Page 32 of Campus Heat

“How would you describe the team’s trajectory after the opening loss?”

Did she really use the word trajectory? Like we were some kind of science project?

“We’re improving,” I said carefully. “Every week is cleaner than the last.”

“And the coaching?” She pressed. “There’s been some discussion around the… um… creativity of the playbook.”

She was leading me. It was obvious, but it was the first time I’d ever been in such a position and I honestly didn’t know how to react.

I tried to keep my expression neutral and said, “Coach has his ideas.”

“Do those ideas happen to be unconventional?”

“We’re adjusting.”

She tilted her head curiously. “Some players seem frustrated.”

Did she really wonder why? She was prancing around as if we owed her something, trying to talk us into saying something she could use. Most of us tried to avoid her like the plague. And the rest of us were stuck doing these kinds of things. We weren’t frustrated about the game. We were annoyed by her career choice. I bit my tongue to stop myself from saying something I would regret.

“We’re competitive,” I said through gritted teeth. “Perhaps that’s what you’re confusing with frustration.”

“And leadership?” She continued as if nothing had happened. Do you feel the team needs stronger direction? There have also been talks about a potential shift in captaincy. Some are even mentioning your name.

And there it was, my breaking point. She had tried to push every button she could find. Unfortunately, she found the ones that had the potential to send me over the edge.

“I’m just focusing on executing,” I said, hoping she didn’t pick up on the change in my tone.

“But do you think everyone’s bought in?”

I thought about the way Malik brushed her off and the sideline arguments earlier in the week. Then there was the way the guys still rolled their eyes when Harris used basketball terminology and play styles. I should’ve deflected.

Instead, I said, “We’re still figuring out who we are. Some guys adapted faster than the others.”

Her eyes immediately sharpened. “And the coach? Has he figured out who you are?”

I gave a short laugh, but it wasn’t born of strategy. It was instinctual. “He’s still learning the game with us.”

There was half a second of silence. Much longer than she’d usually keep her mouth shut. And I realized I had just made the biggest mistake of my career.

“So he’s learning on the job?” She asked.

I opened my mouth and closed it again. The last thing I wanted to do was make the situation worse.

“That’s all I need,” she said cheerfully.

She walked away before I could think of a way to rectify the situation. So I just stood there with my helmet in my hands, replaying every stupid word I said to her. Some guys adapted faster than others… I could already hear how bad that would sound.

But I didn’t have time to sit with it. The game was about to begin. So I pulled my helmet over my head and moved to join the rest of the team. As I moved past Elizabeth and Jenna, who were having a chat, I took a bite of her granola bar. It was a surprise attack over the shoulder, so her startled response didn’t really surprise me. Elizabeth spun around, but I was already running onto the field.

“One play at a time!” she shouted, and I gave her a quick salute.

The first snap told me exactly what kind of night it was going to be. The ball hit my hand clean. Laces were brushing my fingertips, and before I could finish the fake hand-off, I felt the pocket cave inward. It wasn’t collapsing, but it had definitely compressed. Bridgewater’s defensive front didn’t rush wildly. They squeezed in a fully controlled fashion.

I handed the ball off, anyway. Dylan lowered his shoulder and met a linebacker in the gap. The sound of the collision carried. It wasn’t a pop. It was a very distinct crack. Helmets were striking square. Pads were compressing and air was rushing out of lungs.

Two yards. Second and eight. I came back to the huddle and saw it in their faces. Not fear, but recognition. This was going to hurt a lot. The first drive stalled at midfield after a third-down incompletion. There was a tight window slant that glanced off fingertips as a safety arrived with bad intentions. We punted.

Bridgewater’s opening position felt different. It was methodical, like someone was tightening a vice. There was a run, four yards. And another run, six yards. There was a lot of play-action. A tight end slipped into the flat and bulldozed a corner for another eight. This team wasn’t flashy. They were patient. They were leaning on blocks and falling forward.