nbsp; “Thanks, man.” Quinn and I hug it out. I know he’ll be more comfortable down here.
“Westbury?”
Ah, the sweet sound of my girl calling my name. “Yes, Miss James,” I say when I get to her.
“What’s that all about?” she asks, tilting her head toward her brother.
“The fans are out in droves. I thought he’d be at ease down here where no one can get to him.”
Peyton eyes her brother and his girlfriend for a long minute. “You did that for him?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You’ve never done that for your dad.”
I shrug. “Dad’s had a much longer time to get used to the attention. This is all new to Quinn and I want him to enjoy the game.”
Peyton looks at me, she smiles so brightly that my knees go weak. “You’re really something, Noah Westbury.”
Fuck it. I don’t care who’s looking or where we are right now. When my girl gives me a compliment like that, I’m going to kiss the shit out of her. And I do, right there in front of everyone. People behind us, mostly our family, cheer loudly. When we part, she looks at me with hooded eyes.
“Noah…”
“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll finish when we get home.”
“Only if you win this game, Westbury.”
“Consider the victory in the bag.” I wink again and painstakingly walk away from her to join my team in warm-ups.
17
Peyton
I have never been one to gloat or brag about my success or even Noah’s when the time isn’t right. It’s a trait that I learned from my dad. He never talked about a hit that the band would have or comment on a song nominated for a Grammy until the time was right. That time being on the red carpet or during an interview. If someone came up to him in a grocery store and said something, my dad simply replied with a thank you.
Right now, I want to forget the lesson he taught me. I want to stand on my desk, dance a little jig, and run up and down the halls of the building, yelling about the headline in the paper. James Makes a Difference. Even without reading the article, I know it’s about me.
When the reporter called and asked me a few questions, I had no idea what the article was going to be about, until last night when he emailed it to me, saying it would be on the front page of the paper. Not just local, but nationwide.
The picture of me is one taken from a recent game. Julius Cunningham, Chase Montgomery, and I are talking about one of the plays. I don’t remember exactly what I was saying, but in the picture, both guys are focused on what I’m telling them.
Taking this job, I was apprehensive. I didn’t know how I’d fit in, whether they’d treat me as a coach, or if the guys would even listen to me. I also had reservations. There was a tiny voice in the back of my head that wouldn’t go away. It kept reminding me that Noah’s the quarterback and that he’s the only reason I got the job. I think I’ve proven otherwise.
The Pioneers are eight and three going into the Thanksgiving holiday. They are off to their best start ever, which isn’t saying much since they’re an expansion team and only a few years old. However, this is where the owners saw their team all along, as one of the top contenders in the division, and I’m being credited with some of their success.
I say some because I can only do so much. The players, the guys who bust ass day in and day out, who put it all on the line any given Sunday deserve most, if not all, of the credit. They’re winning because they’re playing as a team. There isn’t a single selfish player on the field who is looking to pad their stats. No one is looking to be a hero. Not even Noah, who is having a remarkable year. His trajectory is deadly, and the receivers are racking up yards by the hundreds to prove it. Our defensive line is holding offensives to an average of about twenty points per game, while our offense is scoring almost thirty a game. Not the best in the league, but better than anything they’ve done in the past.
“Knock, knock.”
I look up from the article to find Logan Baker standing in my doorway. My office has become my sanctuary. My parents bought me a painting for my wall. It’s still sitting in the corner and will probably stay there. The weekend before training camp started, Noah and I came in and painted the walls with dry erase paint. I wanted to be able to utilize every inch with plays and notes, without cluttering my office. Right now, it looks like the playbook threw up all over the place with x’s, o’s and lines going in every which direction. Everyone knows if I’m not in here, you’ll find me in the film room or on the field. I stay as far away from the players as possible, especially Noah. I don’t want to give anyone an excuse to complain about either of us.
“Hey.” Logan walks in and sits down in the chair in front of my desk. My secretary insisted that I have a chair in my office even though I rarely have anyone in here. Because I work mostly with the team, I meet with them on the field or in a classroom.
Over the past couple of months, Logan and I have become friends. He’s young, ambitious, and wants to succeed. He bought this team with his inheritance and has put his blood, sweat, and tears into building a franchise.
“Great article,” he says.
“It’s…”