Mr. Fiancé(122)

"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?"