measure of peace Wes had found on the field vaporized. He flinched, nearly buckling, but tried to cover it by dumping the rest of the water bottle over his face. His insides felt like he’d put his guts through a paper shredder. Was it falling in love or destroying that love that made him a better ball player? Or was he fooling himself, and by trying to run from his heartbreak, he was only postponing the inevitable tackle? He’d end up face-first in the dirt eventually.
“You look good, too,” he forced out. “But you’re not spreading out the passes. Why are you sending everything my way?”
Colton frowned. “Is this Wes asking, or the team captain asking?”
Wes ground his molars. You’ll need to evaluate your teammates every day. Coach had him glued to his side during nearly all of practice, every day, pointing out the strengths and weaknesses of each player. Even, or maybe especially, Colton.
“You can’t rely on one position, or one man. The other teams will pick up on it. You know that.”
“No one has managed to stop you, have they? And no one has been able to block my passes. I throw to you because, nine times out of ten, you are who’s available. You make the play happen. You want me to throw to the other guys? Get them to make more plays happen.” Colton shoved his helmet down on his head. “You know that.”
Wes glared at the sky as Colton ran back to the field, where he stretched, jogged in place, kept himself loose and limber. Threw a glare back at Wes before high-fiving the center and one of the tackles, who were taking advantage of the rest break to lay flat out on the field.
Wes’s one reprieve, the one place where anything made sense in his life, had always been the football field. When his fingers brushed the grass, when he heard the snap. When he faked out the defender and started on his route. When leather and laces slammed into his chest and he got both hands around the ball. When he saw the end zone and opened up to full speed, chest out, back straight, legs flying.
The gridiron was his zen, his church, his retreat. When he put his pads on, threw on his mesh practice jersey, laced up his cleats, a clarity washed over him, a focus that brought its own peace. Those pads weren’t just physical armor. They did something to his insides. On the field, he lived in the zone. He pushed for the margins, always striving for better, better, best. Always pushing, always refining. No matter what was happening in the rest of his life, leather, laces, and pads settled him in the center of his soul.
Not anymore. Was it becoming captain? Shouldering responsibility for the team, on top of his own performance? Trying to cultivate perfection in everyone else, as well as himself? To hone discipline and passion and draw them out when each was needed? How did he inspire everyone to dig deep, find what they didn’t know they had to give, and bring it out for the team?
Was he supposed to turn himself inside out as an example for others?
He was damn close already.
Coach called an end to the rest break and had everyone form up on the line of scrimmage again. More play action, more facing off against their own defense.
Across the line, he could see hunger in Trace’s eyes. Trace was the defensive captain, the middle linebacker. He wanted to stop Colton and Wes. He wanted to bring Colton, who hadn’t been sacked in over two years, down to the grass. Or, since this was just a light-touch practice, he wanted to get his hand on Colton’s chest, slap him, wrap beefy arms around him in a bear hug. Lean in and growl, “Got you.” He’d done it to Wes many times.
Wes’s fingers skimmed the grass again. Sun warmed. Freshly cut. Chewed up from cleats. He breathed in. Pads shifted. Leather groaned. His muscles clenched and released, waiting to fire.
Maybe all that shit you did over the summer was good for you.
Colton was talking about the hours he’d thrown into the gym, the days and nights and evenings and mornings he’d spent on the field, running routes and practicing his footwork in the empty stadium until he couldn’t move and he couldn’t think and all he could do was lie on his back and try to breathe and, hopefully, for one damn second, not