Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(21)

Lipinski says nothing. And his silence is loud.

First rule of dealing with a kid who’s acting out? Take away his audience. He’ll back down easier if there’s not anyone else there to watch him do it.

I scratch out two hall passes and hand them to Collins and Martin.

“Go back to class. And if you pull this shit again, it’ll be the last time you ever wear a helmet for this school. Got it?”

“Yeah, got it.”

“Okay, Coach.”

I point at Lipinski. “You—sit.”

Collins and Martin shuffle out the door, closing it behind them. Lipinski sinks down into the chair and leans back, knees spread, without a care in the world.

I walk around my desk and sit down.

“You’re a team captain—every move you make is a reflection on the team, and more importantly, a reflection on me.” I point at the door. “That bullshit and your attitude right now does not fucking fly with me—you know that. What the hell is your problem, Brandon?”

He smirks. “I don’t have a problem, Garrett . . .”

Garrett?

I mentally choke.

I watched Inside Out with my niece this summer, and if that film is any indication, my little red guy’s head just exploded into flames inside my mind.

“. . . I’ve just figured out a few things.”

“Oh yeah? What have you figured out?”

“Dylan has mono, Levi’s got pins in his arm . . .”

Dylan and Levi are my second-and third-string quarterbacks, who are both on the injured list for the year.

“. . . I’m all you’ve got. You don’t have a season without me. So . . . I’m done jumping when you snap your fingers. I’m done with your bullshit rules. I do what I want, when I want . . . and you can’t say dick about it.”

Huh.

Interesting.

Confidence is a tricky thing with athletes. They need to believe they’re invincible, the best of the best—it makes them better players. But this isn’t arrogance. This isn’t some little shit testing boundaries, because deep down he wants to be snapped back in line. This is a challenge to my authority. Mutiny.

I speak steadily, evenly, because truth stands on its own.

“That’s not how this is going to go, Brandon. You either straighten up and kill the attitude or, I promise, you will not step foot on that field.”

I don’t know when Lipinski changed. When he went from shining all-star to Frankenstein’s monster.

He leans forward, staring me down.

“Screw that.”

Harsh lessons are always learned the hard way.

“I’m going to tell you something I hope you’ll remember—life will work out better for you if you do.”

“What’s that?”

“No one is irreplaceable. No one.” My tone final, definite—the last hit of the hammer that drives the nail in.

“You’re off the team.”

For a second he doesn’t respond. He swallows and blinks as the words sink in. Then he shakes his head, starting to laugh. “You . . . you can’t do that.”

“I just did.”

I scribble on the pad and hold the slip out between my fingers. “Go back to class; we’re done here.”

He darts out of the chair. “You can’t fucking do that!”

I regard him calmly. “Shut the door on your way out.”

“Fuck you!” His voice goes sonic-boom loud and his face turns a radioactive red, eyes bulging, probably breaking a blood vessel.

He goes for the bookshelf along the wall, knocking it over, scattering the frames and books and trophies onto the floor with a metal crash that echoes in my ears.

I don’t react. I don’t even stand up. I don’t give his tantrum any more energy or validation than I would a two-year-old, kicking and screaming on the floor because he doesn’t want to take a nap.

With a final kick to the bookcase, Lipinski stomps out of the room.

Slowly, I walk around to the front of my desk and lean back on it, looking down at the mess on the floor. I wrap my hands around the back of my neck and tug.

God damn it.

Dean’s blond head appears in my doorway. He eyes the toppled shelf and steps into the room, adjusting his glasses.

“Looks like you’re having an interesting day.”

I fold my arms across my chest—my mind swirling, reassessing my options.

“I just kicked Brandon Lipinski off the team.”

He takes that in, blowing out a slow breath that sounds like an imitation of an atomic bomb going off. “Well, D, that’s . . . fuck.”

Yep, my thoughts exactly.



~



After school, I tell the assistant coaches to get practice started without me and I head over to the freshman field.

“Tell me you’ve got something for me, Jeffrey. A wonder rookie, a new kid who just moved to town . . . a foreign exchange student with a golden arm.”

Jeffrey O’Doole is the freshman coach and an old teammate of mine from back in the day. He scans the team roster on the clipboard in his hands, then glances up at the players running drills on the field.

It doesn’t look good for me.

“You know all the kids as well as I do, Daniels. Dylan was my starter last year; when he moved up, I knew it’d be a rebuilding year.”