Over the Middle: A Sports Romance (10 page)

I
’ll help
, but you have to take that first step.

I feel Carrie's words swimming in my head, and I should be angry, pissed off. I’ve never been turned down like that before. When it comes to bedding girlfriends, Duncan Hart bats a thousand, and each time, it's a home run.

This time, though, I'm not. I'm crushed, and Carrie's words rip through my mind, hot knives through butter. I'm not supposed to be this way. I'm supposed to be the guy who breaks the girl, not the guy who gets broken. I'm the alpha, the stud . . . and I'm sitting here speechless as she walks away.

The demon, the voice that Carrie was just telling me about, pats me on the shoulder, chuckling and whispering in my ear.

Fuck it. Go find another bitch, clear your mind. New pussy does wonders, don’t you know?

Fuck you. You're the son of a bitch that got me in this mess. You're the one that keeps bringing me back to square one. I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. Because for once, I have someone who isn't going to run away, who can be strong when I’m not.

. . .

There's no answer, and I know that at least, for a moment, I've beaten the inner demon back. I know it's temporary, but I need to build on it. I look at my watch and see that I have ten minutes to get to my meeting with Coach Bainridge. I don't want to waste a minute of time, especially with my temporary reprieve.

I knock on Coach's outer office, and I see Coach Thibs sitting down at one of the other desks, reviewing something on his tablet. "Duncan. I didn't expect you for another ten minutes. You're five minutes early."

I nod, stepping inside the office. "I know. Is Coach Bainridge here?"

Coach Thibs nods and stands up. "He got done with the AD about half an hour ago. He asked that I come in with you, so that we have a witness. You okay with that?"

I swallow and nod, and follow Thibs into Coach B's office. He’s sitting down, waiting. Obviously, he heard me and Coach Thibs out in the other room. "Sit down, Duncan."

"Yes, sir," I say, and I see Thibs give me a double take. Bainridge, however, has probably seen players pull the penitent act before, and he isn't buying it. He's been around the coaching game longer than I've been alive, after all. He's not going to listen to some sob story. Nope, it's time to man the fuck up.

"Duncan, do you how much damage your little outburst cost?"

Of course I have. Not only the inside track on the conference title, but seven spots in the polls. We went from knocking on the top ten, to barely hanging out in the polls at all. I've already read two stories calling Western the 'paper Bulldogs' after that loss. I know the damage.

"Yes, sir," I say again, choking off the inner demon before he can get a word out. I clamp my hands down on the armrests of the chair, squeezing until the wood groans under my fingers. "I hurt the team."

"Damn right, you did," Coach says, leaning forward. "Duncan, I've lost a lot of games. Even the best coaches do. But one thing I've always tried to do, even with prima donnas like you, is make sure that you got the concept of team first, individual second. I thought we talked about this back in the summer."

"We did, sir. Right before my elbow evaluation."

Coach nods and taps his pen on his desk, looking at me. "I thought you'd gotten that message. You kept up your smack talk, but you put in the work. I even tried to meet you halfway, asking Coach Taylor to assign that trainer you worked with over the summer. You certainly responded, and put up games that finally spoke of the talent that I've seen in you for four years. Then comes Saturday . . .”

"Yes, sir. I have no excuse for my actions. I was out of line."

It's Bainridge's turn to be surprised, I think he expects me to argue with him about this. But he's right, and in my mind, I keep telling myself that this is for Carrie and for myself.
For us
.

"All right. The Athletic Director wants me to give you a verbal warning. At the end of the day, you put asses in seats. We lose again, and we’ve got no chance at the conference championship. If it were up to me, I’d have benched your ass for the rest of the season, conference championship or not. However, I think I will go with Coach Thibedeau's suggestion."

"Which is?"

Coach Thibs speaks up for the first time. "One game suspension, provided you do two things. First, you behave yourself. Second, you help me work with coaching Carlson, who's going to be playing tight end this Saturday. You will not dress for practice. You'll be in track pants and a t-shirt. Coach him in the video meetings. The kid's a freshman, and he's raw."

I think about it, then shake my head. "No. I need one more thing, coach."

Bainridge raises an eyebrow, his voice full of threat. "You're not in a position to demand anything, Duncan."

"Hear me out, Coach. I think you'll approve of this."

* * *

A
hundred sets
of angry eyes stare at me as I get onto the short stand that Coach Bainridge likes to use to look down on practice when we're running drills. He's got another tower, one he uses when we're doing full team practices, but that thing's too high for this.

"Duncan Hart has something he'd like to say," Coach Thibedeau says to the group. "Take a quick knee. Duncan?"

I look around and clear my throat. If I’m to be honest, I need to do this right. "I'm sorry," I call out, making sure my voice is loud enough that even the kickers screwing around in the back can hear me. "I'm sorry, and there’s no excuse for what I did. I thought only about myself, and I've been doing that for too long. I've been a bad teammate, a terrible leader, and an even worse friend to some of you. Coach Bainridge has suspended me for this Saturday's game, and I've accepted that. But I know that whatever Coach says, it’s you guys who will really decide when my suspension ends. I just want to be a Bulldog again. I want to be part of the team. I've asked Coach, and he's agreed to let me help out in practice, but I can't dress. I’ll do what I can to help.”

I turn toward Coach T and step down from the stands. As I pass him, he says something quietly, and I turn to him. “What was that, Coach?"

"I said, good apology. Let's see you back it up. But it's a good first step."

First steps. Maybe today is all about first steps.

I'm standing with Coach Thibs for most of practice as he gets to work with Carlson. I've barely given the kid the time of day all season so far. He was just some scrub underneath me, but now, I'm forcing myself to focus on him, watch him as he sets up, drilling, running routes, trying to step up to the first team offense level.

About fifteen minutes after passing drills start, I watch Carlson try a flag route, but his cut step is sloppy, and if he does that in the game this weekend, it won’t be pretty.

"Carlson!" I yell after the play is over, pulling him over. He's trying hard, I can see that, but he needs to focus. "All right, you’ve gotta make sure—make all of your steps razor sharp, got it?"

"I am," Carlson says, and he's sucking wind. He doesn't run this much in practice, normally, and he's nervous. "He's just too fast."

"You're bigger and stronger, so if you stick him at the line, then make your cuts sharp, you'll get the separation you need. Like this.”

I turn to Coach, who's looking at me, intrigued. "One more time?"

Coach shrugs and turns to Tyler. "Run it again!"

"Watch me," I say, lining up in slot like Carlson is supposed to. The defensive back, a senior named Joe Manfredi, who also has some potential pro-level skill, is giving me a look like I'm crazy. Today is Tuesday, full contact day, and that rule applies whether you're wearing a helmet or not.

The ball is hiked, and I grab Joe's shoulder pads before he can make contact with me, snapping him down and to the side, knocking him just enough off-balance to give me half a step on him. I take off, losing that half-step quickly as my tennis shoes don't grip the turf as well as cleats, but I cut hard anyway, turning just in time to catch Tyler's pass. I turn to go upfield when I get hit from the side to land painfully on the turf, seeing Joe looking down on me.

"Good route," Joe says before offering me a hand. "Think you can get Carlson to do that?”

"We'll see."

* * *

"
Y
ou what
, Coach?"

"You heard me, Duncan. For four days, you've worked your ass off with Carlson, telling him every hint you can think of," Coach Bainridge says. It's already five thirty, we have a primetime kickoff in an hour, and I feel like I've just been smacked in the head. "I've been watching. You've taken the comments, you've cut out the trash talk, but most of all . . . you've tried to be a good teammate."

It's what I want to be. It's what's stopped me from calling Carrie. I have to prove to myself that I can take this step alone. She's never been far from my thoughts, and my sleep has been spotty at best, but I have to make this step if I'm ever going to be the man she deserves.

"I . . . I want Carlson to do a good job, that's all. I want the team to win."

Coach studies me for a minute, then reaches beneath his desk, pulling out my jersey. "Here. I notified the AD and the game crew. Your suspension is reduced to the first half only. I know you haven't practiced, but you're still the best tight end in the conference. Think you can get suited up and join your teammates for warmups?"

I can't believe my luck, and I catch the tossed jersey, turning and running back to the locker room. One of the equipment managers must have gotten the message as well, because my gear is sitting there, my pants already prepared, my helmet gleaming. "Holy shit."

"You gonna sit there and curse, or get your shoulder pads ready?" Tyler asks behind me, and I turn to see him giving me a smile. "Bainridge won't tell you this, but a group of us went to him and asked him to let you play today."

"Why? Who?"

"Why? Because we need to win, and you help us do that. Who? Everyone, Carlson included. Now go get ready."

I quickly get my things together and run down to the trainer's room, wishing for the first time all week that Carrie was there. Instead, I find Chelsea Brown. "Hey, Chelsea, can you help me with my hands?"

"No elbow?" She asks, and I shake my head. There's no time for it, and Carrie's words echo in my brain.

“Just the hands. Besides, you guys know that I've only worn it as a crutch for a while."

"Okay," Chelsea replies, grabbing the tape. "So they're going to let you play?"

"The second half. But I want to be ready in case."

Chelsea starts wrapping my hands the way I like, running the pre-wrap over my wrists but leaving the backs of my hands bare. She does my left hand first, then my right, and she kind of lingers like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. I don’t give it a second thought.

I give her a quick thanks and rush back to the locker room to grab my helmet and gloves, getting up to the field just as the team starts group warmups. The sun is almost down, and the lights are bright as I run out, dazzling me for a moment, and I feel the familiar rush of adrenalin. I hear a surprised roar from the crowd, but this time, I don't care about it. I'm totally focused on the team and take the rearmost position in the warmup lines.

We run through things, and I continue to coach Carlson throughout. We rehearse a move I showed him, something Coach Thibs borrowed from the Western Judo Club, and we finish warmups. Going back inside, Carlson stops in the tunnel, grabbing my shoulder pad. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks, Duncan. For everything this week."

The first half of the game is tough. Western's hanging in, but the Silverados have a very stingy defense. Carlson's fighting his ass off, but he's just not able to hang in there, and with the offense unable to get anything going, the defense is getting tired. The breakthrough happens with five minutes left in the second quarter, when the Silverados hit a deep pass that puts them up by a touchdown, and then, just before halftime, he nails an amazingly long field goal.

The horn goes off, and the team runs back into the locker room. After his few words to the team as a whole, Coach Bainridge comes over to me. "You ready to go in?"