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“Is there a problem I ought to know about?”
I haven’t known Coach Gomez very long, but I figured out quick that he likes to know about personnel problems on his team. He’s serious, too, still nearly as fit as when he was a player and a straight talker. The silvery strands in his otherwise dark hair glint in the late afternoon light as he waits for my response.
“No. There was a little miscommunication, but I’m handling it.”
He nods. “What kind of miscommunication?”
Damnit, I’d been hoping to leave it at that. He’ll smell bullshit for sure if I try to lie.
“A girl.” Embarrassment burns my throat at the admission. For half a second, I’m back with Coach Zimmerman, trying to explain why the administration had called to tell him to bench me because I was on academic probation.A girl.
Coach curses. “Callahan—”
“It’s handled.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
He gives me a look that feels like an X-ray. “When we agreed to bring you here, we spoke about distractions. You remember that?”
“Of course.”
He leans in, knocking his fist against my chest twice. “Son, you’re going to be a star in the league. And I want to help you get there. But remember—save the off-field distractions for after you’ve signed your first big contract. Once your future is set, you can start to think about who will be in it.”
“Yes, sir,” I say with a nod.
In the aftermath of everything that happened with Sara, my dad sat me down with Coach Gomez. That conversation ended with me agreeing to transfer to McKee, and he had the same advice then. I hadn’t been lying to Bex when I said the only relationship in my life was football. Last time I tried to balance both, I nearly lost everything.
I don’t think much about Sara anymore, but lately, she’s come up more than I’m comfortable admitting.
“All right. And how are you adjusting to McKee?”
“It’s been good, sir. I like living back with my brothers.”
“Shame that Rich Callahan has three sons, but only one chose the right sport.” He chuckles a bit, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “And how are the classes? What about that writing one? Still sorry I couldn’t get you out of it.”
“It’s okay. I failed it the first time, I deserve to take it again.” I run a hand over my sweaty hair. “It’s fine.”
“You sure? Any help I can give you?”
In the locker room, stuffed at the bottom of my bag, is my first formal assignment for this stupid-ass class.
I got a D-. Who gives a D-? The guy should’ve just failed me. I still can’t believe that’s what I got; I spent longer on that one page of writing than any of the work for my other classes all last Sunday. The thought of all those red marks on that crumpled-up piece of paper, hidden like a child’s report card, burns into my mind.
And maybe that’s why I lie.
I already told Coach Gomez one truth. I’m not sure I can handle another today. He’s giving me the chance of a lifetime, letting me come here and lead his team to hopefully a victorious season, resetting the view the NFL has of me before it’s time for the draft next spring. He shouldn’t have to worry about anything but the game. Not me getting distracted by a girl. Not me still being a crap writer.
“Yep,” I say. “I, um, hired a tutor and everything.”
His face relaxes. “Good. Who is it? Someone from the media center? TA?”
“She’s in my class. She took it already and did well, at her old school, but McKee didn’t accept the credit.”
He shakes his head. “This academic policy, I swear. Well, happy to hear it, son. Let’s keep your eyes on the prize. No distractions.”
“No distractions,” I repeat. “Got it, sir.”
