Josh, who probably has a hundred and twenty pounds and five inches on Coach, turns his head, and I get it. I wouldn’t want anyone screaming in my face either.

I jog closer, pulling off my helmet. “That was my⁠—”

“You stay out of it,” he fumes at me before turning back to Josh. “And you lazy, piece of shit. You do your job. It’s this or nothing. A dumbass like you wouldn’t be able to get hired behind the counter at McDonalds.”

Josh still looks away, keeping his hands on his hips.

“Got a problem with your hearing, Josh?”

When Coach reaches up, tugging on Josh’s face mask, all hell breaks loose during a fucking open practice with kids and media and my wife watching.

The hook of Coach’s fingers on Josh’s face mask comes off easily, but he doesn’t back down, not when other coaching staff tries to pull him away or when I step between my center and him. “That was on me,” I say. “Not him.”

Coach continues seething. “Move out of the way, Fitzy. Josh, get on the bench, you’re done taking reps today. And let me tell you something, if you don’t get your fat ass in shape tomorrow, you’ll be put on the reserves, and I’ll find a guy younger with faster hands who wants to play.”

I look to Josh, who doesn’t walk to the bench. He walks around it and to the locker room, carrying his helmet pressed into his side.

“You can’t threaten to cut your starting center, who’s snapped the ball for longer than you or I have been here, when it was my mistake.” I reach down, grabbing Coach’s clipboard he threw.

Beyond Coach, I get a glimpse of Heath who has intercepted Josh and given him a pat on the back.

“What the hell is with you?” I press Foller. “That was on me.”

“Oh. It was on you. Day one and we’re already fumbling off the snap during a play you idiots should be able to run with your fucking eyes closed.”

Even yards away, I feel Heath turn.

I lower my voice and motion toward the bleachers. “There are kids here.”

Coach follows my trail, and then he blows the whistle again, right in my face before turning to one of the assistant coaches. “Get defense out here, and let’s talk zone coverage. Clear those people off the bleachers. Offense doesn’t want to work on the field. Let them run on it.”

“Are you kidding me?” I hiss. “They don’t need to run, they need to play.”

“Are you coaching me, Fitzy? Why? Wifey is in the stands today, and you want to show her you got your big boy tights on?”