Whistleblower ✓

09 | the interview

Wednesday came before I was ready for it.

It was a bright and chilly morning. I hunched my back against the crisp breeze and clutched at my paper cup of steaming coffee for warmth, staring out at the training field and doing my best not to have a panic attack.

There was a clipboard tucked between my butt and the bleachers. It had a page of questions that Ellison had helped me draft—so I wouldn't forget anything important—but she'd also encouraged me to follow my instincts.

My instincts were telling me to sprint home and throw myself back into bed, but I didn't think that was what Ellison had meant.

My right knee bounced as I exhaled, breath visible in the morning air.

I checked my phone again.

Seven twenty-eight. Practice was almost over.

The football team had been there since six o'clock. I'd arrived at seven to give myself plenty of time to gather my courage and gulp down a black coffee (which I'd thought would make me feel very mature and put-together, but just left my stomach churning from the acidity).

My phone lit up with a pair of texts from Hanna.

You are a strong confident kickass journalist and I believe in you.

Also we need more toilet paper can you steal some from campus?

I finished the last third of my coffee in one gulp.

The team had been scrimmaging for the last fifteen minutes, but Andre kept glancing over in between plays and waving at me with the abandon of a five-year-old who'd spotted his best friend at the grocery store. Each time, a few of the other players turned and narrowed their eyes at me, trying to figure out who the girl with the clipboard was.

They could probably tell I wasn't an NFL scout.

Andre was in a dark green practice jersey, so I quickly deduced that the guys in green were second string and the guys in white were the starters.

Bodie St. James looked very tan in white.

The sight of him made my already-tender stomach twist into knots, so I tried to watch Andre. Then Coach Vaughn pulled Andre to the side to talk him through a play, and I had to resort to examining a nonexistent hangnail on my left thumb.

Finally, Vaughn blew his whistle.

The shrill sound cut through the air and made my eardrums wobble.

It was seven thirty.

I collected my empty coffee cup and tugged my clipboard out from underneath me. Then I climbed over two rows of bleachers and hopped to the ground, feeling like perhaps the least athletic being to ever take the field.

It was a long and lonely walk across the grass to where the players were huddled around their head coach. Truman Vaughn was my height—about five eight, give or take—and built like a panther, with lithe muscle and a cutting stare. His lips were narrow and his dark hair was speckled grey around the temples. Beside him stood the assistant coach, Chester Gordon, a big-eared redhead whose eyebrows were practically translucent. The players stood in a semi-circle before them.

"—we'll run it again tomorrow, bright and early. Lions on three."

The boys erupted in a single, unified, "One-two-three-Lions!"

I took a deep breath and scolded myself for feeling so nervous. I'd interviewed people before. I knew how to do this. Besides, Bodie was a nice person, either by nature or by some kind of self-serving choice, so there was nothing to be afraid of.