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I feared not living up to my reputation, the weight of expectation from the school and my Dad. Though not in that order. First and foremost, I feared letting Dad down. If we lost he’d see it as a direct reflection on his ability as a coach. For that reason, defeat wasn’t an option; I couldn’t fail him.
The stress was getting to me, but I couldn’t show it. I had to be the golden boy, prove I could lead my team to victory, stand up to the task. And Dad was making sure of that.
He’d put on his Coach hat before I’d hopped out of bed, forcing me into a quick circuit session before I’d gotten to the gym.When you’re sleeping, someone else is training.How many times did I have to hear that? Without a doubt I’d get an extra workout after training. Heaven forbid if I ever wasted an opportunity to get stronger or faster.
The intensity lifted a notch at practice—the drills, the plays, the talk.Rise—or fallwas Dad’s new motto. There was no in-between, no compromise, no middle ground anymore. We were winners—or we were losers. The road might end with this one game.
The bright green vest alerted me to Sierra racing out toward us with the water bottles. I pushed my helmet back, wiping away the sweat on my forehead. Across the way, I saw Millie helping out too.
As Sierra got nearer, my heart seemed to beat with an increased vigor, one that no amount of exercise could replicate. It wasn’t just faster, it was dipping and diving and as she handed me a bottle, everything in my life was all right, a-okay, all stress and anxiety obliterated. The sun shone, even if it was cloudy above.
It was like seeing her made all of my worries disappear, and I didn’t know if it was because she said she worried about me. That had kept me awake last night—her quiet declaration—I worry about you.
“Do you need a sports drink too?” Sierra asked, watching as I squirted water over my forehead.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” I said. We exchanged bottles, the fingertip connection another bright spark in my day.
Coach’s whistle blew sharply. I gulped down a final mouthful of the sweet orange flavor while Sierra gathered bottles like it was an Olympic sport.
“Thanks,” I said, waiting for her to take the bottle from me. I could have dropped it to the ground, which is what most kids had done.
“You can leave it,” Sierra said, noticing that I hadn’t moved away.
Another shrill blow of the whistle reverberated around the field, one that should have had me running.
“Cullen, just leave it,” Sierra said more urgently, concerned that I’d get into trouble for being late. “I’ll pick it up.”
She was six or seven feet away from me, stooped down collecting bottles, but a moment of madness descended on me and I bent down to where she was, picturing myself wrapping my arms around her, fluorescent safety vest and all.
And more. Up close, I wondered what her sweet lips would taste like.
Incoherent but disgruntled shouting forced me into action.
“Here,” I murmured, handing her the bottle, ensuring I got to touch her again. “Thanks.”
And in a flash I was gone, dropping my helmet down as I ran to my team.
Dad’s glower was enough to know my delay had been observed and would be most likely punishable by some laps or push ups, or maybe burpees. Depended on his mood.
As he dismissed us, his tightly pressed lips didn’t give me much hope that he’d be lenient today. In fact, I voluntarily took myself off for a few laps of the track to cool down. But don’t think it was a saintly endeavor to show Dad how dedicated I was, no, there was an ulterior motive—watching Sierra tidy up.
My fixation with Sierra Huntington was becoming a distraction.
Two laps and I hadn’t cleared my head. Trying to take my mind off of her, I focused on Fieldcrest’s quarterback, Kyler Clark. He was second only to me in most passing yards this season and it was a record I wanted to keep.
But as Sierra loaded baskets onto her cart, I was a goner. I kept running, just so I could watch her. In the end, it was the sight of Red Phillips who made me stop. It appeared he was offering to help Sierra push the cart. Sierra shook her head. Red tried again, grasping the handle which Sierra was already directing. I no longer followed the track, deviating across the grass and breaking into a sprint, surprising myself that my legs had any speed at this time of the day.
“Hey, Phillips!”
The shout of his name made Red look around, removing his hands from the cart. Sierra didn’t lose a beat—she kept moving, taking her cart back toward the gym.
“Cap?”
“Why aren’t you in the locker room?” I asked.
“I was just helping Sierra,” Red said.
“Did she ask you to?” I asked, unable to hold back on the aggression in my tone.
