“Tomorrow can wait,” I repeat. The tears are still flowing, but I no longer feel like I’m choking on some invisible ache in my throat. I no longer have to gasp for breath.
“It can,” she promises. “No point worrying about what happens at the end of the road when there’s a hundred steps to take before you get there. You worry about today’s step. Because I promise you, passerotta, there will come a day when you stop obsessing over what lies ahead and begin to look backward instead. And when that day comes, it won’t matter so much whether every step was in the right direction because life is not a straight line. It will only matter that you took them. That you never let yourself stand still.”
“I don’t know why people always call me the smart one,” I say. “You definitely have me beat.”
She laughs, and the sound lifts me in a way that even her words didn’t quite manage to do. “I am firmly in the looking-backward stage,” she says. “And things are much easier to understand on this side.”
“Thanks, Mamma.”
“You’re welcome. And I’m glad you called. Do it more often.”
I agree, and we say our good-byes, and when we hang up, I know exactly what I want to do today. It’s officially November now, and I graduate in mid-December. If that’s all I have left, I’m going to use every day I have. Maybe I am wrong. But short of tacking on another major, it’s too late to change my plans completely. I want to check another item off my list, but I can’t do it alone.
Chapter 12
Mateo
There’s no feeling quite as miserable as returning to a locker room after losing a game. A home game, too, which makes it twice as bad. We went into this game 6–1 on the season, and this was supposed to be the game where we officially surpassed last season’s 6–6 record. And even though 6–2 isn’t bad, there’s this air of uncertainty in the locker room. This deep unspoken fear that everything is going to go downhill moving forward, that maybe we’ll fall short again and again until we end up right back at 6–6 for the second year in a row.
I shed my uniform, and Brookes lets out a low whistle beside me. There’s a massive purple-black bruise already forming on my left hip and up onto my side.
“That hit at the top of the half?” he asks, and I nod. He shakes his head. “I knew it. That one looked brutal.”
I shrug. “Could have been worse. A few inches over and that second dude’s knee could have landed in a much more vulnerable place.”
It had been my best catch of the game. I’d had to jump high to get it, and I had two guys trying to block it. We all collided in the air, and we ended up hitting the ground in a tangle of limbs with me on the bottom.
The coaches infiltrate the room then, and Coach Cole steps up into his usual place beside the whiteboard.
“You all know what I’m going to say,” he begins, “but I’ve got to say it anyway. We played a sloppy first half. I’m sure we could blame it on the fact that we had last week off, and that some of you, no doubt, overindulged last night on Halloween. Whatever the reason, it was not up to par with what this team is capable of.”
There’s one reason he doesn’t name, but I have no doubt that most of the team is thinking of it.
Jake Carter.
Formerly one of our team leaders, a senior lineman, and one of our defense’s biggest assets. He’s the dude that assaulted Stella at a party back in September. He hasn’t been suspended by the university, nor has the district attorney brought him up on charges, but Coach got the athletic director to permanently suspend him from the team. Our defense is a hell of a lot weaker without him, but the majority of the team doesn’t give a fuck.
There is the minority, though. Guys I’ve heard grumbling about Coach’s decision. None of them have dared to outright mention Stella’s name yet. They’re not that stupid, but you can tell they talk about it when those of us that know Stella are not around. It doesn’t help that she refuses to talk about it, to set the record straight. Hell, I don’t even really know exactly what happened, I just know it was bad. But without the facts, I hear people making up their own, and I don’t like it. Not at all.
Doesn’t help that the dick is still on campus. I’m sure he’s spreading his own version of the story all over the place.
When I tune back into Coach’s speech, he’s on to the second half now, where we finally got our asses into gear. Unfortunately, it was too late. We got close, within three points, but we just couldn’t make it all the way back in time.
“Whatever the hell happened tonight, I expect it to be out of your system. And next week, we come back looking like the team I know you are. Other people may underestimate us, but we never let that be an excuse for doing less than our best. I don’t underestimate you. I know just how much effort and sweat and strength and heart you can give me. And I swear to God, the next time we step on this field, I better get it. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” we answer.
“I believe in this team. I believe we can surprise people. That we can be more than the small team in this conference. I believe that each and every one of you is so much more than people ever give you credit for. I’ve coached a lot of players. I’ve coached guys who have gone pro and guys who haven’t, and I can tell you that the biggest difference between those groups is that those who go on to a future in this game know how to rise to the occasion. They know how to show up. And they do it when they’re tired. They do it when they’re hurting. They do it when they’re distracted. They know how to put all that aside and play. And that’s what I need from you all. That’s what I expect from you.”