got dressed for school, and every time I move, I can feel the curling edges of the tape scraping against my jersey. It’s driving me nuts. Finally, I just rip it off and tuck the sticky ball into the waistband of my football pants.
My eyes fall on Elijah while he stretches.
He was a football star from the time we were seven years old. A few weeks after my dad died, Birdie dressed me in a bright blue jersey and brand-new white football pants and shoved me out onto a field at the park with a bunch of other little boys whose helmets were too big for their heads. Elijah was the biggest kid in the grass that day, in a pair of Batman sneakers and grass-stained football pants from the charity bin at church. He was the first person to talk to me.
His size caught the coach’s eye right away. “You’re definitely on defense, Vance. We’re going to put those shoulders to good use,” the coach said after sizing him up. That same coach looked at me and screwed up his lips into a smirk. “Offense, I guess? Maybe try quarterback? Can you even throw the ball?”
I remember standing right off Elijah’s shoulder anytime the coach gave him a high five, hoping to lap up some of that praise, too. He never had to work for it the way I did. He was just naturally good at football. I studied the hell out of the plays, read books from the library about throwing the perfect spiral, and watched countless YouTube videos about what makes a good quarterback. I was the third-string quarterback through almost all our peewee years. But Elijah could just read the field on defense, even in elementary school. He knew exactly how to watch the tics, feel the tension from the opposite side, and put himself right into the middle of a major play. As he got older, he just got better.
I watch him stretch and wonder if he still has those same instincts.
“Bear crawls! Go!” I yell and watch the rest of the team groan while I retreat to the bench and grab my water bottle. One of the perks of being captain is that I can sit out of a warm-up exercise every so often and no one really s
ays too much. Today my ribs are thankful for that.
I keep my eye on Elijah. He’s at the back of the pack, sweat trickling down the side of his cheek in the late-afternoon sun. Even though he’s clearly not in the same shape he was three years ago, the look on his face is a mixture of pure joy and gritty determination.
· eight ·
ELIJAH
I feel fifty pairs of eyes on me when I walk out of the locker room and onto the field. I stay off to the side, near the ice buckets, while I try to settle my stomach, but I can feel all of it. The judgment. The way some of the guys cut their eyes at me.
Nate Connors, who seemed genuinely excited this morning when I told him I was coming back, spends the entire warm-up just two inches from Julian. Neither of them even wave or smile in my direction. I stay in the back, try to blend in, while I drag my out-of-shape ass through the warm-up and endless bear crawls. I shouldn’t be surprised that Julian is the captain. Since we were seven years old, he’s always been the kid that works harder than anyone else.
Coach Marcus calls for a water break after the eighteen thousandth bear crawl, and I try to creep into the background again. I just feel like I’m in the way.
I watch as Coach grabs Julian by the front of his helmet and talks to him with his other hand on his waist. Even though I can’t hear any of the words, I can tell by Coach’s body language that he’s giving Julian hell for something.
Eventually, Coach lets go of his helmet and Julian slides up next to me.
“When were you going to tell me that you were coming back to football?” he asks, his voice just oozing with anger.
“I thought maybe you knew,” I say. Only a little white lie. “I thought maybe Ms. Birdie had told you.”
“Still. You could’ve said something.” Julian’s tone is accusatory. “Like See you at practice or something. I had to find out from some jackass in marching band?”
I want to say something, but all I can manage is a mumble. Something that resembles, “I’m not on the team yet.”
And then my stomach is all wonky again. I want to be pissed at Julian for pinning this on me. Ask him when, exactly, was I supposed to tell him about football? When he shut the door in my face last night, or when he ignored me all the way to school this morning?
Instead, I bite the inside of my lip and fiddle with my belt.
He sets his jaw, grabs his helmet, and heads off to the opposite side of the bench. I can hear the exasperated sigh escape as he leaves me standing by the ice buckets.
Coach Marcus blows the whistle again, and we all take a knee. “Some of you may recognize a familiar face here today. We’re using this practice as an unofficial tryout for Elijah Vance. Let’s welcome him back and clap it up.”
The team turns and looks at me, clapping in unison. Nate lets out a deep, “Yeah, Vance!” and my cheeks burn. Okay. Not everyone hates me. I try to hold on to that while I watch Julian. He’s not clapping.
“Stephens City on Saturday afternoon,” Coach says. “It’s not going to be our toughest game of the season, but it’ll give you a little taste of what’s to come. Now let’s get out there and fight hard. Defense on the fifty-yard line, offense with Coach Williams. Fight on me, fight on three,” he says, lifting his hand up over his head. “One, two, three.”
“Fight,” the team grunts together.
“Elijah, come on over here,” he says as the rest of the team disperses.
“Yes, sir,” I say, my gut sloshing around like a washing machine on the spin cycle. I try to push any thoughts of Julian aside because I know I’m going to have to pay attention and work hard if I’m going to get back onto this team. These guys have been working together for years by this point, while I’ve been changing diapers and singing “Baby Beluga” seventeen times a day up in Houston. Not exactly the best football prep.
“Did I have you at free safety as a freshman? Correct me if I’m wrong,” he asks, surveying the defensive drill happening on the fifty-yard line.
“Yes, sir,” I tell him.
“Let’s try you at cornerback for the time being. I might change my mind a few times before Saturday, but go on and join the defense out there. Tell Coach Andrews I want you on the left side,” he says.
“Before Saturday? Does that mean I’m not going to be sitting on the bench? I can play this weekend?”
“You and I both know you were one of the most talented players we had on the field three years ago. Shame I didn’t get to coach you much before you moved away. Anyway, of course you’re going to be a Guardsman. Let’s just keep it between us for the rest of the practice, all right?” He winks.
“Yes, sir,” I say, trying to bite back a smile.
“This doesn’t mean you’re going to be out there right after the coin toss on Saturday.” His tone becomes more serious. “You’re still going to have to earn your playing time.” He nods, wagging a finger at me.
“I understand, yes, sir,” I say, turning to join the defense on the field.
“And I’m going to need that sixty-dollar uniform fee by Monday, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, pulling on my helmet. Coach Marcus called Ma last week and reminded her about the uniform fee, but she wasn’t able to give it to me before I left Houston. Between my bus ticket and moving expenses, there wasn’t a whole lot left for extras. I brought a little bit of cash with me, but I’ve got to make it last and I don’t want to touch it unless it’s an emergency. I’m hoping I can put Coach Marcus off for as long as possible until I figure out how to get myself a job.
“Hey, Elijah,” Coach Marcus calls to me as I jog away. “Have fun,” he mouths, winking again.
I nod and swing my helmet up to my head. As soon as I pull it over my ears, things just click into place. My gut finally settles, and any thoughts of Julian or the rest of the team staring at me earlier disappear when the cheek pads touch my face. I pull the chin strap a little tighter and run out to the fifty-yard line.
The defense is going head-to-head in a tackling drill, and I take my spot in line behind what must be a middle linebacker. The dude is massive. I’m glad he’s on my side of the line and not the opposing side. I was always the biggest one on the field during my peewee days, but it looks like some of these guys have had a growth spurt and a half since I left. No way I can bring down a guy that size. At least not without a ton more practice.
“All right, new cornerback. Let’s see how you do.” Coach Andrews blows the whistle, and I hustle to the fifty-yard line and attempt to take down the guy on the other side. I haven’t done drills in three years, and it shows. I’m slow to react, and the defensive end takes me out in no time flat.
“Hey, welcome back,” he says, offering me a hand up.
I grab it and let the big guy help me up. “Thanks, man. Feels good to be back.”
My hip stings where it hit the ground, and I’m going to be pulling turf out of my helmet for days, but I’ve never felt so good. It takes a few trips through the line, but I finally take down another cornerback in the tackle drill. It doesn’t matter that the kid is probably a freshman and I’m twice his size. I fight the urge to jump up and down, and I can feel the blood pumping through my veins. Suddenly all I want to do is scrimmage. I just want to get back into the groove of anticipating plays and burying the offense into the grass.
I want to forget the look on Julian’s face when he confronted me on the bench a few minutes ago. Forget what happened three years ago. I just want this feeling again. Like I’m a part of something. Like the team needs me. Like I’m important. And tackling that cornerback gives me that feeling.
Coach Andrews sends us for another water break, and I pull my helmet off. My hair is drenched in sweat, and I try to wipe some of it off as I run to the sidelines. I hadn’t noticed how long it was, but now that it’s plastered to my face, I realize I’m going to have to cut it soon.
“You look a little lost out there,” Julian says when I run past him. I’m riding such a high from my one tackle that I
almost didn’t notice him.
His words still sting, though.
“It’s been a while,” I say, trying to smile back at him. Did I really look that bad? Maybe the first time I went through the tackle line, sure. But did he see me actually make that last tackle? It felt good. Did it not look that way?
“It feels good to be back out there,” I finally say, trying to look more confident than I feel.
“Oh. Well, I guess that’s important, too,” he says, shrugging with one shoulder and jogging back out to the field.
I try to brush it off. So, he’s ticked because I didn’t tell him I was going to show up to football practice today. It’s not my problem.
But as we set up to scrimmage, his words dig into my skin and get me right in the chest. Maybe this was a bad idea.
Coach Marcus throws me a yellow practice jersey and tells me to set up. I don’t know the plays yet, but I know what a cornerback is supposed to do.
I watch Julian call the play and catch the snap, and I take off after the wide receiver. The kid is seriously fast, and he zooms right past me and cuts to his left. There’s no way I can keep up. The receiver catches the perfect pass from Julian and practically skips into the end zone while I chase behind him as fast as I can. Julian lets out a loud whoop and salutes me from behind his helmet.
“Don’t let it get to you, Vance,” the giant middle linebacker says to me after the touchdown. “That guy’s got wings on his feet. None of us can ever catch him. Just keep digging in.”
I try to shake it off, but I know it’s affecting me every play. By the end of practice, I’m convinced Coach Marcus is going to realize what a huge mistake he’s made and tell me there’s no way I’m going to be playing on Saturday. No senior football player should look this bad on the field.
Coach Marcus blows the whistle three times. “Bring it in, boys!”
We hustle to the sidelines, grab water bottles from the student trainers, and take a knee.
“It’s going to be a busy couple of weeks, boys. Academics are always your first priority, of course, but there are a ton of booster activities coming up. Remember, all of these extras might seem like they have nothing to do with football, but they’re about raising money for the program and improving our connection to the community. I expect to have your support and to see your faces at as many of these activities as you can. Talk to me privately if you have conflicts, and we’ll see what we can work out,” he says.
