I try to shake it off, but I know it’s affecting me every play. By the end of practice, I’m convinced Coach Marcus is going to realize what a huge mistake he’s made and tell me there’s no way I’m going to be playing on Saturday. No senior football player should look this bad on the field.

Coach Marcus blows the whistle three times. “Bring it in, boys!”

We hustle to the sidelines, grab water bottles from the student trainers, and take a knee.

“It’s going to be a busy couple of weeks, boys. Academics are always your first priority, of course, but there are a ton of booster activities coming up. Remember, all of these extras might seem like they have nothing to do with football, but they’re about raising money for the program and improving our connection to the community. I expect to have your support and to see your faces at as many of these activities as you can. Talk to me privately if you have conflicts, and we’ll see what we can work out,” he says.

He mentions that tonight is Bingo Night at Crossroads Church and Thursday night is Football Family Dinner, plus a few after-school football clinics with the peewee league are on the calendar for next week. “And don’t forget that you are all expected to attend the Guardettes’ ’80s-themed dance on Friday night. Not only will you all attend, but you will behave like gentlemen,” he says, while a few of the players elbow one another and laugh. “No funny stuff. And you know I will hear about it if there is. Coach Andrews will be there in his finest acid-wash denim and Bon Jovi T-shirt, so you all better be on your best behavior.” He laughs, elbowing Coach Andrews in the gut.

He dismisses us to the locker room, and I watch Julian trot off the field with most of the offensive line. There’s a pull in my chest as I watch him walk away without me. Three years ago, we would’ve walked off the field together. I gather my things, wondering if part of the reason I loved football was because of Julian. So much of today didn’t feel right, and I can’t tell how much of it is related to him.

“Elijah, let’s talk.” Coach Marcus claps me on the shoulder.

“Yes, sir?” Here it comes. I know it. I’m a huge disappointment and he made a mistake.

“How’d you feel out there?” he asks as we start walking toward the locker room, as slow as molasses in January.

“A little rusty, sir. I’ll try harder,” I say, hoping he gives me another shot before cutting me out completely. Maybe I should make a stronger plea.