—Yes sir!
He let out a roar.
—You think I got time for people who skip fuckin’ lifts?!
—No sir!
—So what you gonna do about it?
—Run a stadium tomorrow, sir! He shook his head.
—Not nearly good enough. Who’s your backup?
No.
—I’m sorry, Coach!
Zeller laughed, incredulous.
—The fuck’s “sorry” gonna do for me?
—Please!
—“Please”?! No one starts on my team with a fuckin’ “please”!
He looked around.
—Who. Is. His. Backup?!
—Me, Coach! said Farrell, a freshman strong safety.
—Fine. Time to get ready for the big leagues, son. And Chase—
—Yes sir!
—You’re back at starting Will.
Zeller wasn’t the linebackers coach; Hightower was. I looked over at my position coach, beseeching him with my eyes to tell Zeller he’d overstepped his authority. But Hightower’s arms were crossed. I had no choice but to yield my spot to Farrell while everybody—the ones, the twos standing behind them, the bottom feeders simulating Notre Dame’s kick return, the other players on the sidelines—watched me do it.
One week. That’s how long I’d been given to enjoy my promotion. One week. For no mistake on the field, no forgotten assignment, no missed tackles or blown coverage. One week. I caught Chase watching me during linebacker drills, trying to communicate something with his eyes. One week. Reshawn finally deigned to find me during a water break, but it was far too late for such a gesture; I walked off. One week. I’ve heard people claim that when they’re in extremis they feel like they’re at a great distance from their own bodies; but while I did feel a kind of separation, instead of being distant from my alienated self it seemed like I had to drag it around with me, and in the reps I got that afternoon it didn’t feel like I collided with people so much as threw that self against them, like a measly bucket of water thrown at a burning skyscraper. One week.
Practice ended and the team started for the tunnel. I stood at the edge of the practice fields, in the shadow of the Jumbotron, and waited for Coach Zeller to finish a conversation with Cyrus Pyle. I would beg forgiveness, prove somehow that I would never, ever, make a mistake like missing a weightlifting session again.
I hoped to walk with Zeller into the Hay, but then I saw he was about to climb into the Gator with Pyle to hitch a ride. I ran over to stop him.
—Coach, I said. Can we talk?
It looked like that was the last thing he wanted to do. But he signaled for Pyle to wait a moment and stepped away from the Gator.
—What? he said.
—I know I let you down, Coach.
—You let your team down.
—Yes sir. I—
—How long you played football, son?
—Eleven years.
—Eleven years. And in that time, you ever had a coach who let you break team rules without consequences?
—No, no sir.
—I thought not. He turned back.
—But didn’t Reshawn break team rules?
Zeller turned and stalked up to me, eyes narrowing.
—What’d you say, boy?
—I—
—You threatenin’ me?
—No sir.
—Uh huh, he said, nodding. Bet your ass you ain’t.
I found my locker decked out with new gear featuring our new logo. Running shorts and T-shirts, knee socks and ankle socks, wristbands, headbands, durags, and gloves. My mouthpiece had a little crown fronting the front teeth.
The greatest gear, our new uniforms and helmets, were supposed to be revealed later on in the week, but as players finished showering, Jimbo went to the equipment room and sweet-talked Pyle into letting him briefly borrow them. He came strutting into the locker room dressed in our new purple game jersey, game pants, and helmet. The purple jersey and pants were glorious, made of a huggy material that gave Jimbo a seamless superhero’s physique, with a white scimitar-shaped pattern that ran from armpit to knee. Our new helmet was even better, an aerodynamic model I’d only ever seen on NFL players that was painted in our new purple and had our new, jagged gold crown stamped on both sides. Jimbo walked in circles around the perimeter of the locker room like it was a catwalk, sashaying. He paused, jutted out his hip, fluttered his eyelashes.
—That’s how Gwen walks!
I left without showering. Once again I was the first in and out of Training Table, this time packing a Styrofoam container with food to take away. I drove to West Campus and parked my Saturn in one of the lots used by royalty so no teammate would see me eating in my car. Just a few bites in, I set down the food and punched my steering wheel, punched it so hard my car started rocking.
I walked across West Campus, hating how much light remained in the sky. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet, and though I was falling behind in my classwork, though I was still expected to be studying my linebacking assignments for Notre Dame, I had no idea how I was expected to fill all the hours that separated now from tomorrow morning. And tomorrow? Tomorrow would be full in the wrong way: I had both of my joke classes, two fifty-minute sessions in which I would either wait for teammates to make cracks about me or squirm through their witticisms. Then meetings, then another practice, more of the living death of watching other people carry out reps that belonged to me.
The wooden bench in front of Mennee Hall had been finished, and when I saw Thao sitting on it I wanted to collapse into his arms. But like I said, it was still light out, and at any moment some of my teammates might return from dinner, on their way to their own rooms in Mennee. We needed to talk somewhere else.
I led him away from Mennee, taking a flagstone path that curved around the right side of the chapel. Behind the nave was a copse that was home to some of the tallest, oldest trees at King. A network of dirt footpaths wound through the copse, and lining the paths were finely crafted wooden benches
