“What the hell’s the matter with you?” I throw an easy punch at Cam’s shoulder, but he ignores it.
“Same old shit. Serena’s giving my mom a hard time again, and Mom wants me to talk some sense into her.”
“Minnie didn’t tell me that.” Minnie is Cam’s mom, but I basically consider her mine too. I lived with Cam’s family on and off all through high school, and god knows Minnie Forrester did more for me in those few years than my ownmother did my whole life. We still talk on the phone at least once a week, and when I “go home” for the holidays, it’s Cam’s house twenty minutes from campus I’m talking about.
“She doesn’t want to stress you out,” Cam says. “Besides, she wants Serena off her back, not living in fear for her life.”
“I wouldn’t threaten Serena. I’d just give her a little friendly advice: Stay away from married men. And don’t fuck with Minnie Forrester.”
Cam’s family is like something out of a movie: wealthy, beautiful, seemingly perfect, but with some serious skeletons in the closet. A few years ago, after Mr. Forrester died, they found out he’d fathered a kid with this chick Serena. Cam has spent the last year trying to get to know his five-year-old half brother, Liam, and playing referee between Minnie and Serena.
“Yeah, except she’d never let me see Liam again. Serena requires a delicate approach.” He runs a tense hand through his wavy hair.
“You and the Superman stuff again, Cam. You’re too nice, you know that?”
“Superman, huh? And who would you be?”
“Whichever one gets the most pussy.”
We look at each other. “Batman,” we say at the same time.
Just outside the doors to the football facility, I catch sight of a cute blonde in a crop top. She’s smiling at me, one ofthosesmiles.
“Hey, guys,” she says as she passes us.
“Hello.” I turn to get a good look at her as she walks away. “You know her?” I ask Cam.
He gives me a funny look. “Yeah, so do you. You made out with her all over my bed last year.”
“That was her? What, were you watching us from the corner?”
“You wish. I had to politely escort her into an Uber when you passed out, remember?”
“Nope.”
When we step into the locker room, it’s like walking into a brick wall. Tension sits heavy and thick in the air. No one saying much, no one looking at each other. But they look at me as I cross the newly carpeted floor toward my locker. I know what I have to do.
I stop in the middle of the room, where I’m in view of every guy in the place. “You weepy bitches all cried out or do I need to haul in another case of tissues?” I ask loudly.
A few of my teammates laugh, everyone knowing I’m joking. But a few others turn away or glare into their lockers. I walk up behind one of them—Bryce, a cornerback—and squeeze his shoulders like I’m about to give him a massage. “Okay, baby,” I say soothingly, “cry into another pint of ice cream, and then we’ll try again.”
A couple of guys laugh. Bryce shrugs me off, but I see him trying to bite back a smile.
That’s better.
Some of these guys take things too seriously. No one on this team has more to lose than I do, but wallowing in self-pity? Useless. It only holds you back, keeps you stuck in loser mode instead of picking yourself up and doing whatever it takes to ensure you never make the same mistakes you made last time. Whether anyone says it or not, I know the guys rely on me to remind them of that. Ask anyone what I bring to this team and they’ll give you some answer about killing it every time I step onto the field—and they’re right—but just as important to being an effective captain are my behind-the-scenes skills: keeping spirits up and reminding everyone when to let go and move forward.
“Okay, so we lost,” I say as I make my way to my locker.Heads turn toward me, and what little talk was going on comes to a stop. “We lost to a team that should have had no shot at beating us because we underestimated them. Sucks, but guess what? It’s over. We spend a couple days walking around campus with our tails between our legs, and then come Saturday everybody and their mother forgets they ever witnessed us losing, because it won’t happen again as long as we’re the ones taking the field.”
Guys nod and murmur their agreement.
“Next Saturday we kick ass,” I continue. “And the Saturday after that and the one after that and, what the hell, let’s continue it on into next season when my ass will be in the stands making sure you motherfuckers are keeping up the promise.”
“Fuck yeah,” someone says.
“We can go undefeated the rest of the season if we want to,” I say. “How many teams can say that? We can be anything we want. No one has ever been allowed in this locker room who wasn’t capable of making a difference on the field. Fuck school and girls and partying. We’re all at Shafer for the game, so don’t kid yourself. Let’s fucking do what we came here to do already.”
By the time we walk out onto the field, the mood has lifted. A couple of guys clap me on the back or send me quick nods of acknowledgment, their faith in themselves and the team restored. It’s gratifying, but you know what none of them ever think to do? Tell me the same thing I just told them. Not that I need anyone telling me they believe in me no matter how bad I fuck up; I’ve had to believe in myself from the start. But, you know ... it’d be nice.
