“Then…” He visibly swallows. “I guess we’ll just keep being open with each other?”
“Yes.” I swallow, too. “I guess we will.”
Dinner is a somber affair, as it always is this time of year. My parents and I quietly eat my sister’s favorite meal while Marni bustles around the kitchen, serving us and clearing plates away. We don’t talk about Ginny or that awful evening when my parents came home. We don’t discuss how Daddy took an ax to that garage and now there’s a half dozen rose bushes there, or the fact that Ginny’s grave currently has more flowers than a hotel lobby. We just eat our dinner and our dessert, then Momma disappears upstairs while Daddy ducks into his study for some cognac and a cigar.
I find him in his big leather armchair, a tumbler in one hand and lit cigar in another. Smoke curls in my direction, making me wrinkle my nose.
“You shouldn’t be smoking,” I chide.
“I know.” Then he takes a big puff and gestures to the small sofa near the fireplace. “Sit down, Cub. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
I eye him in surprise. “How did you know I had something on my mind?”
“I can read you like a playbook, Bryant.” He chuckles. “I always know when something’s wrong.”
“That’s terrific,” I say dryly. I work hard to mask my emotions when I’m feeling low. After Ginny died, every time I expressed even a hint of unhappiness, Daddy would smother me with comfort while Momma fretted in the corner, staring at me as if she feared I might take my own life, too. Since then, I’ve pasted on a smile even when I haven’t felt like smiling. I’ve laughed when I haven’t felt like laughing. My parents need to know I’m okay at all times, otherwise their fears and worries might devour them and send them back to the dark place we were all in three years ago.
“You’re very easy to read,” he says as I sit down. His tone saddens. “Far easier than your sister was. Maybe if I was better at reading her…”
I tuck my legs under me and clasp my hands in my lap. “I didn’t see it, either, Daddy,” I say softly. “You can’t blame yourself for not knowing what she was planning to do.”
“I know that. In here—” He taps his head. “But not here—” His fist drops to his heart. “I knew she was hurting over that boy, but I never imagined she would actually…” He trails off.
“Me neither,” I whisper.
He takes another puff of his cigar. “I knew you’d come in here after dinner.”
“Did you now?”
Daddy nods. “Your momma doesn’t like talking about Virginia, and so you respect her wishes by staying silent. But I know that hurts you.” He puffs again. “You can always talk about her with me.”
“I know that.” I try to ignore the pain that tightens my throat. “But that’s actually not what I’m troubled about.” I hesitate. Talking about this with my father feels awkward, but as the head coach, he needs to know if there’s any strife within his team. “I was speaking to JR earlier, and he said something that worried me.”
My father frowns. He ashes his cigar in the tray on the end table. “What did he say?”
“Just that he feels like he’s not really a part of the team.” It’s not quite what Ace said, but I’m reading between the lines and paraphrasing. “He doesn’t think the other boys trust him, and it’s making him awfully unhappy.”
Daddy is silent for a long moment. He’s wearing that thoughtful, knowing look that tells me this has already occurred to him. “I know,” he finally admits. “I’ve been monitoring the situation since summer camp began, hoping to see some camaraderie form between Ace and the others, but it’s not happening, is it?”
“No,” I agree. Daddy probably thought that winning would solve everything. I ponder the dilemma for a moment, then offer a suggestion. “Are you still in contact with Wayne Devlin?”
Daddy’s head jerks toward me. He looks startled at first, but then a slight smile tugs on the corners of his mouth. “I am,” he confirms. “And damn, Cub, that’s not a bad idea at all.”
I smile back. “I do have those every now and then.”
“Yes, you do,” he says with a chuckle. He leans over and stamps out his cigar in the ashtray. “Well, then. Why don’t we give him a call?”
19
Ace
“Okay, one of you assholes has to know where we’re going,” Carter hisses from the seat in front of me. It’s Monday morning, and we’re on the bus heading to parts unknown. And frankly, Carter isn’t the only one who’s confused.
We all showed up for practice today, only to be informed by Coach Johnson that we’re holding practice “off-site.” I have no idea what that means. This is the first time a coach of mine has ushered the entire team on the bus without telling us where we were going. Although, technically, it’s not the entire team. Most of the underclassmen stayed back at campus with the assistant coaches and were ordered to hit the weight room. Only the seniors and a few of the younger players boarded the bus.
“I bet Ty knows,” Travarius pipes up. He’s sitting across the aisle from me and Julio, and he pokes his seatmate in the ribs. Hard.
Ty pokes back. “I told you—I don’t have a fucking clue. I’m just as in the dark as you guys.” And clearly he doesn’t like it, judging by his slight frown.
At the front of the bus, Coach Johnson is sitting with Coach Briggs. The two men haven’t said much during the one-hour drive, and they don’t seem interested in filling anyone in about our destination.
On a whim, I shoot a quick text to Bryant, hoping she hasn’t gone to class yet.
Me: Hey. Ur dad kidnapped abt 40 of us. Kno where he’s gonna bury the bodies?
She texts back within seconds.
Her: Daddy wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Me: Bull. We’re getting murdrd. I kno it.
Her: :) stop being melodramatic, sugar. And have fun! Xoxo
Have fun? Oh shit. I don’t like the sound of that.
I hesitate for a second, and then I think, fuck it. These guys might not like me, but I’m not withholding information from them. We’ll all suffer together.
I twist around and lean over the back of my seat toward Carter. “I just asked Bryant where we’re going and she responded with—have fun.”
There’s a chorus of groans. “Hoo-boy,” Samson moans. “That’s a red flag right there.”
I’m glad we’re all in agreement.
Sure enough, when the bus pulls through a set of huge wooden gates ten minutes later, we know we’re done for. The sign over the gates reads: New Horizons Camp.
What in the hell does Coach have in store for us?
“Move your asses, ladies,” he booms from the door.
We file off the bus like obedient soldiers. Sneakers land on the dirt courtyard, heads swiveling to warily inspect our surroundings. There’s a sprawling log structure ten feet away, lots of grass and trees, and, in the distance, A-frame cabins with rickety wooden porches. It appears to be a wilderness retreat or something, which is even more confusing. We’re football players. Where’s the turf and goal posts? Where’s the equipment?
As we all gather around looking at each other, a stocky man with a shaved head and Aviator sunglasses saunters out of the main building. Coach marches over and the two men exchange hearty back slaps. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I have a feeling it’s not good.
“Men,” Coach booms as he and the man rejoin us. “This is Dr. Wayne Devlin.”
Doctor?
“Call me Dr. D,” the man tells us. He flips his sunglasses off and rests them atop his shiny head. “For those of you who don’t know me”—Uh, that would be all of us—“I’m a psychiatrist turned psychologist turned motivational speaker turned trust guru.”
What. The. Fuck.
I knew Coach had unconventional methods, like when he told me it was A-OK for me to bang his daughter, but he brought us to get our heads shrunk by some hippie? For real?
“I started this place about ten years ago,” Dr. D cont
inues, waving his arm around the space around us, “in order to help aid and promote harmony within group structures.”
“Huh?” Travarius blurts out. Several of the other guys snicker.
“New Horizons is a motivational retreat of sorts,” he explains. “Designed to help individuals achieve growth and trust in all areas of their lives. We offer company retreats, guest speakers, therapy sessions, and—the reason you’re here—team-building activities.”
Holy fuck. This is Bryant’s fault. My gaze swings to Coach, but he’s focused on what the good doctor is saying. But I know it’s true. I opened my big mouth to Bryant and she went and told her dad that I’m at odds with my teammates.
I’m going to kill her.
“We’re going to spend the next few hours encouraging and building teamwork,” Dr. D announces with a broad smile. “Coach Johnson here has voiced some concerns that you boys aren’t gelling. You’re not trusting. And where there is no trust, there’s no growth.”
Ty coughs into his hand. That earns him a scowl from Coach.
“If we want to grow, we need to work,” Dr. D says passionately. “And if we want win, we need to trust.”
“Dude,” Travarius pipes up, “we are winning. Didn’t you hear? We’re six and oh.”
“Daly,” Coach warns. “Shut your yapper.”
“Yes, you’re winning,” the doctor agrees. He raises a brow at Travarius. “You’re winning at football. But are you winning at life?”
Clearly Travarius doesn’t know how to respond to that, because he indeed shuts his yapper. Beside him, Ty appears to be fighting uncontrollable waves of laughter.
Dr. D claps his hands together. “All right, let’s get started! Follow me to the trust circle, gentleman.”
Sweet Mary and Moses.
Before anyone can take a step, Coach holds up a hand in warning. “This is serious, you hear me? Therefore, you need to take it seriously. You’re at practice right now, men. You’re not in your pads and you don’t have your helmets on, but you are still at practice. Understood?”
Everyone grunts in assent.
The “trust circle” turns out not to be a circle at all. It’s just an empty, grassy clearing. There’s nowhere to sit, and no visible supplies or anything, although those are probably inside the huge crate that’s sitting on the grass. We’re ordered to stand in a circle, all forty or so of us, while Dr. D drones on for about ten minutes about how there’s no I in teamwork and that to trust is to grow and to grow is to love and a bunch of other motivational bullshit that has me dying to roll my eyes. But I can’t, because Coach and Briggs are watching all of us like hawks to make sure we’re taking it seriously.
“Our first exercise is what I like to call ‘Don’t Be Such a Square!’”
Several snorts ring through the clearing. Coach silences the offenders with a glare.
Dr. D splits us up into four groups of ten. From his magic crate, he produces four long ropes and a bunch of black pieces of fabric that I realize are blindfolds. Each group is ordered to sit in a circle and put their blindfolds on.
“This is whack,” one of the offensive linemen grumbles from my other side. The moment the blindfold is on, I feel oddly vulnerable. I can’t see a damn thing, and I don’t like it. Bryant is absolutely going to pay for this.
“Whatcha got against blindfolds?” Zane says with a chuckle. “I use them all the time.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “In bed.”
“So you’re saying you blindfold yourself when you spank the salami?” Carter taunts.
“No, asshole. I’m saying Mae likes a little kinky shit with our fucking.”
Luckily, Coach is monitoring one of the other groups, so we don’t get reprimanded for Zane’s filthy language.
“All right,” Dr. D says. “You are now going to feel something in your hands—”
“Fucking gross!” someone growls. “Swear to God, if you put a dead fish in my hand or some shit, I’m gonna—”
“It’s the rope,” Dr. D interrupts. He sounds frazzled. “Each member of the group will have his hand on the rope. Make sure you maintain a good grip on it. We don’t want it falling out of your hands.”
Something coarse is shoved into my hand. I curl both sets of fingers around it, feeling the fibers scrape my palm.
“Your goal is to leave your circle and form a square with your bodies. Do not let go of the rope—it is the tether that keeps your team operating as one. Once you’re confident that you’ve formed a square, shout it out and we will remove your blindfolds so you can see what you’ve accomplished. Remember—work together. Announce your position to your fellow players. Guide each other into the square you will become.”
I hear a snort of laughter. I’m pretty sure it’s Ty again.
“And…we’re off! Stand up and be a square!”
“I thought it was don’t be a square,” Julio mumbles to me. “Isn’t that what he called this exercise?”
“You know what I call this exercise?” Carter speaks up in a hiss. “A total waste of time.”
Since I can’t see, I try to rely on my ears to help me determine what’s going on. I hear lots of shuffling and rustling from the other groups. Aggravated voices ring in the clearing as the other guys try to turn their circles into squares.
As for our group, nobody is communicating at all. There’s a sharp jolt on the rope and suddenly I’m tugged to the side, nearly losing my footing.
“Wait!” I call. “Everyone just stop.”
Nobody listens. I’m yanked in another direction, while random voices chime out.
“Dude, I’m all tangled up! Why’d you go left?”
“I didn’t go left! I went right!”
“For fuck’s sake!”
“Who’s the corner of the square?”
“I am.”
“There’s four corners to a square, dumbass. There need to be four of us.”
Our team is hopeless.
“Guys!” I shout in a last-ditch effort for some semblance of organization. “Stop. Moving. Let’s talk this through and figure out a game plan.” I’m wrestled to the side again, almost dropping the rope.
“Carter, you there?”
“No, I died.” There’s a snicker. “Of course I’m here. I’ve got one corner.”
“’Kay, I’ve got the other one, I think,” Zane calls back. “But there’s someone all tangled up beside me.”
“It’s me, asshole,” comes Samson’s voice. “You spun me around and now the rope is wrapped around my neck.”
“Whatever, you’re still part of the square. I think we’ve got it, no?”
I don’t think we have it at all. But nobody paid any attention to me when I tried to say something, so I give up and stifle my irritation as Carter shouts that we’re done.
Footsteps approach us, and then Dr. D speaks. “You believe you’ve formed a square?”
“Yup,” Carter says smugly.
“All right, then. Remove your blindfolds.”
I pull the fabric from my eyes and am momentarily blinded by the sun. After I’ve blinked a few times, my vision focuses and I glance around to see what we’ve done.
Carter and Zane are indeed standing on two “corners.” The rest of us are a twisted, not at all orderly mess. The shape we’ve formed most closely resembles a T with the bottom line all squiggly because poor Samson is lying on the grass about two feet away.
I glance over at Coach, who just sighs.
“Practice” only gets worse from there. For the next two hours, we endure a string of team-building exercises that mostly result in failure. It turns out we all suck at communicating.
In our defense, I don’t think Dr. D really thought through some of the exercises. For one of them, he tapes off a small area and then asks us to all try to fit into it. We’re forty football players. We barely fit in the bus, let alone a ten-by-ten-foot square of grass. That particular activity ended with some of our wide outs sitting on the shoulders of our O-linemen. We probab
ly could’ve all fit if Zane didn’t lose his shit because Samson accidentally grabbed his junk.
Blessedly, we only have one more to go, because Dr. D announces this exercise will be our last.
We’re divided into four groups again and given a scenario—our plane crashed on an island. For some fucked up reason, only five of us are allowed to live. The others die. We’re given fifteen minutes to reach a unanimous decision about who lives and dies.
“Coach!” Samson calls out in horror. He’s in my group again, and so is Carter. “This is horror movie stuff right there! You can’t make us do this.”
“Samson dies,” Travarius decides. This time, both he and Ty are also in my group. “He complains too much.”
The guys laugh, including Samson.
Me, I’m tired of failing at these ridiculous exercises, so I decide to take charge again. I pick up the notepad and pen that Dr. D tossed to us, and draw a line down the middle of the page. I label one side of the line “Lives” and the other side “Dies.”
“Okay,” I say in resignation. “Let’s think about this. How do we decide the survivors? Is it a matter of who can contribute the most? Age? Skills? Just pick at random?”
“This is fucked,” Ty says bluntly. “Who are we to decide who deserves to live? Let’s just put our names in a hat and pull out five.”
Truthfully, I’m in total agreement. And a part of me thinks that that’s the answer Dr. D and Coach are probably looking for—that we’re supposed to reach the conclusion that we’re all equals, we’re all deserving, we’ve all got something to contribute. Therefore, we treat it as a fate sort of thing, because that’s what would happen in a real plane crash anyway.
Carter, as usual, has other ideas. I’m starting to actively dislike my roommate.
“Where’s the fun in that?” he says with a smirk. “Let’s pick the people with the most to offer. I, for one, can fish like a pro.” He nods toward the notepad in my hand. “Put my name down on the left column, Anderson. Carter—fisherman.”
“I can also fish,” Zane says, rolling his eyes. “Guess that means I get to live, too?”
Downed (Gridiron #3) Page 17
