Lane (Made From Stone Book 1)

By: T. Saint John



“PICK UP THE DAMN BALL AND RUN A MILE WITH IT!” I scream at my sophomore running back. I swear that kid can’t handle a ball, even if it meant saving his own life.

“Sorry, Coach,” he says and takes off running, football in hand.

Coaching isn’t what I planned to do growing up, but it sort of fell in my lap. Throughout my childhood, my family and I were big Chicago Bears fans. We never missed a game, but I was the only one to play football in high school. My brothers and sister chose different paths. Logan and Lucas shined on the basketball court while Landon played baseball, and Lacey finally stuck with something when she started to dance.

I never wanted to make it into the NFL. I surprised everyone when I didn’t enter the draft. They kept talking about how I was giving up millions, but life has never been about money for me.

I like teaching; it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. My mom called me her “studious one” because I never slacked off in high school or college. When I took the job at Lakemont High, I thought I would just be a History teacher. When word got out that I played at Notre Dame and could’ve gone pro, the sports administrator asked if I could help out coaching football.

The team had only won three games in the previous two seasons, so I agreed. I started out as assistant coach but this year I’m head coach. This team is a great group of young guys who have failed only because of the previous coach’s lack of knowledge about the sport.

I don’t expect us to win the state championship this year, but I do expect to show that we are a team to watch out for. That is, if I can get Lewis to, “HOLD ON TO THE DAMN BALL!”

He’s just running; no one is chasing him, no one is tackling him, and he just dropped it - again. Idiot!

“What the hell, Lewis?” I ask.

“My hands are sweaty,” he explains. It’s July and the temperature is in the high 90s.

“So are mine, so are Mark's, so are everyone else's on this damn team. Do you see them dropping the ball?” I ask angrily.

“No, sir.”

“Then pick it up and run it again.”

Chapter 1


“Wake up, you’re going to be late!” I hear my sister Amy say.

“Five more minutes,” I plead.

“No, get up! It’s the first day of school,” Amy says. God, she can be so annoying.

“Alright, I’m up,” I groan as I roll out of bed.

I slip on my shoes before putting my feet down on the disgusting carpet and the even more disgusting bathroom tiles. I'm sure if a forensics team were brought in, they would solve some cold case murders. The smell in the bathroom suggests the lack of bladder control of past occupants. I can’t believe I have to start my senior year off like this.

I shower quickly but only because it just takes a couple of minutes before the water turns ice cold. Grabbing the clothes I picked out the night before, I give them a good shake just in case any bugs decided to get comfy in them last night. In a pair of white shorts paired with a blue V-neck t-shirt, I’m not dressed fancy, but at least I don’t look like I’m living in Mike's motel, and for that I’m grateful.

It doesn’t take long for me to get ready in the morning. I’m a redhead and my skin is pale; I can’t overdo the makeup without looking like a hooker, and luckily, my hair is straight, so I don’t have to tame curls or fight frizz. I can just blow dry, swipe on mascara, and go, which is what I do before I grab my backpack and head out to my Honda Civic.

Once I’m in the car, I make the 30-minute drive. It could be much faster, but I refuse to take the freeway, even the thought of it gives me chills. So, for now, I stick to the side roads leading to my new school. Thankfully, nobody knows me here so it’s a fresh start. I’m actually excited to start over.

After parking and heading into the building, it takes no time to realize I’m lost. This place is huge. I can barely move in any direction as students and teachers alike are bumping into each other in a rush to get to class, maybe it’s only this chaotic because it’s the first day.

I have my class schedule in hand, and I’m trying to decide which direction I need to go when I’m bumped from behind, and pushed straight into the back of some guy standing in front of me. I have to grab onto him to keep myself upright. What a way to start my first day.

“Easy now,” he says, as he turns with an irritated look.

“Shoot, I’m so sorry! I got pushed,” I rush to explain. His face softens, and I’m immediately drawn to his dark eyes; I’m locked into them. Someone needs to push me again, because I can’t stop staring.

“It’s all right. You new here? You look lost,” says the gorgeous man standing in front of me.

“Ah. . . well. . . I. . . ah. . .” I mumble, unable to answer his question. Who can concentrate on anything when they’re staring at someone who looks like him!? He must be used to girls drooling because he does this thing with his mouth. It’s like his grin is naturally cocky on its own, parting just enough to where his tongue pokes through. I find myself noticing this and it makes me blush.