We're losing. We're losing by twenty points, and I'm sitting on the bench watching it happen. Bryant's seated on the bench next to me, and there's tension radiating off of both of us in waves. My dad was never one for time outs as a form of punishment, but I'm starting to understand why some parents swear by them. I'd almost prefer my dad's fists right now.

Tyler gets sacked for the tenth time this game, and I push to my feet in frustration. Coach turns as soon as I stand, and he glares at me.

"Sit, or sit during our next three games," he snaps before turning his attention back to the game.

As if there's any hope of salvaging this game. He's sitting on his hands and letting this happen. The tension might be more palpable around Bryant and I, but the whole team is feeling it. The only thing that makes this worse is it's an away game, and we all know we're going to have to ride on a bus together once this shit show is over.

At least Bryant hasn't made any snide comments yet. He's sitting beside me perfectly silently. He probably wants to play in our next game as badly as I do.

When the clock runs out in the fourth, we all sigh a collective sigh. At least that misery is over. We walk to the locker room with our heads held low, and coach follows us inside. Usually during Coach's post game speeches, I'm dying to get in the shower, but there's not a single bead of sweat on my body right now, so that's not a problem.

"Well, that could have gone better," Coach says once he joins us.

"That's putting it mildly," Fremont, a tight end, says.

The kid has talent. He's going places, and football is taking him there. He takes the game seriously, and he's not happy with how tonight went.

"When we have talent sitting on the bench unused, it makes things ten times more frustration, right?" Coach asks, rubbing salt in our wounds.

My eyes flicker over to Bryant, and to my relief, he looks more miserable than I feel. At least I'm not alone in this.

"Go get showered," he tells the team, "Practice is going to be fun tomorrow, and you need your rest, so let's get out of here sooner rather than later," Coach says.

Naturally, all of the guys file to the showers while Bryant and I stay standing in our perfectly dry uniforms.

"Did you two figure your shit out? I could use my star players next game," he says.

"There's nothing to figure out Coach," Bryant says, "we live together. We can play on the same team without issue."

I want to laugh and cry equally at Bryant's words. We live together but leaving out the part where we still can't even be in the same room seems almost comical. Coach's attention turns to me.

"It won't be a problem anymore," I promise him.

"You will sit together on the bus every away game until I feel you no longer need to. At practice, you will check your issues as soon as you step onto the field, and you'll figure out a way to communicate well enough off the field to work together on the field. Am I clear?" Coach says to us.

"Yes, sir," Bryant and I say in unison.

"In order to ensure that happens, you'll be spending your free periods in Mrs. Shipley's office until I see improvement," he says.

My head snaps in Coach's direction in disbelief, but I find a perfectly serious scowl staring back at me. Mrs. Shipley is our school counselor. I'm essentially being sentenced to therapy with Bryant. I can't think of anything more miserable.

"Did you enjoy watching your team lose tonight without being able to help?" he asks us.

I stand corrected.

"No, sir," we say together again.

"You'll do everything I just said without a single complaint, or you'll sit the bench for the rest of the season. And every pass you drop from now on I feel is due to lack of communication will result in running ten suicides each. Am I clear?" he asks.

Fuck.

"Yes sir," I respond.

Bryant doesn't answer, and I look up to see him fuming. Instead of having his anger directed at Coach, he's glaring at me.

"Am I clear?!" Coach screams.

We both flinch.

"Yes, sir," Bryant finally says reluctantly.

"Good, now everybody, load up! We leave in twenty," he shouts to the room before aiming a pointed look in mine and Bryant's directions that means we can't wait around before getting on the bus until the rest of our teammates are out of the shower.

We walk out to the bus together in silence. When we reach the bus, the only person on it is the driver. I hang back so Bryant can pick the seat we sit in. The last thing I want to do is to exacerbate the situation by choosing the wrong seat. Bryant sits in the front of the bus, which surprises me, but I keep my mouth shut, and I slide in beside him. Most of the time, players aim for the back seats.

"This is such bullshit," he snaps.

I feel my skin heat in anger.

"I agree," I mumble.

Bryant doesn't respond. Instead, he pulls out his headphones from his pocket, plugs them into his phone and looks out the window. Players start to file onto the bus one by one, and eventually we have a full load. Because Bryant chose the front seat of the bus, Coach sits directly across from us. I look over at him as he sits, and he looks back at Bryant and I to see Bryant pouting in the seat next to me. The unimpressed look Coach gives me makes me flinch.

I consider trying to talk to Bryant, but he's sending fuck off vibes stronger than I think he ever has, so I decide to ignore him back until Coach explicitly tells me to strike up a conversation. Coach doesn't say anything of the sort, so the ride back to the school is spent in complete silence. Nothing changes when we climb into my car and drive home after unloading the bus.

The day after our torturous game, Coach walks up to me in the hallway.

"Don't forget, Caruthers. Your free period is with Mrs. Shipley until further notice," he reminds me as if I need the reminder.

I've been doing nothing but dreading it since the words passed through his lips at yesterday's game. I take a deep breath to keep from losing my temper. He threatened benching me for the rest of the season yesterday, and yesterday's game proved he follows through on his threats.

"I remember," I mumble.

"Don't sound so miserable about it," Coach says, "I think it'll be good for the two of you, or I wouldn't make you do it."

I want to punch something. Instead I merely nod. I don't want to talk to him about this. He's being a dick making me do it, and he knows it. I'm not going to act like I'm cool with it. Sure, I won't complain outwardly, but I'm not going to act thrilled either. Coach reaches out and squeezes my shoulder.

"It'll be great. Mrs. Shipley is great," he tells me before turning down a hallway.

My free period is my third period of the day. I wasn't aware Kyle shared it with me, but the two of us don't exactly braid each other's hair in our free time. I usually do homework for my math class I have fourth period during my free period so these periods with Mrs. Shipley are screwing me in more than one way.

When the bell rings, releasing us for third period, I drop my book off at my locker, and I walk down the hallway to Mrs. Shipley's office. I only know where it is because that's where we have to sign up for our classes each year.

When I reach the doorway, I hesitate outside of it for a moment. Kyle is already inside. He's seated in one of the two chairs in front of her desk silently—looking about as thrilled about this as I am. Normally I'd be thrilled he's being thrown a curve ball for once in his life, but I don't love it's at my expense.

"Come on in, Bryant, and please shut the door behind you" Mrs. Shipley says when she sees me.