Page 90 of When You Wish Upon a Wideout

the slow break

Dear Mom,

I wish I could tell you that I’m basking in love right now, that life is a fairy tale, and I’ve found my Prince Charming. I wish I could tell you that I’m constantly dreaming of that happily ever after, of what life for Beau and me looks like down the line. We’ll have kids, definitely (but when I said down the line, I meant WAY down the line). I hope all boys because it makes me smile imagining him running around with a gaggle of shaggy brown-haired rug rats just like him trying to explain an air raid offense.

But all I have to tell you right now is that over the past few days, I’ve learned that life can go from impossibly high to impossibly low all over a few tenths of a second.

Beau wakes up early now that the season is over—like 5:00 AM early. Some days he goes on a long run—I don’t even offer to join him because I hate running, and I know I won’t be able to keep up. But other days, like this morning, Beau goes to school, sprinting and training on the empty field.

“4.83,” I called out when he crossed in front of me. I had taken one of Dad’s stopwatches because he asked me to come and time his 40-yard dash.

Beau’s sprint slowed to a jog and then a walk as he continued down the field. “Fuck,” he yelled, his hands pressed to the top of his head. “Too slow.”

If I wasn’t a football coach’s daughter, I would’ve disagreed. But I know Beau wants his 40 to average around at least 4.5 seconds, if not faster. But even though I know that, I tried to make him feel better about it.

“We should do this first thing. Not last. You’re tired.”

Beau scoffed.

“What?” I asked. “We’ve been here an hour. It’s not a fair test—”

“You know who won’t care if I’m tired? Coach Naber at FSU.” He took a few deep breaths. “Let’s do it again.”

“Beau, come on.” He continued to stalk away from me to the goal line. “You only need to worry about staying in shape.”

He spun back toward me on his heel. “No, I need to worry about staying inplayingshape. That’s what you don’t understand. You think all the shit I did here”—Beau paused, motioning to the field—“is going to hold up in Tallahassee? It’s not. I’ve got to compete with bigger and stronger guys if I’m going to start.”

“You might do those things andstillnot start,” I called out to him, and immediately regret laced my mouth, but I continued—because Iama football coach’s daughter, and I know how this goes, Mom. Guys from all over the country—the best of their high schools—suddenly go to a Division-I school and realize they’re no longer the big fish in the small pond. They’re a guppy in the freaking ocean.

“You have to be realistic, Beau.”

Beau laughed. “You telling me to be realistic? That’s funny coming from the girl who still makes wishes on stars and hopes they come true.”

My mouth turned into a downward pout immediately, but if Beau noticed, he didn’t seem to care.

“So, you don’t think I can start?” Beau asked, his voice twinged with a harsh laugh, and I knew, judging by the way his hands sat on his hips and the wicked look on his face, he was taunting me. “What do you know about college ball?”

I pursed my lips together. “Nothing,” I admitted.

“That’s what I thought.” Beau pointed. “Stand there and time me.”

I made no effort to move to where Beau wanted me to go because even though I love him, he was being a total asshole.

“I know that you’re too slow to drop into the break. That’s because you’re tall, I get it. But you turn your shoulder and hip before you drop right into the defensive back on your ass.” Beau narrowed his eyes at me. “Almost every interception you gave up was because of that, not because of you being too slow.” I lifted the stopwatch from my neck and stomped over to him, slamming it into his chest. “So, stop worrying about shaving three-tenths of a second off your 40 when you’retired, and keep your body straight and your eyes up.”

I turned and walked off, each step quicker than the last. I could hear Beau call my name, but I kept walking. And when I hit the parking lot, it was a jog. When I got to the sidewalk, I ran all the way home.

Dad was making coffee when I walked in, my cheeks red and chapped from the chilly morning. He took a deep breath. “You better have slept in your own bed last night,” he said.

“I did.” I wanted to add out of spite that Ialwayswill, but it would’ve been wasted on Dad.

“Where were you?”

“Withyourwideout,” I told Dad, pushing past him to pour myself coffee.

Dad wrinkled his nose. “What were you doing with him this early in the morning?”

“Whatever it was, it was the last time.” I poured steaming hot coffee into a mug. “He’s a know it all. You know, you should look at film with him. Most of those passes you thought might be short from your QB? He gives himself up to easily before the drop.” I took too big of a sip of my coffee and burned my tongue, cursing under my breath.

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