Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 605(@200wpm)___ 484(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
“That’s not it, Coach. I didn’t do anything for attention last night.”
“You do everything for attention, Luca. Don’t you see?” He exhales. “Look, I’m sympathetic to the heavy weight you’ve always had to carry around, okay? I’m sure it’s a mindfuck being Roman Maguire’s little brother who doesn’t measure up. That’s a lot of pressure to deal with. But sympathy aside, your actions have consequences.”
“I know they do.”
Coach stares me down. “Let me guess: You figured out early on you didn’t have anything close to Roman’s cannon of an arm, so you decided not to play at the quarterback position like him so that nobody could ever compare you directly and figure out you weren’t up to snuff. Am I warm?”
Holy shit. Is he psychic?
“In fact, I’m betting you wanted to get yourself so far removed from any conceivable comparisons to your big brother, you decided to play on the other side of the damned ball, even though you had Roman Maguire right there in your own goddamned home to coach and guide you. But even so, those comparisons kept coming, so you turned yourself into a clown, since Roman’s known for being focused and serious.” He leans forward toward my stunned face. “Does any of this ring a bell for you, son?”
I can’t respond. Can’t even breathe. It doesn’t ring a bell for me. It’s ringing a sled’s worth of jingle bells.
“Well, Luca, I’m sorry to inform you there’s only one way to outrun the baggage of your big name and shut the haters up, once and for all: You put your nose down, work that much harder, and prove you’re worthy of your damned name through what you do on the playing field. Period, end of story.”
It’s a watershed moment for me. Not only in relation to football, but in relation to life. Suddenly, every choice I’ve ever made, from all the bizarre haircuts I always wanted as a kid to my switch to a defensive position to my ultimate choice to attend Nebraska instead of Michigan, even though Roman said he could pull some strings and get them to change their minds about me and my suck-ass grades, flash through my head like a ticker tape.
Coach is right. About all of it.
Rendered speechless and emotional by my epiphany, I hang my head and inhale deeply to keep my eyes from tearing up.
“You’ve tied my hands, Luca. Moriarty’s not going anywhere. At least for the duration of his new contract. And last night, you made it very clear to me and everyone else you can’t be his teammate.”
I can’t believe I’ve messed up this badly. I look up and meet his blue eyes, and it’s clear this is the end of the road for me. His mind is made up, even though he’s sad about it. And you know what? He’s making the right call. Actions have consequences, and this is mine. After all the time I’ve spent in this great man’s presence, it’s no wonder his daughter turned out to be the badass she is. This man is a towering figure to me, and he always will be, despite how badly I’ve screwed up and lost his respect. “I understand, Coach. Thank you for turning on the light bulb inside my head before showing me the door. You didn’t have to do that, and I’m grateful for it.” I stand, feeling genuinely grateful to him, even though I’m gutted. “It’s been an honor and a privilege to play for the legendary Coach Parker, if only briefly. You’re one of the greats, Coach, and I’ll always be rooting for you and your team from afar.”
I extend my hand, but Coach doesn’t take it.
“‘Your team?’” he echoes. “‘From afar’? Luca, it’s your team, too.”
I stare at him blankly. Is he being metaphorical? As in, he’ll always consider me an honorary Mastodon?
Coach grins. “You’ve made the practice squad, Luca. By the hairs on your chinny-chin-chin.”
I reflexively grab my chin as it hangs in shock. He’s not cutting me? I mean, yes, he is, in that I didn’t make the active roster. But he’s keeping me alive, albeit on life support.
I can’t believe it. Six weeks ago, I would have rather died than play on a practice squad, especially for this perennial loser of a team. But I’m a different person now. A deeply humbled one. And this version of me is supremely grateful to get one more chance to snatch victory out of the gaping jaws of defeat.
“I didn’t tell you about the practice squad when you first sat down?”
“No, sir. You most certainly didn’t.”
“Huh. I thought I did. Guess it slipped my mind.”
Coach’s wicked smirk tells me he withheld that rather large detail from me until the last second on purpose. Almost certainly to maximize my pain and anguish. Or hell, for all I know, he wasn’t completely certain what to do with me till the very last second, till he became convinced I was genuinely contrite and capable of change. Suddenly, he reminds me so much of Chelsea, I want to hurtle myself across the man’s large desk and bear-hug him.