Grey shifts his eyes my way. I raise an eyebrow.
You’re on, Worthington.
I collect the balls, having to jog past the field line to pick up Brady’s miss. As I’m coming back, I catch Coach Lee watching from the opposite end of the field.
Fire right. Hit.
Fire left. Hit.
Fire center. Hit—directly where the post meets the bottom of the U, the dead center.
Grey shifts his weight and Brady’s jaw tenses yet again. “Round one goes to Worthington and Rodinsky.”
The angles of Grey’s face go serious as he preps at theline. Within ten seconds, he’s done—bam, bam, bam—perfection. Brady matches him and then it’s my turn.
Right, left, center. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.
“Round two, draw. Worthington and Rodinsky still in the lead.”
Grey lines up, all business. He wants more than the Snickers. He wants the start after our bye week. He knows Coach Lee is watching, too.
Predictably, he doesn’t miss.
Brady stomps into the sod while lining up the balls for his turn, now sure there’s absolutely no way he’s getting a frosty postpractice treat unless he’s paying for it himself. That knowledge, or maybe exhaustion, settles in because he misses two of the three bars, both end throws going wide before he carefully lines up for a parting shot.
Royally pissed off at himself, he takes his helmet and chucks it downfield.
Which Coach Shanks does not appreciate.
“Hey, now.” Shanks’s voice goes grumbly hard. “Go cool off, Mason. Ten laps. Now.”
Brady scoops up his helmet and huffs off.
“Miss Rodinsky,” Coach says by way of invitation.
I swallow and set up the balls, feeling more eyes on us. A quick glance confirms it—Jake and the other running backs are watching to my right. Kelly’s standing next to Coach Lee.
Grey and I are a sideshow. Whatever. I can still do my job.
I swallow. Take a breath.
Right. Left. Center.
Hit. Hit. Hit.
Coach Shanks nods. “Good thing I stocked up on Snickers.”
After our postpractice laps, Grey and I silently follow Shanks into his office, leaving Brady to sulk on his own.
Shanks’s office is right next to Coach Lee’s, and from the looks of it, he shares it with Napolitano. There are two desks shoved clown-car-style into an office built for one, a minifridge wedged into the minimal breathing room between.
Coach dumps his clipboard on the desk nearest the door, barely missing a half-dozen picture frames, all containing photos of two adorable little girls who are definitely in love with their dad.
The full photo-collage effect is as telling as Napolitano’s completely bare desk. And when I say bare, I meanspotless. Coach Napolitano is clearly the kind of person who irons his jeans. Which is interesting, given he has the messy task of organizing a defensive effort.
Knees cracking, Shanks crouches down and pulls two Snickers ice-cream bars from the minifridge’s freezer. Heholds one in each hand. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but this better sweeten you both up.”
We can’t just take the chocolate in silence, so both of us say, nearly at the same time, “Thanks, Coach.”
