4.32 speed is mad dumb. Tell coach to stop making you Len'Dale White and let you be the wind to his earth
I don't know if you booted up RTG yet, but the size of your player effects your caps. I haven't played enough to see if you can break past them, but for instance shorter and lighter dudes have a higher speed threshold than taller and more muscular ones
just fyi
Litany for Survival
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redsox907
- Posts: 5842
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16569
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Litany for Survival
Kendrick said the standard the standard even if you run fast, buddyredsox907 wrote: ↑Yesterday, 19:184.32 speed is mad dumb. Tell coach to stop making you Len'Dale White and let you be the wind to his earth
I don't know if you booted up RTG yet, but the size of your player effects your caps. I haven't played enough to see if you can break past them, but for instance shorter and lighter dudes have a higher speed threshold than taller and more muscular ones
just fyi
I have. Got the build already dialed in
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16569
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Litany for Survival
1.14 Duster
A folding chair sat on the sideline with the field stretching out behind it, the grass chewed up from a week of camp, the yard lines fading. A reporter stood next to the chair with a recorder in her hand, a cameraman behind her shoulder, the lens catching the light.
Beau sat in the chair with his helmet in his lap, his chinstrap hanging loose, sweat cutting lines through the dust on his forehead.
“How would you describe the atmosphere on the team right now, Beau?” the reporter asked.
Beau nodded. “Yeah, I feel like we got something different this year. Everybody’s together. Ain’t nobody doing they own thing. We all on the same page. It’s a real brotherhood this year.”
…
Tanner took the snap, turned and put the ball into Beau’s stomach. Beau hit the hole behind Danny with his pads low, his legs driving into the turf, the cleat marks tearing the grass in short parallel lines.
Wyatt filled the gap from the second level, his arms reaching for the tackle. Beau caught him with a stiff arm that connected under his chin, palm snapping Wyatt’s head back, the helmet popping off and spinning into the turf behind him. Beau drove through him, his hand still on Wyatt’s chest, lifted him off his feet then slammed him into the ground and churned past the body, his cleats tearing the grass for another five yards before he slowed to a jog.
Wyatt lay on his back for a second, blinking at the sky. His helmet sat in the grass three feet from his head.
…
Cruz leaned back in the chair, his arms resting on the sides of the seat.
“Defense wins championships. What’s your mindset heading into this season?”
Cruz shrugged. “We just gotta be on our Ps and Qs. Do your job, don’t be stupid. That’s it.”
…
The offense lined up in a spread formation, four receivers wide, Saint alone in the backfield. Tanner took the snap, pivoted and pitched it to Saint running right. Trevon pulled from his spot ahead of him, his pads low, his feet working across the formation.
Cruz read the pitch from the secondary, broke on the ball, his feet chopping the turf as he closed the angle. He squared up three yards from Saint.
Saint planted his outside foot. He stuttered once, shifted his hips left. Cruz’s hands closed on air. His momentum carried him two steps past where Saint had been, his cleats sliding on the grass, his body turning to find Saint already past him.
Saint blew through the gap into the open field, his legs opening up, picking up fifteen before Andres angled him out of bounds along the far sideline.
Hartwell ripped his clipboard off the bench on the sideline and slammed it into the turf, the pages scattering.
“Lujan! Put your fucking shoulder into his chest and drive him to the motherfucking ground! You’re a fucking junior! You should know how to fucking tackle!”
…
Meeks sat in the chair with his visor in his hands, bending the brim between his fingers.
The reporter adjusted her notebook. “What do you think the Panthers can achieve this year?”
Meeks nodded. “I think we can make a real run at state this year. We got the talent, we got the guys up front, we got the best running back in Texas. It’s just about staying disciplined and doing your job every single play.”
…
Tanner dropped back and put the ball up over the middle. Javion ran a crossing route from the slot, his hands reaching for the ball at the top of his route, the leather settling into his fingers as he turned up field.
Lane came from the weak side, low, his shoulder driving through Javion’s ribs. The hit echoed across the field. Javion’s body folded over the shoulder pad, his feet leaving the ground before he hit the turf on his back. The ball came loose, bouncing once on the grass.
Cole and Marco sprinted toward Lane before the whistle blew. Cole shoved him with both hands, the force rocking Lane back a step. Damion came in from the right. Wyatt grabbed Cole’s facemask. Three more bodies piled on, helmets cracking against helmets, shoulder pads colliding, the sound of it building on itself until the coaches’ whistles cut through the noise, one after another, three of them blowing at once.
Meeks ran onto the field with his visor off, his face tight, his voice carrying across the turf. “Get the fuck off the field! All of you! Get the fuck off my field! Pushing on each other like a bunch of fucking pussies!”
He grabbed Cole by the back of his jersey, pulled him out of the pile and shoved him toward the sideline, pointing at Marco with his other hand.
…
Beau sat forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands folded together.
The reporter crossed one foot over the other. “Beau, it’s your last year in high school. How do you plan to wrap an impressive four years at Permian?”
Beau looked at the ground between his feet for a second then back up. “I’m just hoping to finish strong, you know. Have a good senior year and then figure out where I’m going to college after that.”
…
Beau took the handoff on a power play, hit the hole behind Cole, his shoulder low, his legs pumping. DeShawn filled the gap and met him at the line.
Beau dropped his shoulder and drove through him. DeShawn’s helmet snapped forward on impact, the front of the shell cracking against Beau’s facemask, the sound sharp and metallic, both of them going to the ground together. Beau landed on top, rolled off, tried to stand.
His legs wobbled for a step, his hand reaching down to touch the turf for balance. Hector wrapped him up from the side and brought him the rest of the way down. Beau lay on the grass for a second, his hand going to his facemask, pressing against the bars. He pushed himself up, shook his head twice and jogged back to the huddle, his stride uneven for the first three steps before it leveled out.
“You gotta come out, Stanton?” Kendrick called.
Beau raised one finger, wagging it back and forth.
…
Saint sat in the chair with his mouthpiece hanging from his facemask.
“What do you hope to accomplish this season, Saint?”
Saint shrugged. “I just want to win football games.”
…
Tanner took the snap, turned and handed it to Saint on a draw. Saint took two steps toward the line, the ball tucked against his forearm.
Damion shed Cole’s block at the point of attack, drove his shoulder into the gap and got into the backfield, both arms wrapping around Saint’s waist. Saint spun out of it, his jersey twisting in Damion’s grip, the fabric pulling tight across his chest before tearing free. Hector dove at his ankles from the left side, his arms sweeping low. Saint jumped, Hector’s hands passing under his cleats, and hit the ground running.
He picked up nine yards before Lane pushed him out of bounds along the sideline, the two of them stumbling into the grass past the chalk.
Meeks ripped the visor off his head and slammed it against his thigh. He walked toward the sideline where Saint was picking himself up, his arm extended, his finger pointed at Saint’s chest. “What did I tell you about dancing in the fucking backfield, Bazile? You had a hole! Hit the God damn hole!”
Saint pulled his mouthpiece out, spit into the grass, turned and jogged back toward the huddle.
…
Kendrick sat in his office with the blinds drawn, the desk lamp on, his hat off. His hands were folded on the desk.
The reporter sat across from him. She looked back over her shoulder at the camera then back to Kendrick. “What are your goals for the team this year, Coach?”
Kendrick looked at her, his voice level. “The goal’s always state. We’ve been falling short. That’s on me. But we’re going to keep showing up until we don’t.”
…
The offense lined up in a two-back formation, Beau and Saint stacked in the backfield behind Tanner.
Tanner took the snap, turned and put the ball into Saint’s stomach. Beau fired out of his stance ahead of him, his pads low, his legs churning into the hole.
DeShawn filled the gap. Beau hit him square in the chest, the collision ringing across the field, DeShawn’s feet leaving the turf as Beau drove him backward and into the grass. The lane opened wide behind the block, the daylight showing between the bodies.
Saint hit it at full speed. He cleared the second level, the linebackers reaching for him a step too late, and broke into the open field along the sideline, his legs stretching into a sprint, the gap between him and the nearest defender growing with every step. Andres angled toward him from the far hash. Saint shifted his hips once without breaking stride and the angle died, Andres’s feet slowing on the turf. Marcus pulled up at the twenty. Lane gave up the chase at the ten.
Saint ran the rest of it untouched into the end zone.
The fence ran along the visitors’ side of the field, the chain-link warm in the sun, the metal bright where hands had worn the coating off the top rail. Holt stood in his usual spot with his boots planted wide, his arms resting on the rail, his sunglasses pushed up into the gray hair above his forehead. Joe Rutherford and Derek Vance stood a few yards down the fence, Joe with his arms folded across his chest, Derek leaning on the rail with a dip in his lip, the outline of the tin visible in his back pocket.
Practice moved in front of them, the offense running team drills on the near hash, the pads popping on contact, the coaches’ voices carrying across the turf.
Three men stood nearby, each of them in polos with university logos on the breast, lanyards around their necks, notepads in their hands. Texas Tech. Abilene Christian. Angelo State. They stood close enough to talk to each other but their eyes were on the field.
Holt pushed off the fence, straightened his sleeves once at the cuffs and walked the length of the sideline toward them. He stopped in front of the three of them, his shoulders open, the smile already in place.
“How y’all doing today, gentlemen? Holt Breckenridge. I’m on the booster board here at Permian.”
He shook each of their hands in turn, his grip holding for a second on each one, his eyes meeting theirs before moving to the next. The Tech scout, Craig Pollard, introduced himself first, a tall man with a clipboard instead of a notepad, his polo tucked tight into his khakis. Then the ACU scout, Mitch Dearing, shorter, a pen tucked behind his ear, his handshake quick. Then the Angelo State scout, Ruben Salinas, who nodded once, said his name and stepped back.
Holt nodded at each of them. “Y’all picked a good day to come out. We got some studs on this roster you’re going to want to keep your eyes on.”
He turned and looked at the field, lifting one hand from his pocket and pointing toward the near sideline where Beau stood buckling his chinstrap, his shoulder pads sitting wide on his frame, his legs thick in the practice pants.
“Number twenty-two. Beau Stanton. Best running back in the state of Texas. He runs a four-five but he plays faster than that because he doesn’t go down. First man doesn’t tackle him. Second man doesn’t tackle him. You need three to bring him down and even then he’s falling forward. Senior this year.”
Salinas wrote something on his notepad, his pen pressing into the paper. Dearing nodded, his hands folding across his clipboard. “We’ve seen his film. He’s on our board.”
“He should be at the top of it.”
On the field the offense broke the huddle and lined up. Tanner took the snap, pivoted and pitched the ball to Saint running right, the spiral tight across the two yards between them. Saint caught it, tucked it against his hip and got to the edge. Hector came up from the secondary to fill the lane, his feet chopping, his arms wide. Saint planted once, shifted his weight and cut inside, Hector’s hands closing on the air behind his hip. The gap opened and Saint accelerated through it into the open field, the distance between him and the pursuit widening with every step, his stride lengthening, his feet barely touching the turf. Andres angled across the field from the far hash and pushed him out at the sideline, the two of them stumbling past the chalk.
Pollard looked up from his notepad. “What about that kid? The one who just took the pitch. What’s his story?”
Holt turned and watched Saint jog back toward the huddle, his helmet tilted up, his mouthpiece hanging from the cage. “Oh, that’s Saint. Toussaint Bazile. That’s pure track speed right there. He does the hundred and the two hundred in the off-season, been running track since seventh grade, but football’s his only love. Like any proper Texas boy.”
Dearing flipped his pen out from behind his ear and clicked it. “We heard about a four-three at a camp down in San Antonio a few weeks back. That him?”
Holt nodded. “That’s him. Four-three-two, from what I was told.”
Salinas looked up from his notepad. “He’s only a junior?”
“Sure is. But that’s plenty of time for y’all to get in front of him. Keep him in the state of Texas where he belongs at one of y’all’s schools.”
The three scouts looked at each other, Pollard’s pen hovering above his clipboard, Dearing clicking his pen again, Salinas’ eyes going back to the field where Saint was lining up.
“But I’d move quick, gentlemen. He’s going to shoot up the recruiting boards this season and y’all don’t want to be the ones who saw him and didn’t pick up the phone.”
Pollard nodded, wrote something on his clipboard. Dearing flipped to a new page, the paper snapping over the top of the board. Salinas clicked his pen once more and looked back at the field.
Holt let the silence hold for a beat, his hands easy in his pockets, then said, “Now let me point y’all to the other side of the ball. Number four, Cruz Lujan, free safety. He’s got the best football IQ on this team.”
The three scouts looked where he was pointing, their pens moving, their eyes tracking Cruz as he shifted into position before the snap..
The office sat at the end of a hallway on the second floor of the county building, the door open, the overhead light off, a desk lamp and the window doing the work. A framed photo of Yolanda’s kids sat near the edge of the desk in a brass frame, the glass catching the light from the window, the two of them grinning, their school uniforms pressed.
Brynn sat in the chair across the desk with her hands in the pocket of her hoodie, her feet flat on the floor, her eyes on the framed photo.
Yolanda sat behind the desk with the form in front of her, her pen moving down the page, her eyes scanning the printed questions. She wore a blouse with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, a watch on one wrist, a thin bracelet on the other. Her pen stopped at a line and she looked up.
“How’s the placement? Any issues?”
Brynn shrugged. “It’s fine.”
Yolanda looked at her over the form, her pen resting against the paper, waiting. Brynn looked back at her, her thumbs pressing together inside the fabric.
Yolanda wrote something down and moved on. “School?”
“It’s summer.”
“I know it’s summer. I’m asking how it went before it ended.”
“Fine.”
Yolanda set her pen down on the form, her hands folding together on the desk in front of her, her fingers lacing, her weight settling back in the chair. She looked at Brynn across the surface, the folders stacked between them, the mug, the granola bar wrapper, the form with its half-filled answers.
“Brynn, I need you to give me something I can work with here. I’m trying to do my job so nobody has a reason to move you again.”
Brynn’s eyes dropped from Yolanda’s face to the desk. Her thumb worked the inside of the hoodie pocket, the fabric pulling and releasing against her knuckle. “Ain’t no reason to move me. Everything fine”
“Not if I can help it. But I need to know what’s going on with you so I can do something before it gets to that point again.”
Brynn nodded once.
Yolanda picked the pen back up, found her place on the form and moved down the page. “Are you eating enough?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you feel safe?”
“Yeah.”
Yolanda wrote both answers down, her pen pressing into the form, the ink dark on the printed lines. She flipped the page over and set it on one of the stacks, squaring the edges with her palm. She folded her hands together again, her elbows on the desk, looking at Brynn.
“What about after this? You thought about college at all? You only have a couple years left in high school.”
Brynn shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“There are resources for kids in your situation. Grants, financial aid, tuition waivers. Some of them cover everything. Room, books, all of it. You wouldn’t have to figure out how to pay for it on your own.”
Brynn pulled her hands out of the hoodie pocket and set them on her knees, her fingers spreading against the denim. “I just want to sing.”
Yolanda nodded. “There are programs for that too. Schools with music programs that would take somebody with your background and cover the cost. I can pull some information together for you if you want.”
Brynn nodded, her eyes on the desk between them.
Yolanda held her eyes for a second then leaned forward on the desk. “Brynn, I need you to tell me if something’s going on in your life. Something you need help with. Something you need me to handle.”
Brynn looked at her. “Everything’s fine now.”
“Okay.”
She pulled another folder from the stack, opened it across the form and started reading the next page, her pen finding the first line.
The locker room doors swung shut behind them and the heat hit all at once, the asphalt still holding the day even with the sun dropping toward the flats beyond the stadium. Saint, Beau and Cruz crossed the sidewalk and stepped into the parking lot, their duffel bags over their shoulders, their hair still wet, the air pulling the moisture off their skin before they reached the first row of cars. The lot was half empty, the other players’ trucks and sedans scattered across the spaces closest to the field house, a few coaches’ cars parked along the curb near the entrance.
Beau pulled his keys out of his pocket, tossed them once in the air, caught them against his palm. “Where we eating?”
Cruz shifted his duffel to his other shoulder. “I don’t care. Not Sonic.”
“What’s wrong with Sonic?”
“I been to Sonic four times this week, bro. That shit getting old.”
Saint shook his head. “Motherfucker like meat in his fucking mouth.”
“Man, pause. The shit just taste good.”
“Like he said,” Beau said. “You like the taste of meat in your mouth. Cylindrical shit.”
They were crossing the lot, their shadows stretching long across the asphalt in the low light, when Saint saw Ms. Tierney at her car a few rows over. The trunk was open, her arms wrapped around a cardboard box, another box still sitting inside the trunk next to a tote bag and a stack of folders. She was struggling with the weight of it, her hip braced against the bumper, her keys hanging from her finger by the ring.
She saw him over the top of the box, shifted it to one hip, freed a hand and waved. Saint waved back. She tilted her head toward the car, waving him over.
He looked at Beau and Cruz. “Hold up.”
He walked across the lot toward her, his duffel swinging from his shoulder, his cleats clicking on the asphalt where the rubber met the pavement. Kaitlyn set the box down on the edge of the trunk, the cardboard scraping the carpet liner, and pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist. A sheen of sweat sat along her hairline. The box was full of sketchpads, pencil sets in plastic packaging, bottles of acrylic paint with the caps color-coded.
“Have you tried to get to any of those exhibits or classes I told you about?”
Saint shook his head. “I been busy.”
Kaitlyn nodded, her hands resting on the edge of the box, her thumbs pressing into the cardboard. “I get it. But you should make time for it, Saint. That talent’s going to take you further than football.”
Saint shrugged, his bag shifting on his shoulder.
Kaitlyn said, “If it’s a transportation thing, I can bring you to any of the ones that are close. It wouldn’t be a problem.”
“It ain’t that.”
Kaitlyn looked at him for a beat, her weight settling onto one hip. She nodded. “Okay.”
She picked the box back up, settled it against her side, the weight of it pulling her shoulder down. “I’ll see you around, Saint.”
Saint nodded, turned and walked back across the lot toward Beau’s truck..
Beau and Cruz were standing between Beau’s truck and Cruz’s car, the two vehicles parked side by side, Beau leaning on the bed with his arms folded across his chest, Cruz sitting on the hood of his car with his feet on the bumper, his phone in his hand. Saint walked up and Beau looked past him toward Kaitlyn’s car, where she was carrying the box across the lot toward the building, her keys swinging from her finger, her stride uneven under the weight.
“Who’s that?”
“Art teacher.”
Cruz watched her walk toward the building, his phone resting on his thigh. “She bad as fuck. You sure she a teacher?”
Beau’s grin pulled wide across his face. “I’d be drawing on something alright. That fucking pussy.”
Saint sucked his teeth, swung his duffel off his shoulder and tossed it into the bed of Beau’s truck, the bag landing on the metal with a thud. “Where we going to eat?”
A folding chair sat on the sideline with the field stretching out behind it, the grass chewed up from a week of camp, the yard lines fading. A reporter stood next to the chair with a recorder in her hand, a cameraman behind her shoulder, the lens catching the light.
Beau sat in the chair with his helmet in his lap, his chinstrap hanging loose, sweat cutting lines through the dust on his forehead.
“How would you describe the atmosphere on the team right now, Beau?” the reporter asked.
Beau nodded. “Yeah, I feel like we got something different this year. Everybody’s together. Ain’t nobody doing they own thing. We all on the same page. It’s a real brotherhood this year.”
…
Tanner took the snap, turned and put the ball into Beau’s stomach. Beau hit the hole behind Danny with his pads low, his legs driving into the turf, the cleat marks tearing the grass in short parallel lines.
Wyatt filled the gap from the second level, his arms reaching for the tackle. Beau caught him with a stiff arm that connected under his chin, palm snapping Wyatt’s head back, the helmet popping off and spinning into the turf behind him. Beau drove through him, his hand still on Wyatt’s chest, lifted him off his feet then slammed him into the ground and churned past the body, his cleats tearing the grass for another five yards before he slowed to a jog.
Wyatt lay on his back for a second, blinking at the sky. His helmet sat in the grass three feet from his head.
…
Cruz leaned back in the chair, his arms resting on the sides of the seat.
“Defense wins championships. What’s your mindset heading into this season?”
Cruz shrugged. “We just gotta be on our Ps and Qs. Do your job, don’t be stupid. That’s it.”
…
The offense lined up in a spread formation, four receivers wide, Saint alone in the backfield. Tanner took the snap, pivoted and pitched it to Saint running right. Trevon pulled from his spot ahead of him, his pads low, his feet working across the formation.
Cruz read the pitch from the secondary, broke on the ball, his feet chopping the turf as he closed the angle. He squared up three yards from Saint.
Saint planted his outside foot. He stuttered once, shifted his hips left. Cruz’s hands closed on air. His momentum carried him two steps past where Saint had been, his cleats sliding on the grass, his body turning to find Saint already past him.
Saint blew through the gap into the open field, his legs opening up, picking up fifteen before Andres angled him out of bounds along the far sideline.
Hartwell ripped his clipboard off the bench on the sideline and slammed it into the turf, the pages scattering.
“Lujan! Put your fucking shoulder into his chest and drive him to the motherfucking ground! You’re a fucking junior! You should know how to fucking tackle!”
…
Meeks sat in the chair with his visor in his hands, bending the brim between his fingers.
The reporter adjusted her notebook. “What do you think the Panthers can achieve this year?”
Meeks nodded. “I think we can make a real run at state this year. We got the talent, we got the guys up front, we got the best running back in Texas. It’s just about staying disciplined and doing your job every single play.”
…
Tanner dropped back and put the ball up over the middle. Javion ran a crossing route from the slot, his hands reaching for the ball at the top of his route, the leather settling into his fingers as he turned up field.
Lane came from the weak side, low, his shoulder driving through Javion’s ribs. The hit echoed across the field. Javion’s body folded over the shoulder pad, his feet leaving the ground before he hit the turf on his back. The ball came loose, bouncing once on the grass.
Cole and Marco sprinted toward Lane before the whistle blew. Cole shoved him with both hands, the force rocking Lane back a step. Damion came in from the right. Wyatt grabbed Cole’s facemask. Three more bodies piled on, helmets cracking against helmets, shoulder pads colliding, the sound of it building on itself until the coaches’ whistles cut through the noise, one after another, three of them blowing at once.
Meeks ran onto the field with his visor off, his face tight, his voice carrying across the turf. “Get the fuck off the field! All of you! Get the fuck off my field! Pushing on each other like a bunch of fucking pussies!”
He grabbed Cole by the back of his jersey, pulled him out of the pile and shoved him toward the sideline, pointing at Marco with his other hand.
…
Beau sat forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands folded together.
The reporter crossed one foot over the other. “Beau, it’s your last year in high school. How do you plan to wrap an impressive four years at Permian?”
Beau looked at the ground between his feet for a second then back up. “I’m just hoping to finish strong, you know. Have a good senior year and then figure out where I’m going to college after that.”
…
Beau took the handoff on a power play, hit the hole behind Cole, his shoulder low, his legs pumping. DeShawn filled the gap and met him at the line.
Beau dropped his shoulder and drove through him. DeShawn’s helmet snapped forward on impact, the front of the shell cracking against Beau’s facemask, the sound sharp and metallic, both of them going to the ground together. Beau landed on top, rolled off, tried to stand.
His legs wobbled for a step, his hand reaching down to touch the turf for balance. Hector wrapped him up from the side and brought him the rest of the way down. Beau lay on the grass for a second, his hand going to his facemask, pressing against the bars. He pushed himself up, shook his head twice and jogged back to the huddle, his stride uneven for the first three steps before it leveled out.
“You gotta come out, Stanton?” Kendrick called.
Beau raised one finger, wagging it back and forth.
…
Saint sat in the chair with his mouthpiece hanging from his facemask.
“What do you hope to accomplish this season, Saint?”
Saint shrugged. “I just want to win football games.”
…
Tanner took the snap, turned and handed it to Saint on a draw. Saint took two steps toward the line, the ball tucked against his forearm.
Damion shed Cole’s block at the point of attack, drove his shoulder into the gap and got into the backfield, both arms wrapping around Saint’s waist. Saint spun out of it, his jersey twisting in Damion’s grip, the fabric pulling tight across his chest before tearing free. Hector dove at his ankles from the left side, his arms sweeping low. Saint jumped, Hector’s hands passing under his cleats, and hit the ground running.
He picked up nine yards before Lane pushed him out of bounds along the sideline, the two of them stumbling into the grass past the chalk.
Meeks ripped the visor off his head and slammed it against his thigh. He walked toward the sideline where Saint was picking himself up, his arm extended, his finger pointed at Saint’s chest. “What did I tell you about dancing in the fucking backfield, Bazile? You had a hole! Hit the God damn hole!”
Saint pulled his mouthpiece out, spit into the grass, turned and jogged back toward the huddle.
…
Kendrick sat in his office with the blinds drawn, the desk lamp on, his hat off. His hands were folded on the desk.
The reporter sat across from him. She looked back over her shoulder at the camera then back to Kendrick. “What are your goals for the team this year, Coach?”
Kendrick looked at her, his voice level. “The goal’s always state. We’ve been falling short. That’s on me. But we’re going to keep showing up until we don’t.”
…
The offense lined up in a two-back formation, Beau and Saint stacked in the backfield behind Tanner.
Tanner took the snap, turned and put the ball into Saint’s stomach. Beau fired out of his stance ahead of him, his pads low, his legs churning into the hole.
DeShawn filled the gap. Beau hit him square in the chest, the collision ringing across the field, DeShawn’s feet leaving the turf as Beau drove him backward and into the grass. The lane opened wide behind the block, the daylight showing between the bodies.
Saint hit it at full speed. He cleared the second level, the linebackers reaching for him a step too late, and broke into the open field along the sideline, his legs stretching into a sprint, the gap between him and the nearest defender growing with every step. Andres angled toward him from the far hash. Saint shifted his hips once without breaking stride and the angle died, Andres’s feet slowing on the turf. Marcus pulled up at the twenty. Lane gave up the chase at the ten.
Saint ran the rest of it untouched into the end zone.
The fence ran along the visitors’ side of the field, the chain-link warm in the sun, the metal bright where hands had worn the coating off the top rail. Holt stood in his usual spot with his boots planted wide, his arms resting on the rail, his sunglasses pushed up into the gray hair above his forehead. Joe Rutherford and Derek Vance stood a few yards down the fence, Joe with his arms folded across his chest, Derek leaning on the rail with a dip in his lip, the outline of the tin visible in his back pocket.
Practice moved in front of them, the offense running team drills on the near hash, the pads popping on contact, the coaches’ voices carrying across the turf.
Three men stood nearby, each of them in polos with university logos on the breast, lanyards around their necks, notepads in their hands. Texas Tech. Abilene Christian. Angelo State. They stood close enough to talk to each other but their eyes were on the field.
Holt pushed off the fence, straightened his sleeves once at the cuffs and walked the length of the sideline toward them. He stopped in front of the three of them, his shoulders open, the smile already in place.
“How y’all doing today, gentlemen? Holt Breckenridge. I’m on the booster board here at Permian.”
He shook each of their hands in turn, his grip holding for a second on each one, his eyes meeting theirs before moving to the next. The Tech scout, Craig Pollard, introduced himself first, a tall man with a clipboard instead of a notepad, his polo tucked tight into his khakis. Then the ACU scout, Mitch Dearing, shorter, a pen tucked behind his ear, his handshake quick. Then the Angelo State scout, Ruben Salinas, who nodded once, said his name and stepped back.
Holt nodded at each of them. “Y’all picked a good day to come out. We got some studs on this roster you’re going to want to keep your eyes on.”
He turned and looked at the field, lifting one hand from his pocket and pointing toward the near sideline where Beau stood buckling his chinstrap, his shoulder pads sitting wide on his frame, his legs thick in the practice pants.
“Number twenty-two. Beau Stanton. Best running back in the state of Texas. He runs a four-five but he plays faster than that because he doesn’t go down. First man doesn’t tackle him. Second man doesn’t tackle him. You need three to bring him down and even then he’s falling forward. Senior this year.”
Salinas wrote something on his notepad, his pen pressing into the paper. Dearing nodded, his hands folding across his clipboard. “We’ve seen his film. He’s on our board.”
“He should be at the top of it.”
On the field the offense broke the huddle and lined up. Tanner took the snap, pivoted and pitched the ball to Saint running right, the spiral tight across the two yards between them. Saint caught it, tucked it against his hip and got to the edge. Hector came up from the secondary to fill the lane, his feet chopping, his arms wide. Saint planted once, shifted his weight and cut inside, Hector’s hands closing on the air behind his hip. The gap opened and Saint accelerated through it into the open field, the distance between him and the pursuit widening with every step, his stride lengthening, his feet barely touching the turf. Andres angled across the field from the far hash and pushed him out at the sideline, the two of them stumbling past the chalk.
Pollard looked up from his notepad. “What about that kid? The one who just took the pitch. What’s his story?”
Holt turned and watched Saint jog back toward the huddle, his helmet tilted up, his mouthpiece hanging from the cage. “Oh, that’s Saint. Toussaint Bazile. That’s pure track speed right there. He does the hundred and the two hundred in the off-season, been running track since seventh grade, but football’s his only love. Like any proper Texas boy.”
Dearing flipped his pen out from behind his ear and clicked it. “We heard about a four-three at a camp down in San Antonio a few weeks back. That him?”
Holt nodded. “That’s him. Four-three-two, from what I was told.”
Salinas looked up from his notepad. “He’s only a junior?”
“Sure is. But that’s plenty of time for y’all to get in front of him. Keep him in the state of Texas where he belongs at one of y’all’s schools.”
The three scouts looked at each other, Pollard’s pen hovering above his clipboard, Dearing clicking his pen again, Salinas’ eyes going back to the field where Saint was lining up.
“But I’d move quick, gentlemen. He’s going to shoot up the recruiting boards this season and y’all don’t want to be the ones who saw him and didn’t pick up the phone.”
Pollard nodded, wrote something on his clipboard. Dearing flipped to a new page, the paper snapping over the top of the board. Salinas clicked his pen once more and looked back at the field.
Holt let the silence hold for a beat, his hands easy in his pockets, then said, “Now let me point y’all to the other side of the ball. Number four, Cruz Lujan, free safety. He’s got the best football IQ on this team.”
The three scouts looked where he was pointing, their pens moving, their eyes tracking Cruz as he shifted into position before the snap..
The office sat at the end of a hallway on the second floor of the county building, the door open, the overhead light off, a desk lamp and the window doing the work. A framed photo of Yolanda’s kids sat near the edge of the desk in a brass frame, the glass catching the light from the window, the two of them grinning, their school uniforms pressed.
Brynn sat in the chair across the desk with her hands in the pocket of her hoodie, her feet flat on the floor, her eyes on the framed photo.
Yolanda sat behind the desk with the form in front of her, her pen moving down the page, her eyes scanning the printed questions. She wore a blouse with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, a watch on one wrist, a thin bracelet on the other. Her pen stopped at a line and she looked up.
“How’s the placement? Any issues?”
Brynn shrugged. “It’s fine.”
Yolanda looked at her over the form, her pen resting against the paper, waiting. Brynn looked back at her, her thumbs pressing together inside the fabric.
Yolanda wrote something down and moved on. “School?”
“It’s summer.”
“I know it’s summer. I’m asking how it went before it ended.”
“Fine.”
Yolanda set her pen down on the form, her hands folding together on the desk in front of her, her fingers lacing, her weight settling back in the chair. She looked at Brynn across the surface, the folders stacked between them, the mug, the granola bar wrapper, the form with its half-filled answers.
“Brynn, I need you to give me something I can work with here. I’m trying to do my job so nobody has a reason to move you again.”
Brynn’s eyes dropped from Yolanda’s face to the desk. Her thumb worked the inside of the hoodie pocket, the fabric pulling and releasing against her knuckle. “Ain’t no reason to move me. Everything fine”
“Not if I can help it. But I need to know what’s going on with you so I can do something before it gets to that point again.”
Brynn nodded once.
Yolanda picked the pen back up, found her place on the form and moved down the page. “Are you eating enough?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you feel safe?”
“Yeah.”
Yolanda wrote both answers down, her pen pressing into the form, the ink dark on the printed lines. She flipped the page over and set it on one of the stacks, squaring the edges with her palm. She folded her hands together again, her elbows on the desk, looking at Brynn.
“What about after this? You thought about college at all? You only have a couple years left in high school.”
Brynn shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“There are resources for kids in your situation. Grants, financial aid, tuition waivers. Some of them cover everything. Room, books, all of it. You wouldn’t have to figure out how to pay for it on your own.”
Brynn pulled her hands out of the hoodie pocket and set them on her knees, her fingers spreading against the denim. “I just want to sing.”
Yolanda nodded. “There are programs for that too. Schools with music programs that would take somebody with your background and cover the cost. I can pull some information together for you if you want.”
Brynn nodded, her eyes on the desk between them.
Yolanda held her eyes for a second then leaned forward on the desk. “Brynn, I need you to tell me if something’s going on in your life. Something you need help with. Something you need me to handle.”
Brynn looked at her. “Everything’s fine now.”
“Okay.”
She pulled another folder from the stack, opened it across the form and started reading the next page, her pen finding the first line.
The locker room doors swung shut behind them and the heat hit all at once, the asphalt still holding the day even with the sun dropping toward the flats beyond the stadium. Saint, Beau and Cruz crossed the sidewalk and stepped into the parking lot, their duffel bags over their shoulders, their hair still wet, the air pulling the moisture off their skin before they reached the first row of cars. The lot was half empty, the other players’ trucks and sedans scattered across the spaces closest to the field house, a few coaches’ cars parked along the curb near the entrance.
Beau pulled his keys out of his pocket, tossed them once in the air, caught them against his palm. “Where we eating?”
Cruz shifted his duffel to his other shoulder. “I don’t care. Not Sonic.”
“What’s wrong with Sonic?”
“I been to Sonic four times this week, bro. That shit getting old.”
Saint shook his head. “Motherfucker like meat in his fucking mouth.”
“Man, pause. The shit just taste good.”
“Like he said,” Beau said. “You like the taste of meat in your mouth. Cylindrical shit.”
They were crossing the lot, their shadows stretching long across the asphalt in the low light, when Saint saw Ms. Tierney at her car a few rows over. The trunk was open, her arms wrapped around a cardboard box, another box still sitting inside the trunk next to a tote bag and a stack of folders. She was struggling with the weight of it, her hip braced against the bumper, her keys hanging from her finger by the ring.
She saw him over the top of the box, shifted it to one hip, freed a hand and waved. Saint waved back. She tilted her head toward the car, waving him over.
He looked at Beau and Cruz. “Hold up.”
He walked across the lot toward her, his duffel swinging from his shoulder, his cleats clicking on the asphalt where the rubber met the pavement. Kaitlyn set the box down on the edge of the trunk, the cardboard scraping the carpet liner, and pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her wrist. A sheen of sweat sat along her hairline. The box was full of sketchpads, pencil sets in plastic packaging, bottles of acrylic paint with the caps color-coded.
“Have you tried to get to any of those exhibits or classes I told you about?”
Saint shook his head. “I been busy.”
Kaitlyn nodded, her hands resting on the edge of the box, her thumbs pressing into the cardboard. “I get it. But you should make time for it, Saint. That talent’s going to take you further than football.”
Saint shrugged, his bag shifting on his shoulder.
Kaitlyn said, “If it’s a transportation thing, I can bring you to any of the ones that are close. It wouldn’t be a problem.”
“It ain’t that.”
Kaitlyn looked at him for a beat, her weight settling onto one hip. She nodded. “Okay.”
She picked the box back up, settled it against her side, the weight of it pulling her shoulder down. “I’ll see you around, Saint.”
Saint nodded, turned and walked back across the lot toward Beau’s truck..
Beau and Cruz were standing between Beau’s truck and Cruz’s car, the two vehicles parked side by side, Beau leaning on the bed with his arms folded across his chest, Cruz sitting on the hood of his car with his feet on the bumper, his phone in his hand. Saint walked up and Beau looked past him toward Kaitlyn’s car, where she was carrying the box across the lot toward the building, her keys swinging from her finger, her stride uneven under the weight.
“Who’s that?”
“Art teacher.”
Cruz watched her walk toward the building, his phone resting on his thigh. “She bad as fuck. You sure she a teacher?”
Beau’s grin pulled wide across his face. “I’d be drawing on something alright. That fucking pussy.”
Saint sucked his teeth, swung his duffel off his shoulder and tossed it into the bed of Beau’s truck, the bag landing on the metal with a thud. “Where we going to eat?”
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redsox907
- Posts: 5842
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7570
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Litany for Survival
After the lore of Mireya Rosas, I wouldn't put the plot of Saint fucking a teacher past your pen, big dawg.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16569
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Litany for Survival
Captain Canada wrote: ↑Today, 10:35After the lore of Mireya Rosas, I wouldn't put the plot of Saint fucking a teacher past your pen, big dawg.
Is y'all cool?
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redsox907
- Posts: 5842
- Joined: 01 Jun 2025, 12:40
