The Captain's Dirty Little Secret

Chapter 24: Chapter 24 - Prescott

Coach Hayes did not yell on the walk back.

That was how everyone knew Zac and Kyle were screwed.

The whole team followed behind them in a nervous pack, helmets under their arms, cleats scraping against the concrete. Nobody joked. They just moved in line, quiet for once, like noise might make Hayes remember more ways to punish them.

At the locker room, Coach Hayes opened the door and pointed inside. "Corners."

The team moved fast.

Everyone squeezed near the sinks and lockers, trying to disappear into the walls. Kyle stood in the middle of the room with his lip split, breathing hard through his nose. Zac stood a few feet away from him, jaw aching, knuckles sore, still angry enough to swing again if Kyle opened his mouth.

Coach Hayes shut the door.

Everyone flinched.

He looked at Kyle, then at Zac. "Explain."

Kyle wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "He shoved me."

Zac laughed once. "You hit me."

"You shoved me first."

"You ran your mouth first."

Coach Hayes stepped between them and looked at Zac hard. "You are the captain, and you threw the first shove over what? Hurt feelings?"

Zac’s jaw worked, but he kept his mouth shut.

Hayes turned to Kyle. "And you missed your job, got corrected, and snapped?"

Kyle looked at the floor. "Yes, sir."

"Oh, he knows words now."

A few guys looked down fast.

Coach Hayes stepped back. Usually he had jokes. Bad jokes. The kind that made the team groan and made him threaten laps for disrespecting comedy. Angry Hayes was different. He didn’t need to shout. He just got quiet, and the whole room remembered he could ruin their week with one sentence.

"You two want to fight, go do it behind a gas station like idiots," he said. "On my field, you fight the team across from you."

He pointed at Kyle. "You are benched first quarter Friday."

Kyle’s head snapped up. "Coach—"

Hayes pointed at Zac. "You too."

The locker room reacted before it could stop itself.

"What?"

"First quarter?"

"Coach, come on."

Hayes turned toward the room. "Anybody else want to sit?"

Silence.

Zac stared at the floor. First quarter against the Bears should not kill them. The Bears were weak. Everybody knew it. But if they struggled, the whole school would know why, and by lunch Monday, people would already be talking about the Eagles like Briarwick had cracked before rivalry week even started.

Hayes lowered his voice. "You boys embarrassed this team today. Tomorrow, you stay after practice. You run until I get tired of watching you suffer."

Nobody moved.

"Shower. Change. Leave before I remember more punishments."

The room came back to life slowly. Lockers opened. Towels moved. Someone whispered and stopped when Zac looked over.

Kyle walked past and clipped Zac’s shoulder.

Zac turned.

Dylan stepped in fast. "Don’t."

"He gets what he deserves," Zac said.

"And you’re benched already. You want to collect suspensions too?"

Zac shoved his locker open hard enough that the metal rattled.

By the time Zac got home, the bruise on his jaw had settled into a dull ache.

The Prescott house looked the way it always did from the driveway, with the clean porch, trimmed hedges, bright windows, and every inch arranged for people passing by to think the family inside had never raised their voices once. Zac sat in the car for a moment with his hand still on the wheel because he already knew how this would go.

The front door opened before he reached the steps.

"Zac!"

Mia, his nine-year-old sister, ran out in socks with her hair half out of her braid and her face lit up like he had been gone for a year instead of a school day. He dropped his bag just in time to catch her when she jumped at him.

"You’re nine," he said, holding her with one arm. "You can’t keep attacking people."

"Yes, I can." She squeezed his neck. "You’re late."

He smiled despite himself.

At least someone waited for him.

He carried her up the steps even though she was getting too heavy and would absolutely deny it if he said so. She leaned back, squinted at his face, and pointed at his jaw. "What happened there?"

"Nothing."

"It’s black."

"It’s the porch light."

Mia looked up at the porch light, then back at him. "The porch light punched you?"

Zac almost smiled again. "Smart mouth."

He set her down near the door just as his mother appeared in the entryway. She wore a pale dress and the thin gold cross she never took off. Her eyes went straight to his jaw, then quickly toward the street.

"Zachary," she said. "Inside. The neighbors don’t need to see you like that."

Mia’s smile dimmed.

Zac picked up his bag and stepped inside.

The house smelled like roast chicken, lemon cleaner, and the candle his mother kept near the framed Bible verse in the dining room. The table was already set, glasses aligned, napkins folded, silverware straight. Everything had its place except him.

His mother closed the door. "What happened?"

"Practice."

"You were hit during practice?"

"Yeah."

It was close enough to the truth if nobody cared about details.

His mother’s mouth tightened. "Do not lie in this house."

Before Zac could answer, the garage door opened.

His father walked in wearing civilian clothes like they were still part of a uniform. Retired army, straight back, clean shoes, cold eyes. General Richard Prescott looked at Zac’s jaw, then his knuckles, then his face.

"You fought," his father said. freewebnøvel.coɱ

Zac adjusted the strap of his bag. "Practice got rough."

His father stared at him.

Zac looked away first because arguing never changed anything. His father asked questions because he already knew the answer, even when he was wrong.

His mother touched the cross at her throat. "Zachary, listen to your father."

Mia had gone quiet beside him, and that was the part Zac hated most. He could take the bruise. He could take the benching. He could take his father’s disappointment. He hated Mia watching it happen.

His father set his keys on the table by the door. "Who?"

Zac kept his voice low. "Kyle."

"Teammate?"

"Yes, sir."

His father’s face barely changed. "Benched?"

Zac paused, and that was enough.

"How long?"

"First quarter Friday."

His mother closed her eyes for a moment. "Zachary."

His father stayed silent, and Zac filled it in himself because he had heard all of it before. Football already wasted enough of his time. He still could not control himself. Nathan would never.

Then his father said it anyway, shorter and colder.

"Nathan understood discipline at your age."

Zac kept his eyes on the floor.

There it was.

Nathan was in uniform in every important photo. Nathan called when he was supposed to. Nathan made their father sound proud in public.

Zac played football.

That was the problem.

Football had never fit.

Football was loud, messy, too much crowd, too much sweat, too much attention. His father treated it like a phase Zac refused to outgrow, except the field was the first place Zac remembered being praised without someone adding Nathan’s name after it. On the field, people clapped because of him. Coaches trusted him with the ball.

On the field, Prescott meant him first. Not Nathan. Not his father. Him.

He protected that because he had nothing else.

His father stepped closer. "You will apologize to your coach."

"Yes, sir."

"You will apologize to your teammate."

Zac’s jaw pressed tight, but he forced the answer out. "Yes, sir."

His mother’s voice stayed smooth and cold. "Your brother never gave people a reason to talk."

Zac wanted to laugh, but Mia was still standing there.

His father looked toward the stairs. "Go wash for dinner. We will discuss this after."

Zac nodded once and moved toward the stairs.

Mia followed him halfway up, her socks dragging against the wood. "Are you in trouble?"

"Probably."

"Are you getting kicked off football?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

He glanced down at her messy braid and worried eyes, then made his voice lighter than he felt. "They need me too much."

She considered that, then nodded like it made sense. "Because you throw far."

"Among other talents."

"Like lying badly?"

He gave her a look.

Mia smiled a little, and he sat on the landing with his bag beside him because he needed one minute before going back downstairs. She sat next to him; shoulder pressed against his arm.

Mia picked at a loose thread on her sock. "Nathan’s coming this weekend."

"I heard."

"Dad smiles more when Nathan comes."

Zac looked at the wall across from them, where family photos lined the hallway. Nathan in uniform. Nathan at graduation. Nathan beside their father with the same straight shoulders and serious face.

"Yeah," Zac said.

Mia leaned her head against his arm. "I like when you come home more."

His throat tightened, and he hated it immediately.

He tugged her braid. "That’s because I’m fun."

"You got in a fight."

"Fun people make mistakes."

She thought about that, then shook her head. "Next time don’t."

"That’s your advice?"

"Yes." She looked at his jaw again. "I don’t like seeing you hurt."

He smiled at her.

"Zachary." Their father’s voice carried from downstairs.

Mia’s smile disappeared.

Zac stood and picked up his bag. "Go eat."

"But—"

"Mia."

She sighed and pouted, then went downstairs.

Zac stayed on the landing for one breath longer. His jaw hurt. His hand hurt. His pride was worse.

God, he hated this house.