Chapter 4 - Tyler Had Been Right Before He Became Cruel
Tyler’s suspension lasted through the rest of practice.
Mine didn’t.
That surprised people.
It surprised me too.
I thought Reed might send me home after learning I had lied by omission.
Instead he handed me a helmet.
“Quarterback room. Ten minutes.”
I didn’t move.
“Am I starting?”
His jaw tightened.
“Today?”
“No.”
“Then say it.”
“Evan.”
“Say it.”
He looked toward the field where players were pretending not to watch.
“You are competing for the job.”
That was the first promise he had actually made me.
I nodded.
“Good.”
Then:
“And the captain band?”
Reed looked at the strip of fabric still in his hand.
I didn’t reach for it.
“That belongs to the team.”
Reed almost argued.
Stopped.
Also good.
Tyler watched practice from outside the facility fence after being told to leave the field.
He could have gone home.
He stayed.
I noticed.
The offense was faster than Northlake’s.
More complicated in some areas.
Simpler in others.
I took second-team reps behind junior quarterback Luke Mercer, who had spent two years waiting for his chance.
Luke shook my hand.
“Welcome to the circus.”
“Sorry about the starter thing.”
He looked at me.
“You didn’t say it.”
“No.”
“But you didn’t correct him fast enough for my taste.”
Fair.
“I’m correcting it now.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
“Then beat me.”
That was football.
Simple compared with everything else.
I played well.
Not brilliantly.
Missed one deep ball.
Late on an out route.
Made a good throw between zones.
The world did not stop because Evan Brooks touched a football again.
That helped.
After practice, I found Tyler still by the fence.
“You stalking me?”
He stared.
“You going to throw me again?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you shove me.”
He almost smiled.
Didn’t.
I stood on the other side of the fence from him.
“You were right about Northlake.”
“Yes.”
“Reed should have listened.”
“Yes.”
“He should have corrected it once Dad told him.”
“Yes.”
“None of that gave you permission to put me into the fence.”
His expression hardened.
“I know.”
The answer came too quickly.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
He looked toward the emptying field.
“Because I saw your name three days ago.”
“How?”
“Equipment sheet.”
That explained nothing confidential.
Players saw names.
Rumors followed.
“I went to Reed.”
“What did he say?”
“That you were coming.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“What did you ask?”
“Why.”
“And?”
Tyler’s mouth tightened.
“He told me to trust him.”
I understood immediately.
That phrase had history.
After the semifinal loss, Tyler wanted Reed to file a formal conference complaint about signal theft.
Reed refused without evidence.
“Trust me. We’re handling it.”
Then nothing publicly happened.
Months passed.
Tyler’s accusation became locker-room embarrassment.
Now the quarterback from that game appeared on Hartwell’s roster.
Tyler asked why.
Again:
Trust me.
“You thought he was hiding something.”
“He was.”
“Yes.”
“You.”
I nodded.
“That didn’t make me guilty of whatever you imagined.”
“I know.”
“Then why call me charity boy?”
He looked embarrassed now.
Not enough to excuse it.
Enough to make the answer interesting.
“Because I heard you were coming in on emergency aid.”
“My athletic scholarship doesn’t transfer automatically.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew I wasn’t rich, so you picked the part that would make everybody understand where I ranked.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Tyler looked at the grass.
“Because once Reed introduced you, I knew the room would belong to you.”
That was the first truly honest answer he had given me.
He had wanted to define me first.
Before Coach could.
Before the team could.
Before the old game could become a new story where Tyler was the bitter captain and I was the brave transfer.
So he made me the charity case.
The outsider.
The joke.
I said:
“You were afraid he’d make me credible by making you irrelevant.”
Tyler looked at me.
“That sound familiar?”
Unfortunately, yes.
My father had been afraid telling the full truth about me would make my walkout irrelevant.
Reed had been afraid admitting Hartwell got outcoached after the theft would make his own mistakes too visible.
Everyone kept trying to control which truth arrived first.
Tyler asked:
“You want to know why I stayed after Reed suspended me?”
“Sure.”
“I wanted to see if you could actually play.”
“And?”
“You’re okay.”
I laughed.
“Thank you.”
“Luke was better today.”
“He was.”
That surprised him.
“You admit that?”
“It happened.”
Tyler looked toward the field.
Then:
“Reed won’t like that.”
“Why?”
“Because he already told boosters he found his quarterback.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
Tyler looked at me.
“You really didn’t know.”
No.
I didn’t.
One week before I arrived, Reed had attended a donor dinner.
A booster asked about the quarterback situation.
Reed reportedly said:
“We’ve got our guy coming in.”
Not my name.
Enough.
Tyler heard it from his father, who attended.
Luke Mercer had heard nothing.
I looked toward the football facility.
Coach Reed had told me I would compete.
Told Luke the job remained open.
Then told donors he already had his guy.
May you like
Tyler may have been the loudest person on the field.
He wasn’t the only one deciding outcomes before people finished earning them.
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