Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“Maybe so, but you wouldn’t be thinking so hard about it if you just wanted to throw a few million at the nearest charity and make sure the cameras showed up when you signed the check.”
“Whatever.”
Another point for Team Monroe.
“Just tell me your ideal situation, and I’ll make suggestions. This is my thing, remember?” When he kept giving me grumpy face, I added, “I’m not giving you a hard time or trying to soften you up. I’m genuinely interested in this making a difference, even if it’s just something you’re being forced to do. You may as well put your money to good use.”
He slowly relaxed, and I wondered if it really bothered him that much to think anyone was trying to change him. Another interesting Brawley-related nugget to churn over in my mind on the commute home.
“So, there’s this one kid.” Gavin ran a hand through his newly shorn hair, and heaved a slow breath. “He wrote to me and is from my old neighborhood. Goes to my old high school. Plays football. And he’s in the same situation I was in as a kid. I was hoping I could do something for him.”
I cocked my head. “What situation is he in?”
The question earned me a semi-incredulous stare. “You really didn’t look me up?”
“Not really. I mean, I found basic information. If you wanted me to know personal things about you, I figured you’d tell me on your own. Also, I don’t really care.”
Again, Gavin’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile before it flattened in the default slash. “I got no family. Grew up in the system. Never even had a foster home for more than a minute since I was a hard case.”
“Oh.” I winced. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Gavin. I didn’t realize.”
“Whatever, it’s not like you told my parents to dump me when I was born.” Gavin shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Anyways, this kid seems a lot like me. Anger problems, right? Can’t get a good foster spot because he gets bounced back into a group home after one fight too many. Football is his outlet. He wants it to save him like it did me. Wants to know how the fuck he can get out the way I did.”
He was trying to sound so tough, making his voice rough and impatient, like it was a chore to talk about all this, but I could see how much it affected him. Could see it in his downcast eyes and fidgeting hands. The way his shoulders hunched forward.
“I figured I could do something for him, but I don’t know what. I don’t know how to support the foster system, and it sucks so bad, I don’t know if I want to. I dunno if it’d get to him. And I don’t want to write him back some bullshit letter about how to go pro because less than one percent of high school athletes go pro. I looked up his stats and his damn team ain’t even ranked. Dunno why I’m surprised, since it’s my old team. It hasn’t been ranked since I played there a decade ago.” He spread his hands. “So, yeah. Any ideas you got are welcome as long as they aren’t trash.”
I nodded slowly, turning the idea over in my head, and held eye contact. He didn’t look away, not minding the scrutiny, and snickered at my spine-snapping, eye-widening, lightbulb moment.
“Is the sports program at your old high school well-funded? Like with a booster club or anything?”
“What’s a booster club?”
“A club run by parents that helps sponsor the team. I dunno, they had them on Friday Night Lights.”
“You watched Friday Night Lights?” Gavin scoffed. “I bet it was just for the sweaty dudes.”
“You’d be winning that bet. And I only watched three episodes before I realized how problematic it was.” I waved off the topic before I could go into an in-depth analysis of the inclusion of Southern Christian values and blatant racism on prime-time television for teens. “In any case, if the school doesn’t get grants or donations for their sports programs, you could do something really amazing like donating to the school. Getting with, I dunno, Under Armour or Nike, and giving them all new pads, helmets, decals, and uniforms. Maybe even shirts for coaching staff?”
Gavin maintained his non-expression, and I wilted.
“It’s not the same as donating cash, but I bet it would mean a lot to the kid who wrote to you. Also, it’d be you giving back directly to where you came from. Assuming you had a good relationship with the coaching staff at your school or that they’re even there anymore . . .”
“They are. And I did.” Gavin got to his feet and crossed the room to grab a football from the sofa. He tossed it in the air and said casually, “That’s actually not a shitty idea, Noah.”