Free Web NovelChapter 22: Chapter 22 - Captain Zac
Zac’s POV
Zac got to school before sunrise, which was usually the kind of thing adults called discipline and players called bullshit.
The locker room already smelled like wet grass, old pads, body spray, and somebody’s breakfast burrito. Music blasted from Mason’s speaker on the bench, loud enough to make the metal lockers vibrate. Two freshmen were arguing over whose cleats were under whose towel. Somebody in the back yelled that the left sink was clogged again.
Normal Monday morning.
Zac dropped his bag in front of his locker and sat down.
He had slept maybe two hours.
Maybe.
He never slept well anyway, but Saturday night had made it worse.
Raven’s Point kept coming back in pieces. Roxie sitting in his jacket. Roxie... Roxie... Roxie....
Zac shoved the thought down and pulled his practice shirt over his head.
"Prescott looks dead," Mason announced from two lockers down.
"Prescott always looks pretty," someone said.
"Pretty dead."
A couple guys laughed.
Zac reached into his locker. "You all done?"
"No," Dylan said. "I’m just getting started. You disappeared Saturday night."
Zac grabbed his tape. "I left."
"Yeah, genius, we noticed. With Roxie."
A few heads turned.
Zac kept wrapping his wrist. "And?"
Mason leaned forward from the bench. "And the captain of the football team leaves a party with the captain of the cheer squad after seven minutes in heaven? Come on, bro. That’s basically school news."
Someone near the showers made a kissing sound.
Another guy laughed. "Pantry Prescott."
"Don’t call me that," Zac said.
Dylan’s eyes stayed on him. "You were gone a while." freёwebnovel.com
"I drove."
"To where?"
Zac looked up. "You writing a report?"
The locker room made low noises, the kind guys made when something got interesting.
Dylan lifted one shoulder. "Just curious."
"Be curious somewhere else."
Mason grinned. "Damn. Roxie got him trained already."
The room laughed harder.
Zac shut his locker
The sound cracked through the locker room and cut the laughter in half.
Mason’s grin dropped.
Dylan went still.
Zac turned enough to look at the room, not smiling, not playing along, not giving them the easy version of him they expected before seven in the morning.
"I said drop it."
Nobody answered.
The speaker kept blasting like an idiot.
A freshman near the sinks pretended to tie his cleat.
Dylan held Zac’s stare from the next bench. His mouth still had that almost-smile on it, but his eyes were sharper now.
"Touchy," Dylan said.
Zac stepped closer. "You need me to say it again?"
The room went quiet enough for someone’s phone to buzz against a locker.
Dylan watched him for a beat too long.
Then he leaned back. "Nah. I heard you."
Someone muttered from the back, "Captain woke up pissed."
Zac heard it.
Coach Hayes slammed the locker room door open before anyone started again.
"Film room. Now."
Every player groaned at once.
Coach pointed toward the hallway. "Groan again and I’ll make you run until your ancestors feel it."
The room moved.
Fast.
Guys grabbed notebooks, water bottles, hoodies, and whatever dignity they had left. Monday film before class was punishment. Nobody was awake. Nobody smelled good. Nobody wanted to watch himself screw up in high definition before first period.
They crammed into the small film room beside the weight room. Bodies filled the chairs, the floor, and the back wall. Someone complained there was no air. Someone told him to stop breathing then. A lineman sat on another lineman’s backpack and nearly started a fight.
Zac took the front row.
Coach stood near the screen with the remote in one hand and coffee in the other. The projector flashed on.
Friday’s game.
Their win.
Coach had the face he wore when winning annoyed him more than losing.
That was never good.
"Anybody here think we played good football Friday?" Coach asked.
No one answered.
Coach nodded. "Smart. At least one brain cell survived the weekend."
Dylan coughed into his fist.
Coach’s eyes cut to him. "Something funny?"
"No, sir."
"Good. Because this?" Coach pointed the remote at the frozen play on the screen. "This is why the Eagles are licking their chops right now."
The room shifted.
Eagles.
Rivalry week was still two weeks away, but everyone already felt it. Fairmont was strong this year. Bigger line. Faster defense. New quarterback transfer who had been turning average teams into highlight reels since week one.
Coach Hayes hit play.
The screen showed the third quarter from Friday. Zac took the snap, dropped back, rolled right, and threw a clean pass to the sideline.
A good play.
Then the camera showed the left side of the line.
Their tackle completely missed the edge rusher.
Coach paused the video right as Zac got hit after the throw.
"Tell me what happened."
Their left tackle sank lower in his chair. "I overset."
"You overset?" Coach repeated. "You opened the damn front door and invited him in."
A few guys laughed under their breath.
Coach turned his head. "Laugh now. When Prescott gets folded in half against Fairmont, you can explain to the whole town why our offense died."
The room went dead. ƒrēewebnovel.com
Zac stared at the screen.
There he was, frozen mid-hit, shoulder twisted, helmet snapping back.
He remembered that hit. He had popped up fast because that was what everyone expected. Get up before the defense can celebrate. Get up before your line feels guilty. Get up before the crowd realizes it hurt.
Clap once.
Call the next play.
Act fine.
Coach hit play again.
Another clip.
Missed tackle on defense. A linebacker dove too high and got dragged six yards before the safety cleaned it up.
Pause.
"What is this?" Coach asked.
The linebacker mumbled, "Bad angle."
Coach stared at him. "Bad angle? You hugged him like you haven’t seen your boyfriend in a year."
The room laughed.
Coach let them have one second before his voice cut through it. "Fairmont’s running back sees that, he’s taking your lunch money. That kid does not fall because you brush his shoulder. He falls because you hit through him. You want to play pretty, join golf."
A player in the back whispered, "Golf gets scholarships too."
Coach’s head snapped up. "Who said that?"
Silence.
"Exactly."
More film.
A stupid block in the back on a punt return.
A dropped pass because the receiver turned upfield before he secured the ball.
A busted coverage that should have been a touchdown if the other team’s quarterback had not thrown like his fingers were asleep.
Then Coach paused on Zac.
Fourth quarter.
Second and seven.
Zac took the snap, saw pressure, and forced the ball into double coverage. It had been caught, barely, because Dylan made a ridiculous grab and saved him from looking stupid.
Coach froze the play before the catch.
Zac sat up before Coach even spoke.
"Prescott."
"Yes, sir."
"What are you doing?"
"Forcing it."
"Why?"
Zac could have said the pocket was collapsing. He could have said the safety rotated late. He could have said he trusted his guy.
All true.
All excuses.
"I got impatient."
Coach finally turned to him. "You got cocky."
The room went still.
Zac took it. "Yes, sir."
"You got cocky because you’re used to being the best athlete on the field."
Nobody moved. Even Mason kept his mouth shut.
Coach stepped closer to the screen. "That works against bad teams. That works against teams who panic when you scramble and throw across your body. That does not work against Fairmont."
The remote clicked against Coach’s palm.
"They have a quarterback who doesn’t panic. They have corners who read eyes. They have a front seven that likes hurting people. You throw that ball in rivalry week, it’s picked. Maybe six the other way. Maybe your season changes because you wanted to be special."
Zac kept his eyes on the screen.
Coach was right.
That was the worst part.
Coach pointed at him. "You’re captain. You touch the ball every snap. You want them calm, you play calm. You want them smart, you play smart. You want them locked in, you show up locked in before anybody else does."
Zac nodded once. "Yes, sir."
Coach held his gaze a little longer.
Zac knew what he saw.
"Again."
The clip rewound.
Zac watched himself make the same bad throw.
Again.
Then again.
By the fourth replay, the room started getting restless. Cleats tapped. Chairs creaked. Someone whispered that Coach was trying to make them fail first period.
Coach paused the film and turned the lights on.
Every player blinked like they had been dragged out of a basement.
"Field. Ten minutes. Helmets only. We’re fixing what I just wasted my morning watching."
The room exploded into movement.
Chairs scraped. Guys shoved each other toward the door. Someone slapped the back of the receiver’s helmet and told him he had hands made of wet soap. The receiver told him to shut his ass up and learn how to block. Two linemen started arguing about who smelled worse, which was brave because both of them smelled illegal.
Zac stood and grabbed his notebook.
Dylan fell into step beside him.
"Coach was in a mood," Dylan said.
"He was right."
"What are you? Saint Zac?"
Zac’s hand twitched.
"So," Dylan said, quieter now. "Roxie."
Zac’s jaw worked once. "What about her?"
"That’s what I’m asking."
"There’s nothing to ask. I went home. Alone."
Zac stopped near the hall.
Dylan stopped too. "Bullshit."
The guys behind them flowed around both of them, still talking, still shoving, still too busy being loud to notice the quiet part of the conversation.
Zac looked at Dylan. "What do you want me to say?"
Dylan’s face stayed easy, but his eyes didn’t. "Something true would be fun."
"Try Netflix."
Finally, Dylan said, "Fine. Keep your secrets."
Zac shifted his notebook under his arm. "Planning to make that a problem?"
Something moved across Dylan’s face.
Quick.
Gone.
Then he smiled like the moment meant nothing. "Depends how interesting they are."
Zac held his stare.
Dylan looked away first.
The hallway outside the locker room was mostly empty. School had not started yet, but the building was waking up. Janitors pushed carts near the office. A few early students drifted toward classrooms with iced coffees and half-dead faces.
Somewhere down the hall, the cheer gym doors were propped open.
Zac heard counts.
Sharp claps.
Sneakers on mats.
His steps slowed before he could stop them.
Five, six, seven, eight.
Roxie’s voice cut through the hallway.
"Again. You’re late on three."
