“Traffic. Right.” Wagner presses his lips together in a tight smile before jotting down a note on his clipboard. “Two laps,” he announces without looking at us, then raises his head when no one moves.
“What the fuck are you waiting for? Two laps around the field for warm-up.Now.”
“He’s in a fuckingmoodtoday,” Felix mutters when he falls into stride next to me, somewhere in the front of the moving pack. I glance at where Wagner is standing in the middle of the field, watching us with his arms crossed over his chest like a lion tamer. His jaw is tight, the muscles in it working as if he’s chewing on his suppressed anger.
“He sure is. I hope Seb will just stay gone,” I murmur softly. “Because if he strides in now, that’ll set Wagner off even more.”
“Have you talked to Seb over the weekend?” Felix asks, causing the cool dread to spread in my body as I slowly shake my head.
Seb and I parted on good terms on Friday night, but also completely unaware of the drama playing out at the party as I talked him through what had happened with Linden over the summer. I thought about calling him on Saturday, but figured telling him would be better done in person than over the phone. Now I wonder if someone else got to him first.
Despite all my hopes, Seb doesn’t stay gone.
It’s six minutes past seven, and we’re on round two when the sliding doors finally open, Seb emerging fully suited up, his helmet under his arm. His steps are slow and controlled, no sign of hurry or embarrassment as he approaches Coach Wagner.
From a distance, he looks fine—his features composed, his gait steady. But by now, I know that calm surface is nothing more than a thin layer held in place at a desperate cost.
He reaches Coach at the same time we finish our warm-up laps. For a short moment, the harsh breathing of our linemen is the only sound. Wagner’s jaw has stopped moving, his full focus on Seb.
“Davenport,” he says, the single word coming out so cold, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand. “Nice of you to join us today.”
“Coach,” Seb answers. His voice is raw, like he hasn’t used it in hours. “I’m sorry for running late.”
“You’resorry,” Wagner repeats the word as if he’s hearing it for the first time, turning it over in his mouth, his features contorting at its flavor.“You know what, Davenport, I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry you can’t be bothered to show this team a minimum amount of respect and decency by getting here on time. I’m sorry you’re interrupting another training with your tardiness. I’m sorry for every young player who’s looking up to you just to be let down by your behavior. I’m sorry you apparently think that my rules apply to everyone else but you.”
When Wagner ends his rant, it’s so quiet that we could hear a pin drop. No one is moving; we barely dare to breathe. Felix looks at me like he wants me to say something, but I’m at a loss. I know for a fact that Seb is anything but lazy and uncaring. Telling Wagner, however, would mean Seb having to actually talk about his problems—the anxiety, the compulsions, the sleepless nights, everything we’ve helped him hide over thepast years. And I know he’d rather take another verbal beating than do that.
“It’s not that I don’t care,” Seb finally speaks up, his dark eyes fixed on a point in the distance.
“Oh, that so? Then why are you late again?”
C’mon, Seb, I silently beg.Just give him something.But Seb has fallen quiet again, and Coach lets us all stand in it until the guys shift uncomfortably on their feet, looking at the ground, the empty seats around us.
“Coach—” I say when it becomes unbearable, but Wagner cuts me off immediately.
“Did I ask you, Mahoney?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Then keep your mouth shut.”
I snap my teeth back together, forcing myself not to make this worse for my best friend. The Adam’s apple in his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, lips pressed together now in a thin line.
“I’m waiting,” Wagner prompts, his fingers drumming against his clipboard in a steady rhythm, like a clock counting down.
Seb shifts under his stare.
Say something, God, please. Make something up. Just lie to him.
His lips part, his tongue darting out to wet them, but no sound leaves his mouth. Instead, he raises his hand helplessly, palm up, a silent confession:I have nothing to tell you.
Coach stares at him for another moment before letting out a disgusted snort. “Right,” he says, then points over to the end zone. “Well, since you’re here now, you might as well take a seat.”
Seb blinks in confusion, his head tilting to one side. “Coach?”
“You heard me. Sit down where you’ll have a good view. Make yourself comfortable. Your teammates will be handling your drills today.”
For a short second, Seb’s face cracks open, pure horror shining in his wide eyes before he gets a grip on his composure again, his features smoothing over into a blank mask. The guys take a little longer to understand what’s happening.
