—Yes sir. Reshawn got upset after, and—he left. He took my car to Savannah to meet his professor. He quit the team.
Zeller watched me a long moment, as if hoping there was more to the story, a better ending coming. When he saw I had nothing else to say he closed his eyes and used his index finger and thumb to smooth his eyebrows.
—This was this mornin’? he asked.
—Last night.
He opened his eyes.
—Last night? Why’m I only hearin’ about it now?
—Coach—
—You tell anybody else?
—No sir.
Zeller leaned back in his seat and continued to stare, though now he was just using me as something to rest his eyes on while he thought things through.
—All right, he said finally. All right. You keep it that way, hear?
—Sir?
—Miles, nothin’ we just said leaves this room.
—Yes sir.
—I trust you.
His tone seemed to imply the opposite. I stood, palms wet from how hard I’d been clenching my fists.
—Yes sir.
I boarded the elevator, furious with Reshawn. I needed every ounce of coach goodwill I could get if I wanted to steal Chase’s spot this August, and I was worried I’d just tainted myself in Zeller’s eyes.
The first floor’s line had shortened, and soon my name was checked off the reporting list and I was walking to the second floor. Errol was seated in the Team Room’s front row, looking uncharacteristically serene, comfortable wearing the martyr’s mantle. People perked up at the sight of me, clearly expecting to see a disgraced Reshawn in tow, and I hated to see how undisturbed they were when Reshawn failed to appear, hated that they assumed Reshawn would be arriving shortly. But worst of all was the man I saw sitting in the second-to-last row. In his mid-forties and underfed everywhere except the small paunch that drooped over his belt buckle, he had skin so translucent you could see the turquoise veins bisecting his temples and crisscrossing the male-pattern bald crown of his head. His name was Arnold Duffy, and he covered college football for USA Today. I had forgotten Duffy was to spend the next three weeks in Blenheim covering camp.
The digital clock turned to eleven and the assistant coaches filed in. Teammates watched the door for Reshawn, certain they were about to enjoy the sight of our star walking into the room with his tail between his legs. Meanwhile I was watching for Coach Zeller. And here he came, taking his place at the front of the room, looking sepulchral.
—Morning, Coach!
Players were showing off for the reporter. Their enthusiasm seemed to catch Coach Zeller off guard.
—Aaah, mornin’, men.
He cleared his throat.
—Got a lot to cover. But before we start, I got some news. Some of y’all might know Reshawn’s mama is sick. Real sick. Multiple sclerosis. She took a bad turn last night and Reshawn’s had to go on home to Oregon to be with her.
Duffy scribbled furiously on his steno pad. My teammates looked whiplashed. Now they were being asked to feel bad for this
kid?
—How long’s he gone? Jimbo asked.
—Don’t have that information, Zeller said. But obviously his priority’s gotta be with his family. And we gotta move forward. Devonté, you’ll be takin’ over at one tail. Errol, time for you to step up.
—Yes sir, they said simultaneously.
Zeller gave his opening speech, which I can’t recount because I couldn’t focus on his words for more than a few seconds at a time before returning to the questions bouldering through my brain. Had Zeller lied to buy himself time? That seemed likely. Reshawn could conceivably take anything from a day to a whole year to be with his mother, and while he was away people like Duffy wouldn’t think to question the decision of a son to go be with his sick mom. But what was Zeller’s plan to get Reshawn back? Did he have a plan? And what the fuck would happen when it failed?
Besides, while people outside our program might have been willing to take Zeller’s story at face value, many teammates were skeptical that Reshawn’s failed snitch and his sudden departure for Oregon were mere coincidence. Their suspicion only grew when we walked to the parking lot to drive to lunch and they saw my Saturn was missing.
I asked Devonté for a ride. Jimbo always rode shotgun with Devonté, and as we pulled out of the players lot Jimbo asked me:
—Broken down how?
—I don’t know. My steering wheel’s been shaking.
—And when did McCoy leave again?
—Yesterday.
Jimbo turned in his seat, staring at me.
—What? I asked.
—His mom’s really sick?
—Goddamn, Devonté said. You ain’t seen her in those crutches after games? Have some respect, J.
Jimbo sucked his teeth and faced forward.
That afternoon Arnold Duffy stood on one of the practice field sidelines, waiting for the stretch whistle like the rest of us. It was 91 degrees, blisteringly bright, and barely any of the man’s sun-allergic self was left uncovered. He wore a long-sleeved oxford shirt and blue jeans, one of those neck-caped caps you see on movie-star colonialists riding camelback through the Sahara, and an oily Coppertone coat on his cheeks and nose.
Later on in camp Duffy would roam from field to field to observe different position groups and units, but today he remained with the offense the whole time, more specifically with the quarterbacks, watching Errol adjust to being the team’s new lodestar. From the first snap, it became evident Errol’s adjustment would be anything but smooth. The self-satisfied serenity I’d seen in him before the team meeting had vanished, and the petulant boy we’d known during the summer, the neurotic self-narrator, was back in full force, castigating himself in the third person when he flubbed drop-back steps, telling wide receivers they weren’t hustling hard enough, slapping himself on the helmet after a mistimed throw, remonstrating with Devonté to give him more room during handoffs. The spectacle was embarrassing, and I wanted to yank Errol aside and remind him he was doing this in front of a man who had the power to elevate or sink our program’s
