Date: January 5, 1990 (Friday).
Location: Highland Park High School / The Cooper Residence.
Event: The Purge & The Fallout.
The cold war lasted exactly twenty-four hours. Then, it turned hot.
The locker room on Friday afternoon was loud. Not "focused game-day" loud. "Country Club" loud.
Guys were blasting rock music. They were talking about their weekend plans in Aspen. They were ignoring the fact that practice started in five minutes.
I sat by my locker, lacing up my cleats. I checked my gold stopwatch.
**15:05.**
George Sr. walked in.
He didn't yell. He stood by the door, arms crossed, watching them.
He waited until the music stopped. He waited until they noticed him.
"You're late," George said.
"We were just finishing up, Coach," **Preston** said, slamming his locker shut. "Relax. We know the drill."
Preston walked past George without making eye contact. The rest of the seniors followed.
They weren't scared of him. They thought he was a substitute teacher with a whistle.
George looked at me. He didn't say anything, but I saw the vein in his neck pulse.
*The leash is off.*
***
The Standoff
The wind was brutal on the practice field. The sky was gray.
"On the line!" George barked. "Since you were five minutes late, we owe the clock five minutes of Up-Downs."
Groans. Eye rolls.
Preston stood at the front of the line, hands on his hips.
"Coach, come on," Preston laughed. "It's Friday. We have a mixer with Hockaday tonight. We're not doing Up-Downs in the mud."
The team froze.
This wasn't sandbagging. This was a direct order refusal.
George walked over to Preston. He stood toe-to-toe with him.
George was 5'11". Preston was 6'2".
But George felt ten feet tall.
"What did you say?" George asked softly.
"I said no," Preston smirked. "This isn't the army. We'll run routes. But we aren't rolling in the dirt like dogs."
Preston looked back at the seniors. "Right, boys?"
A few of them nodded. They felt safe. Their dads were on the school board. They were untouchable.
"You think you run this team," George said. It wasn't a question.
"I think we *are* the team," Preston said. "You work for us."
***
The Execution
George nodded. He looked calm. Almost peaceful.
"You're right, Preston," George said. "You are the team. Or... you were."
George pointed to the locker room.
"Get out."
Preston blinked. "What?"
"You're cut," George said. Loud enough for the back row to hear. "Go clean out your locker. Leave the playbook. You're done."
Preston laughed. A nervous, disbelief laugh. "You can't cut me. I'm the Captain. My dad is the Booster President. He pays your mortgage."
"I don't care if your daddy is the Governor of Texas," George roared. The sudden volume made half the team jump. "You refused a direct order! You are a cancer! And I am cutting you out!"
George turned to the rest of the team.
"Anyone else? Anyone else think they're too good for the dirt? Anyone else want to go to the mixer instead of winning a State Championship? Follow him! GO!"
Silence.
The only sound was the wind whipping the flags.
Preston looked around. He looked at his friends. He waited for the mutiny.
"Braden?" Preston looked at the QB. "You coming?"
**Braden** looked at Preston.
He looked at the entitlement. He looked at the coach who had just nuked the most popular kid in school.
Then he looked at me.
I was already on the ground, chest in the mud, waiting for the whistle.
Braden didn't say a word.
He dropped to the ground next to me. Chest in the mud.
Preston's face went pale.
One by one, the others dropped. The Juniors. The Sophomores. Even the other Seniors.
They chose the team over the King.
"Go," George whispered.
Preston turned and walked away. He tried to walk slow, to save some dignity, but he looked small against the gray sky.
***
The War Room
**06:30 PM. The Cooper Kitchen.**
We survived practice. But apparently, the war was just starting.
We were eating dinner—meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The mood was tense.
The doorbell rang. It was frantic.
I opened it.
**Serena** and **Eric** stood there. They looked pale.
"Is he crazy?" Serena whispered, rushing inside. She looked at George Sr., who was calmly eating his meatloaf. "Mr. Cooper, you fired Preston?"
"He refused an order," George said, taking a bite. "Pass the ketchup, Mare."
"Mr. Cooper," Eric said, his voice shaking. "Preston's dad is Mr. Harrington. He owns the car dealerships. He's the President of the Booster Club. He... he gets people fired."
Mary dropped her fork. Use of the word "fired" always triggered her PTSD from Medford.
"George," Mary whispered. "Did you lose your job?"
"I didn't lose anything," George said.
"They're going to come for you," Serena said, sitting down at the table uninvited. "My mom called from Aspen. She heard about it. The phone tree is lighting up. They're calling an emergency meeting."
Sheldon looked up from his peas. "Statistically, firing a key stakeholder's progeny results in a 94% probability of retaliatory termination."
"Thank you, Sheldon," George grunted.
"We have to fix this," Mary stood up, pacing. "George, call him back. Apologize. Say it was heatstroke."
"It's 40 degrees outside, Mary," George said.
"Say it was hypothermia then!"
I watched them panic.
Serena was terrified because she knew Highland Park.
Mary was terrified because she knew poverty.
But they didn't know **Remington**.
"Everybody sit down," George said. He put his fork down.
The room went quiet.
"I didn't come here to coach a country club," George said. "I came here to win. Mr. Remington told me, 'Do whatever it takes.' He told me, 'Break them.' So I broke them."
"But Preston's dad..." Serena started.
"Preston's dad sells cars," I interrupted. "Mr. Remington sells oil. Oil beats cars, Serena. Rock, Paper, Scissors, Oil."
George smiled at me. He took a sip of his Dr Pepper.
"Exactly," George said. "Let 'em call the meeting. Remington will handle the politics. I handle the football."
Mary looked at George. She saw something she hadn't seen in years.
Total job security.
"Okay," Mary exhaled, sitting back down. "Okay. But George... you're down a Tight End. And a Captain."
"We are," George admitted. "And frankly, the roster is thin. We need help."
The doorbell rang again.
This time, it wasn't frantic. It was heavy. Three solid knocks.
"Speak of the devil," George grinned. "Georgie, get the door."
***
The Reinforcements
I opened the massive front door.
Standing on the porch were three teenagers.
They weren't wearing Highland Park Polos. They were wearing faded jeans, hoodies, and expressions that said they had seen things Preston Harrington couldn't imagine.
**The First Guy:** A brick wall. 6'3", 325 pounds. His neck was basically non-existent. **Larry Allen.**
**The Second Guy:** Short for a linebacker, but his eyes were scanning the hallway like he was clearing a room. **Zach Thomas.**
**The Third Guy:** Tall, lanky, standing with a relaxed confidence. **Jimmy Smith.**
"Coach Cooper here?" Zach Thomas asked. His voice was gravel.
George walked into the foyer, wiping tomato sauce off his lip.
"You boys find the place okay?" George asked.
"Hard to miss, Coach," Jimmy Smith looked at the crystal chandelier. "Nice shack."
"It comes with the job," George said. "Come on in. We got meatloaf left over."
Larry Allen's eyes lit up. "Meatloaf?"
"Mary!" George yelled. "Set three more plates!"
Serena and Eric stood in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at the new giants.
They looked rough. They looked like Medford.
They looked like winning.
I walked up to Zach Thomas. I held out my hand.
"Georgie Cooper," I said. "Quarterback."
Zach shook my hand. His grip was like a vice.
"I saw the tape," Zach said. "You got a good arm. Just don't throw a pick over the middle. I'll make you pay for it."
I smiled.
"Deal."
**[Quest Update: The Takeover]**
* **The Purge:** Complete.
* **The Fallout:** Managed (Remington Card Played).
* **The Roster:** Upgraded.
* **Family Status:** Anxious but protected.