Sons of the Mesa.

[Soapy]

Season 1, Episode 7
The backpack sat open on the bed, half-empty, and Kayla was standing in front of the closet.

“Kayla.”

“I’m looking."

“You’ve been looking for twenty minutes.”

She pulled a shirt off a hanger, looked at it, and put it back. Micah leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed.

"Where’s your toothbrush?"

“In the bathroom.”

“Go get it.”

“I’m getting it.”

"I don’t get why you don’t just leave one over there."

She turned around and looked at him. “Why don’t you leave one over there?"

He didn’t answer that.

She slung the backpack over one shoulder and stood there in the middle of the room.

“It’s not fair,” she said again. “You don’t have to go. You never have to go."

“You’ll get to decide when you’re older.”

“Like you do?”

He didn’t answer that either. He pushed off the doorframe and turned toward the hallway.

“Come with me,” she said. “At least tonight. Please.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Stuff.”

She followed him down the hall, the backpack bumping against her hip with each step. “It’s so boring over there. There’s nothing to do. And the food is terrible."

“At least you have your own room over there.”

"You can say the same thing about being in prison."

He laughed. “White Mountain’s gonna be fun though."

"A bunch of four year olds running around and screaming. Sounds like fun to me."

"Now you know how I feel."

She stifled her smile on that one. They came through the living room and Delvin was on the couch. His chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of somebody who’d been out for a while. The television was on but the sound was off.

Micah stepped past him. The floorboard by the door creaked and Delvin didn’t stir. Kayla followed, quieter, and the screen door slapped shut behind them both.

The fire was low when he got to it. He knelt and fed it another piece of wood, the kindling catching quick, the flames licking up the side of the log and throwing light across the faces sitting around it.

Kele was in the beach chair closest to the fire, the one with the cupholder that had been broken since last summer. Loma was on the blanket next to him, her legs folded under her, and Destiny sat on the other side of Loma, her phone in her lap, the screen lighting up her face every few seconds. Marisol was on the ground across from them, cross-legged, a can of something in her hand. Cheyenne sat next to her.

The rest of the group was spread out behind them. Ahote and Sik had claimed the bed of one of the trucks, their legs dangling off the tailgate. Dustin and Garrison were on the other side of the fire in a pair of chairs, the plastic creaking every time one of them shifted. Silas and Curtis were on the ground near the cooler, passing something back and forth. Brendan was on the far side, talking to Brianna and Tanya, their voices carrying over the crackle of the fire. Sihu and Yoki were on a blanket near the edge of the circle, their heads close together, laughing about something.

Micah pushed the log further into the center of the fire with a stick. The flames jumped and settled.

Cheyenne pulled a small bag out of her pocket and started rolling. She had the paper between her fingers, the lighter in her other hand, and she was about to spark it when Micah sucked his teeth and nodded toward Destiny, Loma’s sister and the youngest in the group.

Cheyenne rolled her eyes and got up, brushing the dirt off her jeans, and walked toward the tree line at the edge of the clearing. She sat down on a rock about thirty feet out, her back to the fire, and the lighter flicked.

Kele reached behind his chair and came up with the handle of Fireball. He held it out without looking, and Micah took it. The plastic was warm from sitting near the fire. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig. The cinnamon hit the back of his throat and he held it for a second, then leaned forward and spit a mouthful into the fire. The flames erupted, blue and gold, and the circle erupted with it. Kele laughed. Dustin whooped. Garrison clapped his hands together once. Destiny looked up from her phone and smiled.

Micah handed the handle back to Kele and sat down on the ground, his knees pulled up. He watched the fire settle back to where it had been, the new wood catching, the flames steadying. He let himself smile, just for a second, just to himself, and then it was gone.

“I’m telling you, bro,” Kele said. He took a pull from the handle and passed it to Loma. "There’s gonna be coaches from everywhere.”

Micah grunted.

"Boise was there last year. I think Arizona State too."

“I’ll check with my dad.”

Kele shook his head. “Man, I’m telling you. My only offer came from a camp. Ain’t nobody looking at your film unless they see you at a camp, bro. That’s just facts."

“I hear you.”

“So you’re coming?"

“I said I’ll check.”

Kele opened his mouth to say something else but Loma put her hand on his arm and he closed it.

From the tree line, Cheyenne’s voice cut through. “Micah.”

He didn’t look up.

“Micah, I’m serious. I’m hearing shit out here.”

“Probably a squirrel.”

“It ain’t no fucking squirrel. If I get mauled by something out here I’m gonna haunt your ass as a ghost. Every night."

He shook his head as he pushed himself up off the ground and started walking toward her.

Kele leaned back in his chair. “Just take her behind the trees and get it over with.”

Loma hit him. Hard, on the shoulder, and he laughed and grabbed her hand and she was laughing too, trying to pull it back.

The truck idled in the parking lot, the engine ticking under the hood, the AC blowing cool now that he'd been sitting for a minute. The go-kart track hummed behind the fence, the sound of the engines carrying over the noise of the lot. Somebody's birthday banner hung over the entrance gate, balloons tied to the posts on either side, sagging a little in the heat.

He checked his phone. No messages. He set it on the passenger seat and looked out the windshield at the entrance.

A family came out, the father carrying a kid on his shoulders, the mother pushing a stroller with the other hand. The kid on the shoulders had a balloon tied around his wrist.

He watched the entrance.

Valerie came through the gate first. She had a party bag in one hand, the kind with the tissue paper sticking out the top, and her phone in the other. She spotted him across the lot and raised her hand in a small wave. Kayla came through behind her.

He got out of the truck and nodded.

Valerie crossed the lot to the truck. She had a little bit of something on her shirt, frosting, maybe, or juice from the party, and she either hadn't noticed or didn't care. She set the party bag on the hood and leaned against it.

Kayla had already drifted toward the truck bed, peeling the wrapper down on her lollipop, not quite part of the conversation and not quite gone from it either.

"Thank you for making the drive all the way out here," Valerie said.

"It's fine."

"Seriously. You're a lifesaver."

He grunted.

She tilted her head toward the entrance. "You want to come in? They've got go-karts. Mini golf. It's pretty fun actually."

"Thanks but I'm good."

"Come on." She was smiling. "It's okay to have fun sometime. You don't have to be so serious all the time."

He let it sit there. She held it for a beat. Then it went.

"Alright," she said. "Well. Thank you again."

She pushed off the hood and went to the sedan parked a few spots over. She opened the trunk and came back with Kayla's backpack. Kayla met her halfway, already knowing how this part went, the half-hug, the cheek-kiss that landed somewhere between the cheek and the air beside it. Valerie straightened, smoothed Kayla's hair once with her hand, and looked at Micah.

He nodded.

She nodded back. Walked to the park entrance and went through it without looking back

Micah opened the passenger door. Kayla climbed in and pulled the seatbelt across her chest. He got in on his side and started the engine.

“You can have fun sometime,” she said, in a voice that wasn’t quite Valerie’s but was close enough.

He laughed. She laughed too, the sound of it filling the cab for a second before it died down.

The screen door was propped open with a brick. He could hear the television from the porch, some game show, the host's voice carrying out into the evening. He pulled Kayla through the door by the arm because she'd stopped on the porch to check her phone and they'd been standing outside long enough.

Kayla shook him off and went down the hall. He could already hear Arianna's voice from somewhere in the back of the house, and then Kayla's joining it, the two of them talking over each other the way they did when they hadn't seen each other in a couple of days.

The house was full the way it always was on Sundays. His grandmother was at the stove, her back to the room, moving between the pot and the counter without hurrying. His aunt was at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. Cedric, her son, leaned over her shoulder, showing her something on his phone. Somebody out back laughed at something, a man's voice who sounded like Makya, his grandfather, and then it was quiet again.

Delvin was in the chair by the window. Beer in hand, feet up, watching the television without really watching it. Jace was on the couch across from him, a plate balanced on his legs with the last of something on it.

Micah crossed the room and sat on the arm of the couch near Jace's feet. Jace didn't move.

"Dad."

Delvin didn't look away from the television. "Yeah."

"There's a camp. At NAU. End of June."

Delvin took a drink.

"What kind of camp?"

"For football. Some of the guys on the team are going."

Delvin was quiet for a second.

"As long as it doesn't interfere with the job," Delvin said. He still hadn't looked away from the television. "You wanted that job. A lot of other people did too. A lot of other people still want that job. Need that job."

"It won't."

Delvin grunted. Took another drink. The wheel on the television kept spinning.

Micah sat there for a second longer. Then he pushed off the arm of the couch and crossed back through the living room toward the hall.

He let it stay on his face for a second, just to himself, where nobody could see it. Then he kept walking.

[redsox907]

All these boys do is grunt eh? racismo, no?

Micah trying to big dog with the weights is why he's a slow ass Hopi

[Caesar]

Oh, so Micah is afraid of the pussy. 180 from nasty ass Brice Colton.

Expecting Valerie to be shacking up with a white man. Gives them vibes.

[Soapy]

All these boys do is grunt eh? racismo, no?

Micah trying to big dog with the weights is why he's a slow ass Hopi

racismo shouts in the same post where he can't get past a big (pause) Hopi

Oh, so Micah is afraid of the pussy. 180 from nasty ass Brice Colton.

Expecting Valerie to be shacking up with a white man. Gives them vibes.

You need to talk to #thatlady about your oversexualized upbringing and free yourself of its trauma brother

#nooticer on Valerie but close

[Soapy]

Season 1, Episode 8 (Season Finale)
Micah’s eyes opened in the dark and he laid there for a second, the ceiling above him the same as it had been when he’d closed his eyes, the same as it would be tomorrow. He reached over and killed the alarm before it could start, the screen reading 4:17, and sat up.

He crossed the room in the dark, found his sweats on the chair, pulled them on. The shirt was on the floor near the dresser. He stepped into it and pushed through the door into the hallway.

The house was quiet. The lights were off in the hallway. He didn’t turn it on. He didn’t need to. He knew the hallway by feel, the creak of the third board from the end, the way the doorframe caught his shoulder if he didn’t angle himself right.

The kitchen was colder than the rest of the house. He hit the light. The dishes from last night were still in the drying rack. He set them in the cabinet one at a time, the plates first, then the bowls, then the cups.

He pulled the skillet off the hook above the stove and set it on the burner. The oil went in next, a thin pour, and he turned the heat on low while he went to the fridge. The eggs were on the second shelf, the carton half-full. He pulled it out and set it on the counter. The bacon was in the drawer underneath, still in its package, the plastic cold against his fingers. He set it next to the eggs. The potatoes were in the bin on the floor, the bag rolled down at the top. He pulled three out, washed them under the tap, and set them on the cutting board.

The knife was where he’d left it, blade down in the drying rack. He dried it with the towel hanging from the oven handle and started on the potatoes. Diced, not too small. The blade made a steady sound against the wood, the pieces stacking up on one side of the board. He scraped them into the skillet and the oil popped when they hit it. He stirred them with the spatula and let them sit.

The bacon came next. He laid the strips in the other skillet, the one with the higher sides, and the fat started to render almost immediately, the smell of it filling the kitchen. He turned the heat down on the potatoes and flipped them. The bacon hissed.

He cracked the eggs into a bowl one at a time, eight of them, and whisked them with a fork until the yolks broke and the color went even. Salt. Pepper. He poured them into the third pan, the one with the lid, and set the lid on top. Scrambled.

The coffee maker was on the counter by the microwave. He filled the reservoir from the tap, scooped the grounds in, and hit the button. The machine gurgled and started.

He pulled the tortillas from the fridge, the pack still half-full, and set them on the counter near the stove. The potatoes were browning on one side. He flipped them again. The bacon was curling at the edges. He turned the strips and the fat popped against the back of his hand. He didn’t flinch.

The eggs were setting. He lifted the lid and stirred them once, breaking up the curds, and put the lid back on. The coffee was dripping into the pot, the smell of it mixing with the bacon and the potatoes and the eggs.

He pulled three plates from the cabinet and set them on the counter. The first plate got potatoes, a scoop of eggs, two strips of bacon, and a tortilla folded in half on the side. He covered it with foil and set it in the oven on warm. The second plate got the same, smaller portions, the bacon cut into pieces. The third plate got eggs only, no potatoes, no bacon, the tortilla torn into strips along the edge. He covered both and set them in the oven next to the first.

The kitchen was full of heat now. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist and turned to the sink. The cutting board went in first, then the bowl from the eggs, then the fork. He ran the water hot and scrubbed them with the sponge, set them in the drying rack. The skillets were next. He let them soak for a minute while he wiped down the counter, the rag moving in slow circles, catching the grease and the crumbs and the bits of potato skin he’d missed.

The skillets went into the drying rack. He wiped the stove down, the front of the cabinets where the grease had splattered, the handle of the refrigerator. The coffee maker beeped. He pulled the pot out and poured a cup, black, and set it on the counter near the stove.

He opened the fridge again. The chicken was on the bottom shelf, still in its package. He pulled it out and set it on the counter. The rice was in the cabinet below the stove, the big bag, half-full. He pulled it out and measured two cups into the pot. The beans were in the pantry, the cans stacked three high. He pulled two down and set them next to the chicken.

The chicken went into the big pot first. He seasoned it with what was on the rack above the stove, salt, pepper, the garlic powder, the onion powder, the chili powder that was almost empty. He added water until it covered the chicken and set it on the back burner, the heat on low.

The rice went into the other pot with four cups of water. He set it on the front burner, heat on low, lid on. The beans he opened and drained, then poured into the small saucepan with a little water and set it on the third burner.

He wiped his hands on the towel and turned to the laundry.

The basket was in the hallway outside his room. He picked it up and carried it through the kitchen to the back door and pushed through it into the yard. The line ran between the overhang post and the mesquite at the far edge of the yard, the load he'd hung before bed still there, stiff from the night air and dry. He worked through it fast, pulling things off the line and folding them against his chest, Arianna's shirts first, then Kayla's, then Delvin's work socks in pairs, then his own. He stacked everything in the basket and carried it back inside.

He went back inside. The chicken was starting to simmer. He lifted the lid and stirred it once, turned the heat down a notch. The rice was going. The beans were going. The kitchen smelled like all of it at once now, the bacon still lingering underneath, the coffee, the chicken, the beans.

He pulled the foil off the plates in the oven and checked them. He re-covered them and left them there.

The chicken was falling apart when he lifted the lid. He pulled it out with tongs and set it on the cutting board to cool. The rice was done. He turned the burner off and left the lid on. The beans were done. He turned that burner off too.

The chicken cooled enough to handle. He pulled it apart with his fingers, shredding it into a bowl, the meat coming off the bone in long strips. He mixed in the juice from the pot, a little at a time, until it was moist but not wet. He covered the bowl with foil and set it in the fridge.

The rice went into a container. The beans went into another. He set them both in the fridge next to the chicken. The tortillas went in a bag on the shelf. The salsa was already in there, the jar half-full. He pulled it to the front so somebody would see it.

The kitchen was clean. The counters were wiped. The stove was wiped. The sink was empty. The drying rack held the skillets and the cutting board and the bowl. The coffee cup sat on the counter near the stove, still warm.

He checked the clock.

He went to his room. The bag was on the floor by the dresser, already packed from the night before. Cleats. Shorts. Two shirts. Socks. Water bottle. He zipped it closed and slung it over his shoulder.

He pulled the front door open slow and stepped out onto the porch.

The folding chair creaked under him when he shifted his weight. The room was small, maybe fifteen by twenty. A whiteboard at the front. Eight other people in the room. Maybe nine. A woman near the front, maybe thirty. A guy in a worker’s jacket two seats over. A younger kid near the door who kept checking his phone. A couple of others he didn’t recognize at all, faces he’d never seen around the reservation.

Then the ones he did know. Tanya’s cousin. And the guy from the clinic, the one who’d been there when he took his grandmother in last winter. He nodded at Jace when their eyes met and Jace nodded back.

The instructor came through the door at the front carrying a stack of papers and a cardboard box. He set both on the table and pulled a chair out from behind it.

“Alright,” he said. “Welcome. I’m Edward Begay. No, you cannot call me Eddie but Ed is fine. I’ve been a paramedic for sixteen years, the last eight here at HHCC. If you’re in this room, you’ve already been through the application process, so I’m not going to waste time telling you why you should be here. You’re here. So let’s get into it.”

He pulled the top sheet off the stack and held it up.

“This is your syllabus. Everything we’re going to cover over the next twelve weeks is on here. Read it. Know it. If you lose it, there’s a copy on the board behind me and another one on the website, which I’ll give you the link to in a minute.”

He passed the stack to the woman in the front row, who took one and passed the rest back. Two pages, front and back, single-spaced. He folded it in half and set it on his knee.

“Calendar’s on the second page,” Edward said. “Skills assessments are marked in red. There are four of them. Airway management, patient assessment, trauma, medical. You fail any one of those, you don’t move on. You get two attempts per assessment. If you fail both, you’re out of the program. No pressure."

He paused and looked around the room. Nobody said anything.

“The NREMT written exam is at the end. That’s the one that gets you certified. Everything else is just getting you ready for it. The pass rate for first-time test takers in this program is eighty-two percent. That’s higher than the state average. That’s because we don’t let people through who aren’t ready. So if you’re planning on coasting, save yourself the time and leave now.”

Nobody said anything that time either.

Edward reached into the cardboard box and pulled out a stack of books. He set them on the table and started passing them down the same way, one row at a time. The woman in the front took hers and the stack moved back. Jace got his when it reached him. Heavy. The cover was blue and white, a photograph of an ambulance on the front, lights on. Emergency Care and Transportation of the Sick and Injured. Twelfth Edition. He turned it over in his hands.

“Today is orientation,” Edward said. “We’re not going to do anything hands-on. Today is about structure. How the EMS system works. Legal responsibilities. Ethical responsibilities. Chain of command in the field. Who reports to who, when, and why. It’s not the most exciting day, but it’s the most important one. If you don’t understand how the system works, nothing else matters.”

He picked up a marker and turned to the whiteboard.

“Open your books to chapter one.”

Jace’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached in without looking and hit the side button. The buzzing stopped. He set the phone on the floor next to his chair, screen down.

He opened the textbook to the first page.

The check-in table was a folding table with a blue tablecloth and a stack of waivers and a woman behind it who didn’t look up when he walked up. He signed where she pointed and she handed him a lanyard with a card on it that said EDGE/TE/LB in capital letters and a number underneath. He clipped it around his neck and followed the line of guys toward the field.

The measurement station was set up under a pop-up tent. A staffer with a clipboard and a measuring tape stood next to a scale. The guy in front of Micah stepped on, the staffer read the number, wrote it down, and the guy stepped off. Micah stepped on. The staffer looked at the scale, looked at Micah, looked back at the scale.

“Two-thirty-seven,” the staffer said. He wrote it down.

The next staffer had the stadiometer. Micah stood against it, his back straight, and the staffer slid the arm down to the top of his head.

"Six-four and a quarter"

The third station was hand size. The staffer held up the measuring tape and Micah pressed his hand flat against it, fingers spread.

“Ten and a quarter,” the staffer said. He wrote it down.

The last station was wingspan. Micah stood with his arms out and the staffer ran the tape from the tip of his left middle finger to the tip of his right.

“Eighty-one and a half.”

The staffer wrote it down and looked up at him. He was maybe thirty, dark hair, the kind of face that could have been from anywhere.

“Where you from?”

“Polaqa.”

The staffer laughed. "I didn’t know they came in this size out there.”

Micah didn’t say anything. The staffer pointed toward the field where a group of guys were already gathering.

The grass was cut short and the lines were fresh. The group was maybe thirty guys, spread out in a loose semicircle around a coach who was talking. Micah found a spot at the back and stood there with his hands on his hips.

The coach split them into position groups. Tight ends to the left. Linebackers to the middle. Defensive ends to the right. Micah went with the tight ends because it was the smallest group.

The tight end coach was a short guy with a whistle and a drill sheet on a clipboard. He had them line up in two rows facing each other, ten yards apart. The first drill was a release off the line. The coach explained it once, fast, and blew the whistle.

Micah went. The guy across from him pressed and Micah tried to swipe the hands away the way the coach had said but the guy’s hands were already inside his frame and Micah’s feet got tangled and he stumbled forward two steps before he caught himself.

“Again,” the coach said.

He went again. Same thing. The guy’s hands were on him before he could get his own up and he was off-balance and the coach was already blowing the whistle for the next pair.

The next drill was a route. A five-yard out. The coach explained the stem, the break, the hands. Micah lined up. The whistle blew. He pushed off, got to five yards, planted his outside foot the way the coach had said, and turned. The ball was already there and he reached for it and he caught it in his gut.

“Hands,” the coach said. “Catch with your hands, not your body.”

He went again. The ball hit his hands and he squeezed and it stayed.

They moved to a different drill. A seven-yard curl. Then a corner. Then a post. Some he caught.

The routes got more complex as the drill went on. A post curl. An out and up.

Then they got into option routes. The coach explained it, how they would react to the defender’s leverage which would determine which way they would break the route. It was simple enough at first. The coach, who was the defender, would overplay one way or the other and Micah would just go the opposite way. As the drill progressed, the coach would stay more square.

He got it right once, got it wrong the other time and then guessed on his third route, which ended up being wrong. He went again and got it right but was so focused on determining which way to go that he forgot to catch the ball.

He stood at the back of the line and watched the other guys go. Some of them were good. Others struggled.

He looked at the gate. It was maybe sixty yards away. The parking lot was beyond it, and Kele’s Cherokee was out there somewhere, and the highway was beyond that, and the road home was beyond that.

The line moved. He stepped forward. The whistle blew for the guy in front of him. He watched him go.

The grader sat idle on the cut, the blade still in the dirt, the engine ticking as it cooled. Delvin had his foot up on the track and was drinking from the water bottle when DeLuca came around the front of the machine.

Delvin lowered the bottle.

“Jace didn’t show today.”

Delvin didn’t say anything. He screwed the cap back on the water bottle.

“I’m not writing him up,” DeLuca said. “But I can’t have people just not showing up. You know that."

Delvin nodded.

“It won’t happen again.”

"I'm serious, Delvin. Next time I can't cover it."

The defensive line coach was already talking when he got there. He was a big man, broad through the shoulders, with a goatee and a voice that carried without him raising it. He had them line up in a row facing him.

“First thing. Stance. I know you guys think you’re Myles Garrett or Micah Parsons, but you’re not. Show me your three-point stance.”

Micah dropped into a three-point. The coach walked down the line, stopping at each guy, adjusting a hand here, a foot there. When he got to Micah he crouched down next to him.

“Wider,” he said. He put his hand on Micah’s right foot and pushed it out about an inch. “Weight forward. Not on your heels. You’re gonna get driven back if you’re sitting on your heels.”

Micah shifted his weight. The coach nodded and moved on.

“First drill. Get-off. When I say go, you fire out and touch the bag in front of you. I want to see explosion. I want to see your first step hitting the ground before the guy across from you has finished his snap count.”

The coach blew the whistle. Micah fired.

“Again.”

He went again. The coach watched him, then moved to the next guy.

The next drill was a hand-fighting drill. They paired up, one guy with a shield, the other working to get past it. The coach demonstrated the move: a two-hand swipe, inside to outside, then a rip, and had them go one at a time.

Micah went first. He swiped, ripped, and got around the shield. The coach nodded.

“Good. But you’re opening your hips too early. You’re giving him your chest before you’ve cleared his hands. Keep your hips square until you’ve won the hand fight. Then turn.”

He went again. Slower this time, thinking about it. Hips square. Hands first. Then turn. He got around the shield clean.

“Better.”

They ran it again. And again. The coach moved down the line, stopping at each pair, talking through what he saw.

“Your get-off is good. Your hands are good. You just need to trust them. You’re trying to run through people. That’ll work against some guys. It won’t work against all of them. Use your hands first, then your feet.”

Micah nodded.

The coach moved on. The drill kept going. Micah went again. Hands first. Hips square. Then turn. The shield didn’t move fast enough to stop him.

The next drill was a pass-rush move. A long-arm stab. The coach showed it, one hand shooting into the chest of the blocker, extending, creating separation, then a swim over the top with the other arm. He had them go one at a time against a bag held by a staffer.

Micah lined up. The whistle blew. He fired, shot his right hand into the bag, extended, felt the separation, and swam over with his left. The bag moved. The coach nodded.

“Good. But your extension arm is too high. You’re hitting him in the neck. That’s a flag. Chest. Always chest.”

He went again. Chest. Extension. Swim. Clean.

“Better.”

They ran it ten more times. Micah got it right maybe seven of them.

The last drill before the one-on-ones was a combo. Get-off, hand fight, pass-rush move. The coach explained it once, then blew the whistle. Micah went. Get-off. Hand fight. Long-arm. The bag went sideways. The coach nodded and moved to the next guy.

The one-on-ones were set up on the far field. Two lines. Offensive tackles on one side, defensive ends on the other. Micah looked for Kele, but he was on the other group across the field going against the bigger defensive lineman, presumably the defensive tackles. A coach stood between them with a ball on a stick. The whistle blew and the first pair went.

Micah watched from the back of the line. The first defensive end got stoned. The second one got around the edge. The third one got driven back. The fourth one won with a spin move. The line moved.

He stepped up. The tackle across from him was maybe six-two, two-fifty, with a good base and his hands already up. The whistle blew.

Micah fired. His first step hit the ground and the tackle was still coming out of his stance. Micah shot his hands, got inside the tackle’s frame, and tried to rip through but the tackle was able to get his hands back into position and ran Micah off.

"You’ve got to know which tool to use," the coach told Micah as he jogged to the back of the line, "You can’t just guess."

Micah nodded.

The next rep, he drew the same tackle. His get off wasn’t as clean as the first rep as he shot his left arm into the tackle’s chest, knocking him off balance for a split second, and then used his right hand to push his shoulder. The tackle stumbled sideways and Micah was clean through.

The coach nodded.

He matched up with a different tackle the next rep. Micah fired and the tackle was already set. Micah went to the long-arm again, shot his right hand into the chest, extended, and the tackle’s hands came down on his wrist. Micah buried both of his hands into his chest until they were practically face to face and drove him back, the both of them falling on the ground. Micah was the first to his feet and stumbled his way towards the bag.

The coach blew the whistle.

Fourth rep. Fifth. Sixth. Each one a little different. Some he won clean. Some he won ugly. One he lost, a tackle who got his hands inside and drove him wide again.

The sun was lower now. Micah’s shirt was soaked through. His arms felt heavy. His hands were raw where the gloves had rubbed.

He stepped up for his last rep. Micah fired. The tackle was quick off the ball and met him with both hands. Micah felt the impact in his chest and kept his feet moving. His hands found the tackle’s wrists and he pushed them down, kept pushing, driving his legs. The tackle’s feet gave. One step. Two. Three. The whistle blew.

The group gathered around the coach. He talked for a minute about what he’d seen, what they needed to work on, the things that had stood out. Micah stood at the back, his hands on his hips, breathing hard.

The coach dismissed them. The group broke and guys started drifting toward the water station, pulling their helmets off, talking to each other. Micah grabbed his water bottle and drank.

A man came across the field toward him. He was big, bigger than most of the coaches, with a thick neck. He had a Sacramento State polo on. He had sunglasses on and Micah almost walked past him before the man held out his hand.

"Good work out there big boy," he told him. "Manako Tuifua. D-line coach at Sac State."

"Micah Namoki," Micah shook his hand, "Thank you, coach."

"You’re at Hopi, right?"

Micah nodded.

"Sorry. Yes, sir."

"Yeah, we were looking at a couple of you guys when we were at NAU. Y’all got that big tackle, right?"

"Kele, sir. Kele Nuvamsa."

Tuifua nodded. "You looked pretty decent out there, man. Definitely giving us something to think about."

"Thank you, sir."

Tuifua nodded once, shook his hand and moved off toward another player. Micah watched him go.

He stood there for a second, his water bottle in his hand, the field emptying around him. Somewhere across the way Kele was pulling his helmet off and saying something to the guy next to him, laughing about whatever it was. The sun was getting low behind the peaks to the east, the light going orange and flat across the grass.

Micah took a drink from the water bottle. He looked out at the field, at the bags still standing where they'd left them, at the lines on the grass.

Then he turned and walked toward the gate.

[Captain Canada]

Guy wrote his ass off about doing chores, I can't even hate because it was exceptionally well-written.

Micah finally getitng some love while Jace is doing Jace shit.

[redsox907]

Jace bought to be really homeless when Delvin figures out he wants to play hero. Also, I see the set up. Micah gonna struggle about leaving for himself vs what the family needs

gonna make this boy a DE after all?

6'4 for a Hopi definitely an outlier, no wonder he a slow fuck