Page 72 of Playing It Forward

We reach the locker room. I collapse on a bench to remove my shoes. Bending over has my shoulder screaming in pain again. Shit. This isn’t funny anymore.

“Allen!” Coach Wilson shouts. “Keep those on.”

Fuck. Does he want me back on the field for more practice? I don’t know how much more my shoulder can take before I have to admit I’m not healing the way I expected.

“What’s up?”

“Need your help.”

I stand. “What do you need?” I’m the leader of this team. If he needs my help, I’m there. Pain in my shoulder or not.

He motions me into the hallway.

I notice Coach Knox studying me from his office as I walk out of the locker room. I duck my chin and avoid his gaze. He sees too much. Will he bench me this season?

“Beck is struggling,” Coach Wilson tells me once we’re alone. “He’s not responding to my coaching. Can you help him out?”

“No problem.”

“Thanks.” He claps me on the shoulder. “He’s on the field.”

I ignore the wince in my shoulder and make my way back to the field.

Beck stands alone near the far hash marks when I return to the field. Sweat darkens the back of his shirt, and frustration rolls off him in waves. A pile of footballs rests near his feet. Judging by the scattered balls around the field, none of them landed where he wanted.

He spots me approaching and grimaces. “Coach Wilson send you to fix me?”

I snort. “You’re a rookie quarterback. Nobody can fix you in one practice.”

His shoulders loosen slightly. “Good. Because if he tells me to ‘trust my mechanics’ one more time, I’m going to drown my sorrows at the Bootlegger bar.”

“Bad idea. The women at Mermaid Karaoke are maneaters.”

A reluctant laugh escapes him.

I grab a football from the pile and spin it in my hands. “What’s happening?”

“My timing’s off.” He gestures helplessly. “Everything feels rushed. I know the reads in the classroom, but once I’m out here…I hesitate.”

Because he’s thinking instead of reacting. It happens to every rookie quarterback. Hell, it happened to me.

“Drop back,” I tell him.

He squares his shoulders and takes the snap from an imaginary center. His feet are quick but jerky. His shoulders tighten before he throws. The pass sails high and left.

“Again.”

He repeats the motion. Same result.

I nod slowly. “You’re overstriding.”

His brow wrinkles. “What?”

“You’re trying to throw hard instead of throw clean.” I point toward his front foot. “Your stride’s too long. It’s pulling your shoulders open early.”

He stares at me. “Coach Wilson said almost the exact same thing.”

“Yeah, but I’m prettier.”