Disclaimer: Friday Night Lights isn't mine, and I'm not making any money off of this.
* * *
Bright and early Tuesday morning, Smash Williams stretched his legs out of the car and grinned up at the sky. "The Smash is going pro, baby!" he shouted to the empty parking lot, an hour before practice was supposed to start.
"You still need to make the team," a voice came from behind him. "And that takes more than skill. We all know you can run, but can you be on a team? Can you play second fiddle?"
Smash turned to find himself face to face with Coach Fillmore. Fillmore continued, "There's no denying we could use your speed with Billy O'Brien threatening retirement in a year, but I don't need that if it comes with an ego and team issues. No doubt you've heard doubts from the media. We have them here too, but want to see what you have."
"Yes, sir!" Smash replied, looking into the coach's eyes.
Fillmore crossed his arms, scrutinized Smash for a beat, and turned on his heel. "See you on the field in an hour," he tossed over his shoulder.
* * *
Five hours later, Smash's confidence had started to fray. Conscious of the way the team pointedly ignored him, refusing to make eye contact during warm-ups, turning silent on the sidelines when he approached, he knew that the team had taken the media's remarks to heart.
The passes he was getting during the drill were sub-par. Every time Greg Billings, the quarterback, launched a pass to Smash, he made it a little harder to reach. Smash knew the coaches would remember that he flubbed more of his catches, but he doubted they would remember that Billings had managed to single him out for bad passes. Actually, even if they did register that fact, they might (correctly) attribute it to bad player chemistry—and there was no way they were going to take someone who didn't click with Billings.
Later, en route to the locker room after the morning session, Smash decided that he had to take the situation into his own hands. There was no way the Smash was going down without a fight.
He jogged to catch up to Billings, who was talking to last year's starting running back, and tapped Billings on the arm. "You got a minute?"
"We're in the middle of a conversation, bro," Billings responded, barely acknowledging Smash's presence.
Smash stepped around in front of Billings, stopped him, and looked him in the eye. "I want to know why you're not giving me a fair shake out there."
The slightly older quarterback stared right back and stated, "Honestly, kid, we don't need your kind of trouble here. I don't need you exploding at one of your teammates, stirring up fights, and turning teammates against each other. What starts in the locker room might spread to the field, and I need one team out there. From what I hear, you make it two. We don't need that."
"What? So you listen to some reporters about some incidents from five years ago, and you decide that I don't deserve a chance? I'm a damn good player, and a damn fast one. I'm not saying that I deserve to take O'Brien's place," he said, gesturing to the other running back, who had paused with his friend, "But I deserve a shot to try out for a spot on the bench."
"Look, kid—we heard you transferred to Whitmore because you couldn't play with the white boys from Texas A&M. We heard you beat up some white kids in high school, and we saw the footage. From what we've heard, you simply won't work with this team."
Smash interrupted Billings before he could go any farther. "Look, you don't know my reasons for transferring. You don't know the full story behind that one fight five years ago. I got along just fine with the white boys on my team, on and off the field. Don't write me off without giving me a fair shake—I just wanted to let you know that I could be good for you, and for the team."
Billings looked him up and down. "Fine then, prove it," he demanded calmly. "Show us that you'll fit in with this team, on and off the field. But, frankly, so many of the guys think you're a firecracker that I doubt you'll be able to do it." He nodded to O'Brien and started to past Smash to the lockers.
O'Brien looked over his shoulder and said, "Good luck, kid. You'll need it."
Smash stood off to the side, reflecting on the players' comments as the others continued to stream pass him into the locker room, some glancing his way and murmuring to each other as they passed.
He knew he had to prove that he could fit in, that he would have to work twice as hard as anyone else on the field and off it. But this was nothing new. He came back from the steroids. He came back from his torn ACL. He came back to college, albeit a different one, on a free ride after his mama had lost her job and couldn't afford Texas A&M tuition. Hell, he managed to get a spot at training camp from Whitmore, which hadn't sent anyone to a training camp in decades. He could make the Austin Rodeo. The question was: how?