Page 1 of Hard Count
1
NASH
END OF JULY – SUMMER FOOTBALL CAMP
Blinking a few times, my eyes begin to adjust to the dim lighting inside O’ Malley’s Bar and Grill. It’s quite the contrast to the blinding summer sunshine I’ve become accustomed to over the last few weeks since two-a-day practices have started back up.
O’ Malley’s is a small dive bar adjacent to one of the hotels in town. It's not much to look at. Dark wood paneled walls and a row of empty tables on one side of the room and an L-shaped bar on the other.
In a few weeks the hotel, along with every other one in town, will be overbooked and the bar will be crowded with parents happily sending their kids off to college. Right now it’s just the way I like it. Empty except for a few suits at one end of the bar and a blonde woman, possibly around my age, sitting smack in the middle. It’s hard to tell how old she is with the ball cap she’s hidden herself under.
The bartender and the suits are in what appears to be a tense conversation. The man on the right points to the television with an irritated look on his face. I glance at the screen as I pass and see it’s a clip from one of my games last year.Fucking fantastic. It’s almost enough to make me turn around and find another place to unwind.
I don’t need a reminder of how shitty I played last season. I’m well aware. Taking a seat at the opposite end of the bar from the suits, I signal the bartender for a drink.
“What can I get you?” he asks, taking my ID I’m holding between my fingers.
“I’ll take whatever light beer you have on tap and a menu,” I reply. He nods and hands me back my license. I pull out my phone and scroll through my text messages hoping it will drown out the guys at the other end of the bar talking about the game. I came here to forget about that part of my life for an hour or so.
Are they even from Montgomery? Why are they so invested in how well the Newhouse Knights are playing if they’re on a business trip and passing through town?
The bartender drops off my beer and I order a cheeseburger and a salad with grilled chicken. I should forget the burger and double up on the chicken now that practices have picked up and we’re getting closer to our first game day. I’ll worry about that later. Burgers are elite and in a food group of their own.
The girl beside me mumbles something to herself while watching the game. All I manage to catch is the word idiot.She can’t be talking about me, right? Do I even want to risk engaging with her? It’s tempting.She’s a little tempting.She keeps tugging on the bill of her hat like she’s concealing something other than her pretty face.
Her long, toned legs peek out of a pair of pale green bicycle shorts. An oversized crewneck sweatshirt consumes her body and hangs off her shoulder. Her sneakers are worn which tells me she doesn’t just look like she came from the gym. She probably did.
She’s focusing hard on the television. Meanwhile I can’t keep my attention off of her. She scoffs and mutters more under her breath. I glance at the big screen hanging in the middle of the wall behind the bar. Coach Prescott is beinginterviewed after one of our practices from earlier this week. Her lips purse and I bet if I could see her eyes they would be glaring into the glass.
The bartender drops off my food and pours me another beer. I pick at my salad some before tearing into my cheeseburger while eavesdropping on the conversations at the end of the bar. Thankfully the broadcast has switched from a Newhouse game to SoCal. I can breathe a little easier now that the topic of conversation has moved on from me but it doesn’t remove the weight off my back.
Ever since I became the starting quarterback last year I’ve felt an immense amount of pressure to be the perfect leader. Football is a team sport. We all have a job to do and mine is to be the captain of the ship. I’m at the helm and I feel like I’m sinking.
I was given the starting position when our first string quarterback was injured. I didn’t earn the job. It became mine by default and I wasn’t prepared for it. At least that’s what I tell myself. My friends would say it should have been mine from the moment I was handed a Newhouse jersey with my name on the back.
My high school stats would back up their statement. My college stats are good enough to rank me near the top but not good enough to feel like I deserve to be there. I don’t know if it’s because I came in mid season or if I’m just not talented enough to play at this level. Either way it has me fucked in the head.
Every practice is a mental battle before I even step on the field.
“Riley Sanders is the best quarterback in college football,” the suit on the right says. He’s not wrong. He took over for Ace Hendriks when he got drafted into the NFL two years ago. Ace was a top draft pick and rookie of the year along with his high school teammate, Nick Thorne.
“Sanders,” the blonde beside me scoffs, drawing the attention of both men.
“Do you have something to say, little girl?” he asks. I’ll call him asshole number one from now on since he’s made himself known. “What, is he not good looking enough for you?” A smirk spreads over his face while his friend snickers at the dig he made.
She expels a breath of air and gingerly wipes her fingers, that are currently covered in sweet barbeque sauce, on hernapkin. Her head spins on them faster than the girl in theExorcist. I shudder thinking about it.
Her ponytail whips in the air granting me a whiff of citrus and orange blossoms. “Does Sanders have a good passer rating? Yes. That’s because he knows he’s only good at throwing the ball to the right side of the field if he wants to maintain his accuracy. But that doesn’t mean he’s the best quarterback in the conference.”
“There’s no way to know if that’s true,” Asshole one says with narrowed eyes.
“It’s true because his stats say it’s true. If you breakdown every passing play he made last year, it will show ninety percent of them were thrown to the right side of the field. Of those throws, he made ninety-eight percent of them. His accuracy to the left is only forty-nine percent.” She casually takes a sip of her drink.
“Or maybe he learned to gel with his team. Every team has kinks to work out,” Asshole two counters a little flustered. Of course he would ignore the fact she completely schooled him with those stats.
“We could go with that.” She shrugs. “Or he finally realized he’s weak when he throws to any receiver down the left side. The fact other teams haven’t figured this out yet is embarrassing,” she grumbles.
I snag my phone off the bar and make a note to pull up tape on Boston and see if her information is accurate. If she’s right, we need to change up our defense and force Sandersto throw to receivers on the left side. This little tip has the potential to upset their entire offensive strategy.
