“That was no good. You had Connors wide open downfield, Julian,” he says as everyone trudges off the field, sweaty and out of breath.

“Yes, sir,” I answer, twisting a little.

“Don’t you do that to us on game day,” he grumbles. “Use your head out there.”

“Yes, sir,” I say again.

I stand by the big fan and grab a water bottle while the defensive coach, Andrews, trots over to Coach Marcus, shaking his head. With the loud fan blowing in my ear, I catch only snippets of their conversation.

“… gotta do something about that left side.” Coach Andrews removes his cap and wipes the sweat from his bald head.

From the few words I manage to hear over the fan, it almost sounds like we’re about to get a new player. Maybe they’re bringing someone up from the junior varsity to help out on that left-side defense. I keep my ear trained to their hushed conversation as I step away from the fan and collect the water bottles my teammates have tossed by the bench.

“We’ll see how it goes tomorrow.” Coach Marcus checks his watch.

Coach Andrews’s eyebrows pinch in the middle of his forehead. “I hope you’re doing the right thing,” he says, shaking his head again and putting his cap back on. The two of them walk toward the locker room.

“Want to throw a few for me?” One of my wide receivers, Nate Connors, taps me on the shoulder. “I want to run a few of the formations I’m having trouble remembering.” He spins a football in his palm.

“I can do that. Maybe we can also have some of the cheerleaders hold up the routes on giant posters during the games.” I grab the ball from his hand and jog away from him, knowing I’ll at least get a punch in the shoulder for that smart-ass remark.

“Jackass,” Nate says. He laughs and catches up to me, indeed giving me a solid punch in the shoulder.

My side burns a little bit while we’re working, but I’m putting it out of my head for a few minutes to help Nate. Especially if I don’t have to worry about getting nailed by a yeti-sized lineman while I throw him a few.

I call a couple of plays and help Nate remember the running routes, tossing some long bombs out to him as he runs toward the end zone. We connect on more than half by the time Nate decides he’s tired.

“Okay, I’ll call the cheerleaders and tell them to stop making posters. I think you’ve got a good handle on the routes,” I tell him as we collect the balls together. The lights overhead buzz in the late-night heat.

“You’re a real peach,” he deadpans with a smirk, throwing the full ball bag over his shoulder. “You think we’re ready for Stephens City?”