Page 14 of Hard Count
“Georgia has your run game figured out. You might as well make a billboard advertisement at this point. Simmons knows who Nash is passing the ball to because of the way—”
“He moves his hands. I know.”
“You do?” I question with a mix of surprise and confusion.
He passes me back my report. I stare at it dumbfounded before looking back at my dad. “Nash and I have discussed it. He came to me with a few new ideas. We’re going to start implementing it at practice today.” He stands abruptly. “Which is starting in fifteen minutes. I need to get out to the field.”
Nash already brought this up to him? Is this what he was doing in his office just now or did they talk about it after I left our awkward dinner? It doesn’t matter. I knew this was a possibility. I told him to leave me out of it. I guess I didn’t expect it to sting this much to have someone take me seriously only to pass my ideas off as their own.
“There’s more.” I stand and block his exit. “I can help. Back home—”
“Your home is here,” he says, cutting me off. The finality in his tone catches me off guard.
“For now. My point is I helped turn that team around with my analysis before the game and making immediate corrections after each play.”
His face softens and for a moment I see the man who put my needs before his teams. I see my dad who used to let me stand on the sideline even if it was only to placate a seven year old kid. “You know I’ve always loved your enthusiasm for football. But you have your studies, graduation, and your own career to focus on.”
“This is what I want to do.” I shake the papers that are now slightly crumpled from my tight grip. “This is what I’m good at.”
“Drew,” he begins with a hint of empathy in his tone. He sighs when we’re interrupted with a slight rap on the door. “It was good to see you today,” he says, essentially brushing me off. “You should stop by more often. We’ll have a celebratorydinner this weekend after we win the game.” His body moves toward mine but hesitates and ultimately decides to leave me alone in his office with a quick nod.
Sucking in a ragged breath and swallowing down the lump of rejection in my throat, I walk out the door with the delusion I can leave the building as undetected as I entered. I hate myself for letting him get to me like this.
I could lie and say I’m upset because Nash got the credit. But it isn’t the credit I want. I don’t care if my name is on the paper. It’s the lack of recognition from one man that hurts me the most. It’s the complete dismissal from my dad because he already has it covered.
It’s being excluded when I’m so desperate for him to see me again. He has the power to say yes to me. I’m standing in front of my dad asking to be a part of something important in his life and he keeps pushing me aside. Why?
Maybe he's right. I need to focus on my career and that's football whether he likes it or not. If he doesn't want to help, I'll find another way. Tonight I'll come up with a new plan to get more experience on my resume. I stomp down the hallway, passing players heading in the opposite direction toward the football field. I’m hoping Nash is the leader I think he is—first on the field and the last to leave—and I’ll be spared from running into him again.
The only way to get to the parking lot is to pass the locker room. My eyes shift down to the report I painstakingly spent hours putting together. Even down to the minor details likepicking out the perfect font. Do you know how long it takes to choose a font? Ages.
Anger and frustration simmer within me as I walk toward the locker room. If I was feeling more impulsive, I might check inside to see if Nash is lingering behind and give him a piece of my mind. Instead, I walk with my head held high.
As tempting as it is, I wouldn’t stoop low enough to help another college team. I’ve studied the Knights, and Nash, too intently. It would feel like cheating. Almost like working with the enemy. My college in Florida was a division two school. Another reason I’m sure my dad felt it was necessary for me to move back here.
Maybe my old high school would be interested? It’s only fifteen minutes away. I could easily get to their practices every day and games on Friday nights if they agree. I round the corner with a little bounce in my step as my brain runs wild with ideas on how I could potentially help some of the players at Westfield Prep get scholarships. While we do have sports at the school, it’s more notoriously known for their music and art programs.
“Oomph,” I grunt in pain when I run into what feels like a brick wall. Large hands on my biceps hold me steady with a light grip.
“Are you okay?” a deep, soothing voice rumbles from above my head. Stretching my neck I realize I’ve run smack into Eli.
I wobble slightly and put a hand on his chest. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” I smile sheepishly and shrug, makinghim chuckle. He’s over six feet tall and more than two hundred pounds. He’s hard to miss.
“You ready, man?” Nash asks from behind him. He strides over in a cut-off shirt and low slung gym shorts that put his abdominal and oblique muscles on display. I can already feel the saliva building up in my mouth.You’re mad at him, remember?“Drew?” His eyes flick back and forth between me and his friend. “What’s going on here?”
I realize my hand is still glued to Eli’s chest and how close we’re standing. I step back and his arms fall to his side. “Nothing. Have a good practice,” I say, more to Eli than Nash. I have nothing to say to him right now. He can kiss my ass.No he can’t.I fear I would enjoy that too much. I dart in between them, my left shoulder accidentally bumping into Nash’s arm. “Sorry,” I mumble but keep going.
“Drew, hold up.”
Letting out a breath, I slow my steps and allow him to catch up to me. “You’re going to be late.”
“I’m already late. How did it go with your dad?”
“Not how I hoped.”
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?” he asks with a wince, as if he’s realizing he’s overstepped or offered something he shouldn’t have.
“I think you’ve done enough. I only have myself to blame. I told you to leave me out of things,” I mumble, my frustrations slowly building into an inferno. “And I was right. It worked.”
