The playbook, p.11
The Playbook, page 11
Ty begins to pray.
“Dear God,” prays Ty. “We believe you want the best for us. So let us give our best to you. On the field, in school, in our families. When all is good and when all is not so good. When we’re healthy and when we’re sick. When we lose and when we win. In your name. Amen.”
The crowd cheers again and Palmer rushes onto the field with his teammates, lining up near the goal line to await the kickoff. Rubbing his hands together, he quickly glances into the stands and spots Dirk and Molly. He wants to wave but knows that’s not cool. But, seeing Molly, a smile does break out inside the face guard of his helmet.
Rolling a football in her hands, Chelsea glances quickly into the crowd and spots Eva near the fifty-yard line, a blue ribbon in her hair. To her surprise, Bo sits two rows behind Eva. The grand gesture again. Showing up without asking her. Just like him. Sometimes endearing. More times, at least lately, annoying. Bo waves and she nods, then drops her eyes, her focus back on the game.
The Longhorns’ kick-off sails over Palmer’s head for a touchback and Chelsea waves him to the sideline beside her. Led by Johnson, the offense hustles onto the field for the first play. From that moment on, everything falls apart for the offense. Penalty flags fly over and over. Players screw up multiple plays, one player running the wrong way, another slipping on the turf, another fumbling a handoff. Johnson overthrows some receivers, underthrows others. He gets sacked for big losses three times in the second quarter and throws an interception in the third and early in the fourth.
Exasperated, Chelsea encourages Johnson at first, hoping he’ll settle down. When that doesn’t work, she shifts into teaching mode, pointing out how he can fix his mistakes. After that, she yells at him a couple of times, hoping he’ll respond to some tough love, but that fails too. She glances at Palmer from time to time as he stands alone on the sideline, but doesn’t have the courage to put him in. Johnson needs more time, she assures herself. If she pulls him out too soon, she’ll destroy his confidence forever.
Thankfully for her and the Knights, the defense plays tough, shutting down the Longhorns offense over and over. Buck strides up and down the sidelines, exhorting his defense, celebrating each time they make a big play. Watching him, Chelsea can’t help but wonder if the Board made a mistake giving her the job.
But even the Knights’ stout defense can’t win the game all by itself, and early in the fourth quarter, Chelsea glances at the scoreboard to check the time left. Eleven minutes. Guests: 10. Knights: 0. Buck stands twenty feet from her, his hands on his knees, yelling at Johnson, who’s lined up behind the center.
“Watch the blitz, Sean!” yells Buck. “Left-side backer! He’s blitzing!”
Johnson receives the snap and rolls out. The left-side linebacker rushes him full speed and smacks him hard. The ball pops out and the linebacker scoops it up and sprints into the end zone for a touchdown. Buck cusses, throws his hat, kicks it, and turns away from the field, unable to watch the offense any longer.
Knights’ fans start exiting the bleachers and Chelsea watches them go, their seatbacks under their arms, their blankets on their shoulders. With no other option, she turns to Palmer and pulls him close. “Okay,” she says, her hand on his shoulder pads. “You’re in for Johnson after the kickoff.”
His eyes widen. “You sure?”
“We’ll keep the plays simple,” she says, hoping to give him confidence. “Just relax. You’ll do fine.”
Palmer shoves on his helmet as Chelsea walks up to Johnson. “Let’s give Palmer a shot,” she says, patting him on the back. “You’ll get it done next time.”
Johnson nods and wipes sweat away as Chelsea waves the offense over. “Okay, gentlemen,” she says. “Palmer is in. Let’s keep it vanilla. First play, Red right, 33, Georgia, 2 go.”
After the kickoff, the offense hustles back onto the field and huddles up, Palmer in the middle. The team stares at him, and Palmer fights to swallow, his mouth drier than a bone in the desert. He slaps his helmet and tries to focus. He feels panicky, his body out of sync. He closes his eyes and struggles to calm down but fails. Shaking his head, he opens his eyes, turns to the referee, and calls time out.
Chelsea runs to the huddle.
“I can’t do it!” he pants. “The play … it’s all scrambled up in my brain, like an egg. Put Johnson back in.”
Chelsea pulls him away from the huddle. “Palmer, it’s all right,” she says soothingly. “Bring it down a notch.”
“I’m no good, Coach.” He drops his eyes.
She pats him on the helmet. “Hey, look at me.”
He obeys and she smiles. “Think of it this way,” she says. “Nobody expects anything from you. Right?
Palmer shrugs. “Yeah, sure. I guess.”
“If you do anything positive, it’s a bonus. Correct?”
“Hadn’t thought of it that way. But, sure.”
“Screw up as much as you want,” she says with a grin. “Low expectations.”
Palmer scowls with confusion. “You insulting me, Coach?”
Chelsea pats him one last time. “Just do this. Drop straight back. The left-side receiver will sprint deep. The slot will run a slant. The right-side receiver will drag to the middle.”
Palmer wipes his hands on his jersey and she offers a final word. “It’s just a game, Palmer. Go play it.”
The referee blows the whistle to resume play and Chelsea hustles to the sidelines as Palmer re-enters the huddle.
Swoops speaks to Palmer. “Relax, my man,” he says. “You throw it, I’ll catch it.”
The team breaks from the huddle and lines up facing the Longhorns. Palmer barks out the count, and the center snaps the ball. Rolling out the wrong way, palmer almost knocks down his running back but avoids him at the last second. The defense closes in, and Palmer scrambles, rolls left, pivots, runs back right. His receivers stop, start, run again. Swoops breaks open fifty yards down the field.
The defense grabs for Palmer’s ankles but he sidesteps them again and whips the ball through the air. It spins through the night—30, 40, 50, 60 yards. Swoops catches it in stride and runs in for a touchdown.
Palmer sprints downfield and celebrates with Swoops, jumping up and down. What’s left of the home crowd goes wild.
On the sidelines, Dub, Patrice, and Russell celebrate like five-year-old kids eating cake at a birthday party, but Vanessa shakes her head.
“Palmer didn’t have a clue what he was doing on that play,” she says. “Just threw it up for grabs.”
Dub laughs. “You see that pass? 60 yards on a dime! Pure talent!”
The extra point team runs onto the field and everybody settles down a little.
“Ty says he tries hard. Just not the sharpest knife in the drawer,” says Russell.
“We can’t win if luck is all we got,” counters Vanessa. “I don’t care how great an athlete Palmer is.”
The extra point sails through the goal posts and Coach Dub leans close to Patrice. “What’s up with Vanessa?” he asks.
“Mama Bear Syndrome,” explains Patrice.
“I’m not following,” says Dub.
“Think about it. Assuming Ty beats this cancer, Vanessa now sees Palmer as a threat for next year.”
“Really?”
“She doesn’t even realize it. But I have no doubt.”
Less than thirty minutes later, the game ends. No more heroics from anybody, Palmer included. The stands have emptied, and the scoreboard shows the final score. Knights: 7. Guests: 17.
The Knights, Palmer near the back of the pack, trudge off the field, their heads down. Off to the side near the locker room, Buck and Roberts stand by themselves as the team slouches by.
“Tough game,” Roberts consoles Buck.
“Losing the week before the playoffs start is bad mojo,” grumbles Buck.
“We obviously need better quarterback play.”
“Johnson is just bad. And Palmer was running around those last eleven minutes like a toddler at an Easter egg hunt.”
“He did throw a great pass to Swoops,” says Roberts.
“Dumb luck.”
“Howitzer for an arm, though.” Roberts bends to pick up an empty popcorn box.
“We can’t win a playoff game with him, that’s all I’m saying,” says Buck. The last player straggles past them.
“I thought Palmer would be further along,” admits Roberts, putting the popcorn box in a trash can. “With Coach Deal working with him every day.”
“Maybe it’s the coach instead of the kid.”
“Easy there, Buck,” says Roberts. “It’s just one game and we’re still headed to the playoffs.”
“Experience matters, George. No way we win a championship with an inexperienced female coach at the helm.”
Roberts looks around, making sure nobody heard what Buck just said. “Keep the woman comment to yourself, Buck. An inexperienced coach describes the situation without any gender references.”
“Good grief, George, who spooked you?”
Roberts leans in closer. “You find out anything about her?”
Buck shrugs. “You want me to tell you if I have?”
Roberts picks up a crumpled paper cup, throwing it in the trash as he weighs his answer. “Maybe not,” he finally responds. “Plausible deniability and all that.”
“It’s not an FBI investigation, George.”
“Just let me know if you hear anything that could hurt the school.”
“Yeah,” says Buck. “It’s all about the school.”
The players, now dressed in street clothes and wearing the unfamiliar smell of defeat, drift out of the locker room, quietly greet family and friends, climb into vehicles, and drive off. Palmer, his shoulders slumped, exits beside Ty, who’s on crutches. Tanya steps towards Ty, who introduces her to Palmer.
“You didn’t tell me you had a girl,” Palmer chides Ty.
“He doesn’t have me,” protests Tanya.
“I’m working on it, though,” says Ty.
“I’ll get my car, Playa,” says Tanya. “Meet you at the gate.”
Bridget and a group of girls walk up as Tanya heads off. “Hey, Palmer,” says Bridget, her smile wide. “Sorry you lost.”
Palmer nods, his emotions mixed. Losing sucks, but at least he played.
“Amazing throw on that touchdown,” continues Bridget as she and the girls stop in front of him.
“Thanks.”
“We’re headed to the lookout,” Bridget says. “You can see the whole town from there. Want to join us?”
Palmer glances at Ty, then steps away and waves Bridget to follow. Once they’re alone, he stops. “What’s with you?” he asks, suspiciously.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You the most popular girl in our grade.”
Bridget smiles and tilts her head. “I don’t know about that.”
“Why you talking to me so much? You mocking me?”
“No. I’d never do that,” she protests, her lower lip pushed out in a pout.
“Then what’s your game?” He throws up his hands, completely confused at her motives.
Bridget smiles again, gently this time, no tease in it. “I just, you know… Flirting is fun,” she responds.
“But you’re here.” He raises a hand over his head. “And I’m—” He drops his hand below his knees.
“Really?” Her eyes sparkle under the lights. “Have you looked at yourself? Tall, blonde, and my God, your eyes. I could swim in those eyes for days.”
“I don’t even know what that last part means.”
Bridget laughs. “I read it in a book somewhere.” She touches his arm. “Come up to the mountain with me. We’ll have fun. Just talk if you want.”
Palmer hesitates, still not sure how to respond. Him with a girl like Bridget? Not likely. Besides, he and Molly are “a thing.” “I appreciate the invite,” he finally says. “But I already got a girl.”
Bridget raises her eyebrows. “I didn’t know.”
Palmer’s phone dings and he checks the text.
“By the gate in the parking lot. Molly.”
He pockets the phone and faces Bridget again. “I’m flattered, Bridget, really. But… you know.” He shrugs.
“Okay,” she says gently. “Go on. For now, anyway. I’ll get my shot with you eventually.”
In a hurry now, Palmer quickly escorts Bridget back to her friends, then rejoins Ty, who’s patiently waiting.
“I want you to meet Molly,” he tells Ty as they move slowly away from the clubhouse. “She’s out by the gate.”
“You should bring her to my house,” says Ty. “We’ll hang out, listen to music.”
“I doubt I’ll like your music,” says Palmer, half-joking.
“You should expand your horizons, Palmer.”
“Will your mom be okay if we come over?”
“She’ll put up a fuss, but I’ll convince her. What else you got to do?”
“All right. So long as Molly is up for it.”
Her spirits low, Chelsea texts Bo as she exits the locker room. “Meet me at the gate behind the home bleachers. Near the concession stand.”
Bo immediately texts back. “Be right there.”
As she walks the thirty yards to the gate, a few people speak to her but most don’t, so she walks alone, a losing coach who just led Rabon to its first defeat in two years. At the gate, she brushes her hair back with her fingers and stares at her shoes. At least nobody had booed. Not that she heard anyway.
Bo rounds the bleachers, dressed in a long black coat over a blue, buttoned-down shirt, navy slacks, and black wingtips. “Hey, Head Coach Chelsea Deal!” he shouts as if greeting a celebrity.
She quickly waves him closer “Easy there,” she says, smiling but not happily. “I just lost my first game as head coach.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” He leans in and hugs her.
“I dread next week. Local radio is going to crucify me.”
Bo eases back. “But your starting quarterback was out sick.”
“People hate it when a coach makes excuses,” she says.
“Your backups are pretty pathetic,” he observes. “Except for the one pass that third-stringer threw.”
He reaches for her hand, and she almost takes his, but exhaustion suddenly overwhelms her, and she wants nothing more than to drive home, enjoy a hot shower, and collapse into bed. But she can’t do that. Not with her obligations to the Booster Club. And not with Bo there, unannounced.
She folds her arms and faces him. “You can’t keep showing up without telling me, Bo,” she says, hoping he’ll understand.
“Oh, come on,” he says. “I couldn’t miss your first game as head coach.”
“I know you like grand gestures. But they … I don’t know …stress me out.”
“Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asks. “Your place maybe?”
She weighs the idea a moment but finally shakes her head. “Our Booster Club throws a party after every home game, and I’m expected to show up. You can join me if you want.”
“Kill. Me. Now.”
She chuckles. “I figured that.”
“What about after?”
She checks her watch. “It’ll be late,” she warns.
“I don’t care. I want to see you.”
She sighs, her bones aching with fatigue, and wishes he would take the hint and head back to Atlanta. But he shows no inclination to do that, and he did drive two hours to see her. “Okay,” she finally relents. “We have a decent restaurant, Georgio’s, on the town square. Meet me there in an hour. We’ll eat a late dinner.”
He eases closer again and touches her cheek. “Really, I’m sorry you lost.”
Chelsea smiles. “I’ll survive.” She pecks him on the cheek. “I need to run back to the locker room and grab my backpack. See you at the restaurant.”
Bo nods and she hustles away, alone, frustrated, and dreading the gathering with the Booster Club.
Dressed in blue jeans, brown boots, and a bulky white sweatshirt with the words “Truckers Roll” in red lettering on the front, Molly leans on the fence by a stadium gate, a cigarette in hand. Her hair in a ponytail, she puffs out a long plume of smoke as Don and Strick slouch by, their hats low over their eyes, their hair poking out. She braces her foot on the fence and nods to Don and Strick. They take another step, then Don stops suddenly and faces her.
“Hey,” says Don. Strick stops alongside him. “You Molly, aren’t you? Graduated last spring?”
“Yep,” says Molly.
“Didn’t you get knocked up?” sneers Strick.
“That’s a idiot question,” Molly says, flicking cigarette ashes to the ground.
Don and Strick high-five each other. “Yeah, that’s what I heard,” mocks Don. “Guy named Drew, wasn’t it? Your baby daddy?”
“Leave me alone, morons,” Molly orders.
Don and Strick ease closer and Molly tries to back up, but the fence blocks her escape. Strick touches her arm. She smells beer on his breath.
“You got you a rug-rat at home?” Don sneers.
Molly pushes his hand away. “I don’t have a kid.”
“No? Did you have The Procedure?” Don puts a hand on her waist, and she slaps it, a touch of fear rising in her throat for the first time.
Don laughs and grips her waist harder.
“Rid yourself of the little nuisance?” asks Strick.
Molly presses back into the fence and feels the metal jamming into her shoulders. She raises a boot to kick Don off, but Strick moves before she can, his hands suddenly all over her, touching her breasts, squeezing her hips and buttocks.
She kicks Don and jams her cigarette into Strick’s cheek. He groans and backs up for a second. She spits in disgust, and he charges at her again, harder this time, his face scrunched up in rage. She kicks and pushes at him, desperate to fight him off, but he’s on her again, squeezing her shoulders. Don grabs her too, his hands on her waist, trying to hold her still as she squirms, scratches, and kicks. Fear gushes through her and she claws at Don and Strick, her anger increasing her strength as she fights them off.
