First Team

by Tim Green

  “Who?” his dad asked.

  “Percy Jackson,” Brock said. “He’s the main character in those books I’m reading. Wild stuff.”

  “Well, good.” His dad followed him and stood in the doorway. “I can’t stand the idea of quitting just because of someone like Van Kuffler. There are Van Kufflers everywhere. It’s like stepping in dog poop. It happens to everyone and you just have to keep walking. Eventually, it wears off and the smell goes with it.”

  “I like that.” Brock grinned. “Mak’s gonna laugh when he hears you called Van Kuffler dog poop.”

  “Technically, I didn’t. That would be disrespectful.”

  “Come on, Dad.”

  “Hey, that’s your interpretation.” His father’s smile was weary, but filled with relief and joy. “I can’t help that. Come on.”

  “Can I turn my phone back on?”

  “Why don’t you wait until we get home. This was a good place. Not that we’ll need it again, but it’s good to know it’s here.”

  “Sure,” Brock said.

  They left in the dark and didn’t get back to their tiny house until after midnight. Brock turned on his phone and saw seventeen texts from Laurel along with three voice messages. He read and listened to them and responded with one simple text.

  Sorry. I ws totally out of it

  better now ☺ c u tmrrow

  Brock smiled to himself, yawned, and got to bed, happy for the creak of the springs and even the smell of the place. Almost losing it made it now seem that much more like home.

  When Brock woke the next day he saw a text from Laurel saying how glad she was that he felt better and asking that he stop by the library after practice. Mak was already downstairs with his father, fully dressed in his football gear and eating a piece of toast with cream cheese on it through his face mask.

  “Hey!” Mak’s face brightened when he saw Brock. “You’re okay?”

  “Now I am.”

  “Wow, my dad says those migraines are the worst.” Mak fished the toast through his mask and took another bite, talking through his food. “His cousin used to get them so bad they had to put him in a rubber room. Man, I was worried when your dad said you couldn’t even come to the door. Did you see me waving from the street?”

  Brock looked at his dad.

  “He was really out of it,” Brock’s dad said. “We had him in total lockdown.”

  “What was that, blankets over your bedroom window?” Mak crunched down his last bit of toast and wiggled his fingers into his mask to lick them clean.

  “Light is like a hammer with a migraine,” Brock’s dad said.

  “And he’s all right to practice today?” Mak asked, looking at Brock’s dad.

  “Once it’s over, it’s over.” Brock’s dad shrugged and opened his newspaper.

  Brock got some cereal and ate it quickly while Mak talked about how the kid who replaced him on the line wasn’t worth his weight in pee. “Be the last time he ever sees first team. My dad says my temper is part of what makes me a good lineman, but I’m not going to let anyone—not that clown Wentzel or anyone else—draw me out into a fight or anything that gets me suspended. That’s over, and my dad says it’s a good lesson to learn now instead of when I’m on varsity.”

  “Your dad’s right.” Brock’s dad sipped his coffee. “Again.”

  Mak beamed.

  Brock put his things in the sink and they took off on their bikes, heading for the school. Brock changed into his practice gear, which, although smelly, had the chance to really dry out over the weekend. A couple of his teammates asked how he was doing, but for the most part, people went about their business and got themselves into the right frame of mind for another tough football practice in the heat.

  As he trudged out to the field, Brock felt a hand on his shoulder pad.

  “How you doing?” Coach Hewitt actually smiled at him.

  “Good, Coach. Better.” Brock tried not to sound guilty about the lie.

  “Those things are nothing to mess around with,” Coach Hewitt said. “Don’t push yourself too hard in this heat, and I don’t want you running after practice. You’re not going to have enough practices to be eligible to play in the opener anyway, so let’s ease you back into things.”

  “Okay, Coach.” Brock’s chest filled with gratitude, and it was the first time he really felt like he was a true part of the team.

  “Good.” Coach slapped his shoulder pad and pointed toward the end zone. “Go get warmed up with the other quarterbacks. Coach Van Kuffler’s waiting for you.”

  51

  Coach Van Kuffler glanced across the field at where Coach Hewitt was going over his practice plan with Coach Delaney. “Well, well . . . is our little headache better?”

  Brock bit into his mouthpiece. “I’m fine.”

  “Of course you’re fine.” Coach Van Kuffler spat his words out, before mumbling, “Pathetic.”

  Brock stood there, waiting for instructions. None came. Coach Van Kuffler worked with his nephew and Wentzel, coaching them to turn their thumb down more or step into their throw, but all the while pretending like Brock wasn’t even there. So, Brock just stood and watched and fumed and planned his revenge.

  He remembered the looks on people’s faces when he and his father had walked off the pier with Laurel and her family, the respect in their eyes. Van Kuffler hadn’t been there to see, but if Brock had his way, they’d be spending a lot more time around town with Laurel and her family. Maybe his father and her mom would become an item, get married?

  The thought of being part of Laurel’s family made his heart gallop. Van Kuffler would see, then. Everyone would see. And if that ever happened, Van Kuffler would have to choke on it and know that whatever plans he had for his nephew, Wally, would be ruined by Brock.

  After nearly an hour of standing and thinking about how Coach Spada would chew Van Kuffler’s leg off if he only knew how badly his instructions were being disregarded, Brock became emboldened. He had nothing to lose. Van Kuffler couldn’t treat him much worse. So, when Coach Van Kuffler started the seven-on-seven session where the offense worked on its pass plays, and after Wally had run the first ten plays with only moderate success, Brock took a breath and walked right up to Coach Van Kuffler.

  “Coach,” he said, “I think you should give me some reps.”

  Coach Van Kuffler turned and stared a Brock. When the disbelief cleared from the coach’s face, it curled and twisted into a nasty grin. “Oh, you think you should get some reps, do you?”

  Van Kuffler’s hatred felt like the heat of the sun and Brock actually stepped back from it. He couldn’t speak, but he nodded and croaked.

  Van Kuffler leaned so close Brock could smell the stale coffee on his breath and something spoiled that stunk so bad it made Brock blink.

  Van Kuffler spoke in a whisper. “Now you’re gonna start telling me what you think? That’s your next move?”

  Brock didn’t know what to say. He wished he could undo the last minute of his life and he wondered what in the world could have prompted him to say anything in the first place.

  Then, behind Coach Van Kuffler, he saw the cavalry riding in to save the day.

  52

  Coach Spada marched straight out into the middle of the field. Taylor Owen Lehman wasn’t with him, but that didn’t matter. The way he made a beeline for Brock let everyone on the field know why he was there. Brock tried not to grin at Coach Van Kuffler, but couldn’t help it.

  “Van Kuffler!” Coach Spada shouted and slapped Brock’s coach on the back. “How’s the arm looking?”

  A giddy sound of delight burst from Brock’s throat and he eagerly glanced around to see if Mak was catching the show. Mak was in a pit drill, so he wouldn’t see, too bad, but Brock took a deep breath and widened his eyes. He didn’t want to miss a thing.

  Van Kuffler straightened like a wooden soldier. “Coach? How are you, Coach? Glad you came to watch a bit.”

  “I said I would.” Coach Spada l
aughed. “How’s the Arm?”

  “The arm?” Van Kuffler wrinkled his brow.

  “Not ‘the arm,’ THE ARM. This kid.” Coach Spada beamed. “Never seen anything quite like it on a twelve-year-old, have you? No.”

  “Well . . .” Coach Van Kuffler hesitated. “He’s doing pretty well.”

  “I don’t want you undermining me, Frank.” Coach Spada scowled at Coach Van Kuffler as he used his first name. “You know I can’t stand being bucked. It won’t do.”

  “You know I wouldn’t buck you, Coach.” Van Kuffler licked his lips and his eyes darted nervously at Brock. “The Arm is about to take his reps, so you should just see for yourself, right?”

  Coach Spada folded his arms across his chest. “Nice.”

  Brock’s spirits soared. He stepped into the huddle and Coach Van Kuffler read the play off his sheet.

  “Heavy Right 367 Bama.”

  “Bama?” Brock’s gut clenched.

  53

  Brock should have known Van Kuffler wasn’t going down so easily. His mind spun. He knew he’d heard about Bama, but no one had shown it to him, not even Taylor.

  “Uhh.”

  “What’s the problem?” Coach Spada demanded.

  Van Kuffler repeated the play.

  “Uhh, Bama?” Brock gave Coach Spada a hopeless look.

  Coach Spada turned his glare from Brock to Coach Van Kuffler. “Don’t think I’m blaming the Arm, here. You’re the coach, Frank. You’re responsible for your doggone backup quarterback to know the plays . . . you’ve got a game in four days, Frank.”

  Coach Van Kuffler nodded innocently and turned his hands, palms up, begging forgiveness. Brock was still delighted, but he was more wary now. He trusted Coach Van Kuffler only to be devious and mean.

  “Well, I did teach Bama, and he’s not my backup quarterback, Coach.”

  Coach Spada’s face turned red and he leaned toward Coach Van Kuffler, speaking in a snarl. “I said I wanted him on second team.”

  Coach Van Kuffler wagged his head up and down violently. “I know, Coach, but he can’t play in the opener.”

  “What do you mean? Coach Hewitt told me he’d have ten practices.” Coach Spada smacked a fist into his open hand. “He’s fine to play.”

  Coach Van Kuffler snuck a mean smile at Brock and shook his head slowly. “No, Coach. He was supposed to have ten practices, but he missed Saturday—that’s also when I put Bama in. He can’t play in the opener, so I thought—exactly what you said—I need to get my backup quarterback plenty of reps. Brock’s been practicing, but I thought—in the interest of the team—that I should get Wentzel ready to go if Wally goes down. Moravia is one of our tougher opponents.”

  “Wait.” Coach Spada held up a hand. “You didn’t tell me why. He missed a practice?”

  Coach Spada turned toward Brock now, his face still distorted and brilliant in color.

  Brock opened his mouth. His dreams coming to a rapid end, jumping the tracks for nightmare city.

  It was Coach Van Kuffler who answered the question.

  “Well, Coach . . . he had a headache.”

  54

  Brock couldn’t speak.

  He wanted to explain that it was a migraine, but even that, he knew, was a lie. Coach Spada’s look of disappointment and—was it disgust? Probably, yes—forbade Brock from saying anything anyway.

  Coach Spada twisted up his mouth and shook his head. “I don’t care what position you play,” he said to Brock. “Football player’s gotta be tough. That’s before anything.”

  Coach Spada walked away.

  Before the varsity head coach even reached the sideline, Coach Van Kuffler called out, “Can I get a quarterback who knows what Bama is?”

  Wentzel barged into the huddle, practically shoving Brock aside. Practice continued. Brock stood, shoulders slung low, watching. As he fumed over the injustice of it all, Brock threw all his hope into his master plan. Coach Spada still knew Brock had a good arm—he called him THE ARM! And a missed practice was something that everyone had at one time or another. All Brock needed was an advocate, someone who wasn’t just a part of the community, but a pillar. A pillar of any community was a person so important that whatever they said or did affected the entire town. And Brock knew Laurel’s mom was a pillar.

  The whistle ending practice finally blew. Coach Hewitt called the players together.

  “School starts Wednesday, guys. So today and tomorrow are our last summer practices. After this, we’ve got a lot less time to work, so let’s get a lot done tomorrow. We’ve got Moravia on Saturday at their place and we need to set the tone. Outside of Groton, they may be our toughest opponent all year. Bring it in, guys. Nothing is fun about football but winning, so give me three ‘wins.’”

  They all held their hands up and chanted with their coach.

  “WIN! WIN! WIN!”

  Brock jammed his gear into the corner locker and stormed out. Mak was waiting on a bench by the bike rack, also scowling. They mounted up and rode their bikes in silence to the library. Mak, Brock presumed, caught up in the funk of his suspension, and Brock eager to find comfort after a disastrous practice. He felt fairly certain Laurel would be glad to see him, and that would help.

  The librarian was at the desk right behind Laurel, so Laurel didn’t yell out or anything. Her mouth stayed tight, but her eyes rang out with joy.

  “Hi, Brock. Hi, Mak.”

  “Hey, Laurel.”

  “I’m really glad you’re feeling better.” She stopped scanning books and spoke quietly. “I know your dad said it was a migraine, but I saw the way that man we bumped into looked at you, Brock. Is everything okay?”

  “It’s fine.” Brock forced a laugh and angled his head toward Mak’s look of curiosity and confusion. “Don’t worry. Just a coincidence.”

  Laurel studied him for a moment and seemed to finally get that Mak knew nothing about the man. “Well, I didn’t say anything, Brock. You can trust me. Anyway, my mom was going to call your dad to see if you guys wanted to have dinner tonight. It’s the second-to-last night of summer vacation.”

  “Summer vacation ended for us when football practice started.” Mak pounded his chest plate with a fist, rattling his pads.

  Brock ignored his buddy. “I can’t see him saying no.”

  “Nothing fancy this time. Just a cookout.”

  “We love cookouts.”

  “Hey . . . me too?” Mak waved his hand.

  “Sure, Mak. We’d love to have you.” Laurel sounded like she meant it.

  Brock cringed, hoping she wasn’t going to invite Mak’s dad too. Brock wanted to meet Mak’s dad, but not tonight, when it would ruin the chance for his dad and Laurel’s mom to be together.

  “I’ll ask.” Mak’s smile shone through his face mask. “Can I ride with you guys, Brock?”

  “Of course.”

  “What you reading?” Laurel asked Brock.

  “I finished the two I got here and downloaded a couple of Rick Riordan’s. I forgot to bring the ones I finished with me to return, or I’d get something else.”

  “You can get one.” Laurel glanced over at the librarian and spoke quietly.

  “Two book limit,” Brock said.

  She winked. “I got you covered. Here, take this.”

  Brock took the book from her hands. “The Fault in Our Stars?”

  “Gracie, my brother’s girlfriend, was reading it. It’s very romantic,” she said. “But I want you to read it.”

  She scanned it with a beep, somehow checking it out for him despite the limit. Brock looked at the cover.

  Laurel’s eyes sparkled. “It’ll make you happy to be alive. It’ll make you cry too.”

  “Oooh-kay.” Brock dragged the word out slowly.

  Laurel turned to Mak. “How about you, Mak? How’s Ungifted?”

  “Funny, but I’m not done.”

  “It’s good you’re working on it,” she said. “Well, I better get back to it. See you tonight, hopefu
lly. Both of you, and I’m glad you’re better.”

  55

  Before they reached the bike stand, Mak grabbed the book from Brock’s hands. “Let me see that.”

  Mak cracked it open and moved his lips as he read. Then, he looked up to make sure he had Brock’s attention. “See? This is what I was afraid of. ‘I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, then all at once.’ Dude, you cannot read this kind of stuff. It’ll poison your mind. She’s a girl. You’re a football player.”

  “I thought football players liked girls.” Brock snatched the book back.

  “In the off-season, they do. You gotta focus. I thought you wanted to be first team. With me.”

  “You’re second team, remember?”

  “For the moment. They’re gonna wish they had me when they get to Moravia. Same with you. Wally will get whacked around and something will hurt him.” Mak climbed on his bike and started pedaling. “You’ll get your shot.”

  “Are you at the same practices I’m at?” Brock removed his bike from the rack, kicked the stand, and caught up. “I’m second team, but Wentzel gets more reps at third team.”

  “Trust me.” Mak thumped his chest with a fist as they rode. “I know how this goes. The tide is turning for you. You got Coach Spada on your side.”

  “Did you not hear what happened during seven on seven?” Brock asked.

  Mak wrinkled his brow and shook his head. “What?”

  Brock told him how everything went.

  “Well,” Mak said, “he called you ‘the Arm.’”

  “I know. That’s good, right?”

  “No, that’s great,” Mak said. “And, you got Taylor Owen Lehman behind you. What I really wish is if Laurel’s mom got onto the Brock Barrette bandwagon.”

  “Laurel’s mom?” Brock wondered if Mak suspected what he was planning.

  Mak shrugged. “Well, she’s the president of the Mom’s Club. You think, ‘oh, big deal’ but it is a big deal in Calhoun. The Dahlmans have practically owned this town since it began. Then she marries an NFL player? Talk about the perfect storm. I know it’s crazy, but if things keep going good with Laurel, maybe you could ask her mom to . . . you know, put in a good word, let Van Kuffler find out she’s got her eye on you. That’d put the whole Van Kuffler clan into line.”