Chapter 40: Burbank

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Morning sat quietly over Burbank.

The streets were clean and almost empty. Cars passed only now and then. The neighborhood sat near the northern edge of Los Angeles, close to Interstate 5 and the long road up the state.

Inside one of the houses, a gray-haired man sat with one leg crossed over the other, reading the newspaper with the calm of someone who had earned a slow morning.

John had spoken at BHHS’s graduation ceremony a few days earlier. With classes ending, he should have been deciding where to take his wife and daughter before the next year swallowed him again.

That was one of the advantages of being a high school principal. The pay was not extraordinary, but the calendar gave a man breathing room.

This year, though, one more problem waited.

The BHHS athletic director had been tied to questionable private dealings with the oil operator connected to the campus drilling site. District officials had sent investigators. For several days, staff members and administrators had been called in to answer questions.

John knew more than he wanted to. The athletic director had been at the school longer than he had and sat close to the board’s old power circles. John himself had been appointed because enough factions could tolerate him.

Now the district wanted a cleanup.

John would cooperate.

He would also avoid saying anything unnecessary.

Three years from retirement, a man learned to leave every side a path to save face.

The strangest part was how it had started: the private scandal of an oil executive’s son, an Orange County Observer story, and one thread pulled until the athletic director’s name came loose.

"Dad, have you seen my contact lens?"

His daughter appeared with her hair in chaos, a toothbrush in her mouth, and one shoulder slipping out of her sleep shirt.

She was in her thirties and still looked, in moments like this, impossible to raise properly.

Grace was the thing that worried him most. She had been married once, briefly, and divorced eight years ago. Still single. Still careless with herself. Eventually he had brought her into the school to do what she knew best: cheerleading.

Middle school, high school, college, then a stretch with the Los Angeles Rams cheer squad. Now she coached.

On campus, cheer carried shine. Outside it, the world cared less. The salary was not much.

"On the shoe cabinet," John said.

Then he tried again.

"I have a friend who..."

"Tell me when I get back," Grace called from down the hall. "I have cheer practice. Nationals are coming."

John closed his mouth.

The landline rang.

For a second, he thought the investigators had finally reached him.

It was the district office instead.

The athletic director had been suspended that morning. John would temporarily take over his duties.

"I understand."

He hung up, put on his glasses properly, and looked down at the sports section.

John had been a devoted Los Angeles Rams fan for years. He read the sports page every morning.

Today, he saw BHHS staring back at him.

The headline was impossible to miss:

NEW BEVERLY HILLS QUARTERBACK READY TO PUT SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA’S POWERHOUSE ON NOTICE

It was a challenge in headline form. A young athlete had openly called out the strongest high school football program in the region.

The article introduced Nolan Callahan, a sudden quarterback from BHHS whose performance in the Ocean League finale had earned MVP attention. It praised his arm, his physical tools, and a downhill running style that looked like a road grader had learned to throw.

The final line made John sit straighter.

He may be the best high school quarterback to emerge in California in the last decade.

John read the article once.

Then he read it again.

The photograph showed a handsome young man giving a thumbs-up, confident without looking empty.

John felt a pulse of excitement he had not expected.

The last time a BHHS football player drew attention like this, John had not even met Grace’s mother.

He also noticed what Nolan had said about the school. The boy had praised BHHS’s athletic investment, its staff, its equipment, and even the indoor facility that could convert between a gym and a pool. It was better advertising than the admissions office usually managed.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

John called his daughter back.

"Do you know this Nolan Callahan?"

Grace looked at the paper.

"Of course. I wanted him on the cheer squad. Still do, if you want my professional opinion."

"He is going nowhere except football," John said.

The decision settled in him immediately.

Nolan was not graduating tomorrow. If BHHS handled him properly, he could give the Normans time, attention, and maybe the kind of football relevance the school had been missing for years.

For a public high school with private-school expectations, a successful football team was more than pride. It drew families. It drew athletes. It justified facilities. It brought sponsors, donors, ticket money, camps, and alumni enthusiasm. Santa Ana had built a name that way.

"The Normans play Burbank next," John said. "That field is not far from here."

He would attend in person.

Grace’s eyes moved.

"Then I am going too."

...

The team bus stopped at a chain hotel in Burbank.

The Normans would stay the night, play the next evening, sleep there again, and return the following morning.

Thomas stood at the front of the bus with one hand gripping a seatback.

"Everyone stays in the hotel tonight. No exceptions. Rest early. Tomorrow morning, when I knock, if anyone is missing from his room, he does not play."

Nolan shared a room with Flea.

The second Flea entered, he bounced onto the bed.

"This is soft."

Nolan took the play sheet from his bag.

Thomas had built new variations off the three packages from the last game. More route combinations, more backfield shifts, more tags from Diamond, shotgun, and I-formation. They would not be as easy to read this time.

"You think Thomas locks us in and then goes out to have fun?" Flea asked.

"Flea," Nolan said, not looking up, "how are you and Matic with Scissors?"

"Pretty good. Relax. We have this game. Did you hear Burbank’s cheer squad is supposed to be great?"

Flea obviously cared more about that than route spacing.

"Our real opponent is Santa Ana," Nolan said.

Burbank was the soft opening. That did not mean they could afford contempt. If the Normans wanted to go further, Santa Ana was the wall waiting behind the first door.

That evening, Nolan and Flea went downstairs to the hotel buffet. Lodging and meals were covered by the school.

Flea knew the place already. BHHS had used the same chain before. It was one of the district’s preferred vendors, not only for football but for other sports, camps, and school-sponsored travel.

That night, Nolan used the hotel phone to talk with Katherine until Flea was too tired to complain anymore.

The next morning, the Normans arrived at Burbank High’s stadium on schedule.

Oddly, the opposing players were nowhere in sight.

The home cheer squad was practicing near the field instead, running final patterns for the evening’s routines and crowd work.

For high school and college cheer, sideline work was its own event: signs, chants, stunts, dance counts, formations, and a kind of school spirit that had to look effortless after hours of repetition.

Nolan looked twice.

Flea had not lied. Burbank’s squad was crisp, bright, and coordinated, all blue-and-white uniforms and matching bows.

Nolan looked only twice.

On the road, there was no point getting tangled with the opposing cheer squad. In a high school, any cheerleader who got too friendly with the enemy would become school gossip by morning.

Enemy was enemy.

So Nolan turned, caught Flea still staring, and fired the football into his chest.

"Practice."

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