Chapter 26: Brainwashing

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The three-day break ended.

That afternoon, the Normans were due back together.

In his office, Coach Thomas stood before the mirror and put on his cap. He straightened the collar of his polo, tucked the shirt into his waistband, clipped on a silver whistle, and tucked a clipboard under one arm.

He did the same small ritual before every trip to the field.

If a coach treated practice casually, how could he demand seriousness from players? A coach was both instructor and mirror. He exposed weakness, and he gave everyone something to imitate.

Outside the office, the rest of the staff had gathered. Thomas gave them the training plan in a few short sentences.

"They’ve had a few days off, and you never know how teenage boys spend freedom. Today we get their legs back under them. Also, our quarterback is a complete beginner, so I’m handling him personally."

The coaches left the office area together.

When they reached the field, Thomas stopped dead.

At least a hundred students were gathered around the edge of the stadium, clapping, shouting, and whistling.

"What the fuck?"

Thomas could not understand how the team he had spent years disciplining had turned into a sideshow.

His players were not warming up. They were standing at the sideline like spectators. Flea, the idiot, was actually whistling.

For one painful second, Thomas missed Adam Newman. If Adam had been healthy, this nonsense would never have survived long enough for Thomas to see it.

He blew the whistle.

The shriek cut across the stadium.

"What are you staring at? Sharon Stone in an interrogation room? Everybody out. Now."

The reference was crude, but everyone understood it. Basic Instinct had made that scene famous two years earlier, and high school boys did not need the details explained.

The crowd scattered.

Once the students cleared, Thomas finally saw the cause.

Nolan Callahan.

He stood near his own thirty-five, took the football, and launched it toward the far goalpost. The ball sailed over most of the field and struck the crossbar cleanly.

An ultra-long throw like that demanded feel. A normal person would have been proud simply to heave the ball that far. Hitting the crossbar was another matter.

It was also almost useless in a game. Too much air. Too slow. Any playoff defense worth fearing would never let that throw develop.

Nolan was showing off.

Thomas even saw someone with a camera among the departing students.

The school paper.

So the field was his stage now?

Thomas’s face darkened.

"Everyone else warms up, then conditioning, then contact periods. Move."

"What about me?" Nolan asked from directly in front of him.

"You can start by learning the practice rules," Thomas said. "Every line. Forward and backward."

"Coach," Flea said quickly, trying to defend him, "Nolan didn’t really start it. Rachel from Highlights brought people to take pictures and asked him to show one throw. Then he kept backing up, and people kept crowding around. It was almost a world-record throw. We couldn’t make them leave, and practice hadn’t started yet."

Thomas smiled at Flea.

"So I’m being unreasonable?"

Nolan stepped in before Flea could dig the hole deeper.

"I’ll tell Rachel that all Highlights interviews and photos happen after practice from now on. Nobody interferes with training. I’ll copy the team practice rules tonight and hand them to you tomorrow."

Only then did Thomas’s expression ease.

"Go train, Flea."

Nolan gave Flea a look.

"Right." Flea escaped.

"You’re the quarterback," Thomas said once they were alone. "That makes you a leader. I’m going to hold you to a higher standard than everyone else. You set the tone."

"I will."

Nolan started to turn toward warmups, but Thomas stopped him.

Instead, the two of them stood on the sideline while the rest of the team stretched.

It was not a privilege for Nolan. It was a quarterback’s job. On any football team, the quarterback worked closer to the head coach than anyone else. He had to understand the offense, communicate adjustments, organize huddles, and help run periods the staff could not micromanage every second.

"Stop practicing circus throws in private," Thomas said. "Those balls hang too long. Playoff opponents won’t give you that time."

"I wasn’t practicing."

Nolan shrugged.

He had actually slacked off over the break. Nights with Katherine had leaned more toward romance than extra reps. Somehow, his feel for the ball had improved anyway.

Adam had once shown him a similar throw from thirty yards.

Nolan had doubled the distance and made it cleaner.

Maybe his passing ability had already passed Adam’s.

Talent was the only available explanation, and even that felt too small.

"If you didn’t practice it," Thomas said, "how did you hit the crossbar?"

Nolan scratched his head.

"From there to the crossbar was roughly seventy-five yards."

Thomas coughed once.

"Anybody in your family play football?"

"No."

"What does your mother do?"

"Grocery cashier. Sells insurance on the side. Housecleaning on weekends. Writes scripts at night. She used to be a housewife."

None of it had anything to do with football.

Katherine was a volleyball player, but she and Nolan shared no blood.

"Mutation," Thomas said at last. "That’s the only answer."

"Could be."

"Then be careful. I don’t want government men dragging you away for some MKUltra-style experiment."

Thomas laughed at his own joke.

MKUltra had become shorthand for every secret experiment people half remembered and half invented. In practice, it was mostly tied to government research into LSD and mind control, which was strange enough without the rumors.

"Come on," Thomas said. "Back to my office."

"No practice today?"

"Not yet. Your body might already be a quarterback’s body, but your brain isn’t one. Throwing you into drills without the right language won’t help."

Thomas smiled.

"First, I need to brainwash you."

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