On the Monday before our season opener against the East Virginia Vikings, Coach Sanders released the depth chart.
Depth Chart Day was huge in college football and had been for as long as I could remember. I used to watch ESPN all day with Dad when I was younger, and we’d high five over the predictions we made that were right, and research the players who surprised us and charted when we didn’t expect it.
“One day, it’ll be your name on a chart like that. It’ll be you they’re all talking about,” he’d said to me.
I remember how my chest had puffed with the thought, how my smile had nearly split my face. Dad had faith in me. He knew without a single doubt that I’d have a future in football.
I longed for that excitement now, for that confidence, but instead, I found myself trembling a bit as I gathered with the rest of the team around Coach in the center of the field after practice. The sun beat down on our backs, sweat dripping into our eyes, and we all had our focus on the man who would determine our future.
“Today is a momentous day,” he said, his voice stern. “It will be a day of celebration for many of you, and a day of defeat for others. This chart,” he explained, holding up his clipboard. “Is a reflection of the hard work you’ve put in this past month. While I want you to be proud of yourselves, I also want to reiterate that nothing is permanent. Just because you have a spot now doesn’t mean you won’t still have to fight for it every game, and every practice, for the rest of the season. And likewise, if you’re slotted number two, or even three, I challenge you to work hard for that number one spot.”
Heads bobbed in understanding, and I swallowed, looking around at the guys around me knowing at least twenty of them wouldn’t be here after today, and only half of those who remained would have a starting position.
I told myself I was just scanning the team, assessing everyone’s nerves, but that lie became too loud to ignore when my gaze locked on Riley once I found her.
On the outside, she was picturesque, calm and collected. Her hair was in a tight ponytail, her eyes alert, shoulders square and chin high as she listened intently to Coach. But I saw what no one else would, what only someone who grew up with her would notice — the way her fingers wiggled softly at her side, how tightly her other hand gripped the face mask of her helmet, how her jaw was set so fiercely that she was likely grinding her teeth down to nubs.
She was nervous.
“This chart will be released online this evening,” Coach said. “But I want you all to be the first to see. I’m going to hang it outside my office. If your name isn’t on this chart, you are formally released from the team. Mrs. Pierson will assist you in the next steps,” he added, referencing our team’s guidance counselor. She was also the one who helped us set up our class schedule, ensuring our fall classes had a lighter load than spring or summer, since we’d be wholly focused on football.
Coach sniffed, tapping his clipboard.
“And if you are on this chart, then I want you to understand the responsibility that comes with that reward. Celebrate your achievement, yes,” he said. “But then get back here tomorrow and get ready to work.”
A nod was the last dismissal, and then the other coaches were blowing whistles and hollering at us to hustle to the locker room and get showered and changed. There were also threats of immediate suspension if anyone was caught leaking the chart online before Coach posted it, which had Kyle frowning, like they didn’t know he was planning on doing just that.
We all ran, just like they asked, but no one went to the showers. Most didn’t do anything but hang by their locker and try to look busy until Coach walked in, tacked the depth chart on the small board outside his office, and then ducked inside and shut the door.
It was pure chaos after that.
Guys raced to the chart, shoving each other out of the way playfully as they scanned for their names. Some came away yelling and jumping and thrusting their fists in the air while others hung their heads or threw their helmets in frustration.
Riley sat on the bench in front of her locker, her hands between her knees, foot bouncing slightly.
She was waiting.
I knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t shove through that crowd to see her fate. She’d wait until every soul cleared that locker room for lunch so she could view the chart in private. But I couldn’t help it. When I finally made my own way up to the papers, I looked for her name first.
And there she was, the second row under Special Teams.
PK — Riley Novo.
My chest swelled to an almost painful point of pride, and I was thankful to be facing the chart and not the locker room when a shit-eating grin found my lips.
She did it.
I continued scanning the sheet, and a few rows under her name, there it was.
PR — Zeke Collins.
I rolled my lips against another smile, gathering my composure before I turned and made my way out of the small crowd pushing toward the chart. Riley still had her head hung, and I walked right over, sitting down on the bench beside her.
Her leg stopped bouncing just for a second, long enough for her to glance sideways and realize it was me. She furrowed her brows. “Leave me alone.”
“Novo,” I tried, but she held up her hand.
“I said, go away.”
“Would you stop being a bitch for just one second so I can tell you that you made the damn team?”
Her mouth popped open, eyes wide as she finally looked at me. She immediately smacked me across the chest. “Really? A bitch? Even you are above that cliché insult.”
She was still throwing fireballs at me with those hazel eyes when it dawned on her, what I’d said, and all the heat left in a whoosh, her skin paling as she blinked.
“Wait… what did you just say?”
I smiled, leaning in closer and lowering my voice. “Stop being a bitch.”
She went to smack me, but I caught her hand on a laugh.
“You made chart.”
Her hand stilled, mine wrapped around her wrist where it hovered over me. Slowly, she dropped it, and I reluctantly released my grip on her, smiling as I watched it sink in.
“I made chart,” she breathed.
“Not only that,” I added. “But you’re number one.”
“Starting?!”
I nodded.
She let out another shaky breath, and then, she clamped her hand over her mouth, squeezed her eyes shut, and let out a tiny squeal as she stomped her little feet like a kid.
It was like a home video playing right before my eyes, like I was thrown back in time to her tenth birthday party, or the day her parents surprised all of us with a trip to Disney World. In that moment, she wasn’t the tough football player with the stone-cold exterior and resting bitch face she’d tried so hard to become in the past couple years.
She was just… Riley.
I laughed, but the sound died in the next instant.
Because she launched herself into my arms.
I caught her in surprise, but that surprise was replaced by an unfamiliar wave of heat once I realized she was pressed against me. Her arms were still slick from practice where they wrapped around my neck, and mine slipped around her waist like they belonged there. She buried her head in my neck, squeezing tight, and the scent of her shampoo rushed over me.
“I made it!” she whispered, still holding tight.
I squeezed her in return, savoring how it felt to be the one she had all that excitement pointed at. It reminded me of when she made the varsity soccer team, how she’d tackled me and her brother both in a squeal of delight before we were hoisting her up and carrying her around the backyard like a queen.
“You made it,” I echoed.
As if my voice woke her up to the present moment, Riley stiffened, shoving me off in the next instant and standing as she sniffed and pretended to look through her bag for something. And that cold exterior I was used to from her now was back, the old her buried beneath the steel.
“Sorry about that. Just got excited.”
I chuckled. “Nothing to be sorry about.”
“You didn’t have to tell me, you know? I would have found out on my own.”
“After you chewed your nails down to the bone, maybe.”
She leveled me with a look, then asked nonchalantly, “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You make it?”
I sucked my teeth. “Come on, now. You know the answer to that already.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like you weren’t just as nervous as the rest of us.”
“Stars don’t get nervous.”
She made a noise that sounded like a cross between a pig-snort and a groan, which only made me smile wider.
“Well, congratulations,” she said, hiking her bag up on her shoulder. “And good luck.”
“Good luck?”
“Yeah. Unlike high school, you’ll actually have to pass a class to stay on the team here.”
She smiled with the challenge, likely thinking it just a light tease, but she had to know how much those words hit me like a fist to the gut.
My bravado slipped as I recalled how difficult it had been in high school to keep my grades up — especially during the season. And if the summer term had been any indication of what was ahead in college, I was more than a little worried about keeping my GPA up high enough to stay eligible to play.
Once again, she reiterated what I already knew everyone around me felt.
I’m good at one thing and one thing only — football.
I stood, cracking my neck. “Well, I guess now is as good as any time to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“There’s a video of you in your bra and underwear in the team shower going viral on TikTok.”
Her eyes shot wide, little mouth falling open before she slung her bag back onto the bench and started tearing through it for her phone.
“Kyle! I swear to God, I’ll murder him!”
I got up and made my way to my locker, stripping down and heading for the shower while she frantically scrolled through social media. She didn’t notice I was naked until I walked right up next to her, lowering my lips to whisper in her ear.
“Just kidding.”
She stopped mid-search, her thumbs hovering over the screen, and I watched with an amused smile as her eyes trailed the length of me.
But she squeezed them shut before they made it all the way down.
“Ugh, Zeke!”
She tried to shove me, but with her eyes closed, it was easy to swerve out of the way and leave her pushing at air.
“See you at home, sweetheart,” I cooed.
Then, I bent in and kissed her cheek, running away before she could swat me as I passed.
