Practice goes well. My shoulder, which felt off during Saturday’s game despite my trainers finding no issues, feels normal, which is a massive relief, and our defense appears to have learned a thing or two from the weekend’s embarrassment.
After practice, Cam heads off to have dinner with his girlfriend, and I turn down an invite from some of the other guys to grab a bite at the student union. I’m hungry, but I’ve got shit on my mind and I like to do my worrying in private. The last thing I like to be is a downer.
“QB!” a familiar voice calls out as I cross the parking lot and head for my old Bronco.
I turn to find my buddy Lorenzo jogging to catch up with me. “Looking spry, old man,” I tell him. Lorenzo’s a few months into recovery from shoulder surgery and hoping to play at least a few games before our season ends.
“Where are you hurrying off to? Let’s grab some food.”
“I was gonna go home and study.” I hesitate. “But?—”
“Don’t let me stop you. I wouldn’t want to get on your tutor’s bad side.”
“Eh, I can charm her if I need to. Let’s grab dinner. Viaggio’s?” Between being sidelined with an injury and dealing with relationship drama, Lorenzo’s been down lately, and I don’t want to say no. Besides, falling face-first into a huge plate of chicken Parm from Viaggio’s, this Italian spot off campus, sounds too good to pass up.
“Let’s do it.”
“So how sick are you of sitting on the sidelines? You looked about ready to break a tooth watching Lopez miss his reads today.”
Lorenzo runs a hand absently up his tattooed arm and squeezes his healing shoulder. “Dude, you have no idea. It’s torture. You looked good out there, though. You feel good?”
“My shoulder didn’t give me any trouble after that weak showing in Saturday’s game, so that’s good.” I replay the highlights from practice in my head. “Still, I probably should have looked better today. Did you see how late I was getting the ball out on that one throw?”
“A little late. The rest of them were pretty damn good.”
Pretty good, maybe. Too badpretty gooddoesn’t mean jack right now. I need to be on fire. Flawless. Perfect. Everything’s on the line now, and that performance I put up on Saturday means a huge opportunity wasted.
It kills me to have to wait all week to paint over that memory. That means five more days where the latest news on Reeve Dalton is “mediocrity,” and I’m not used to that. My life has had a lot of downs with a few ups now and then, but when it comes to football, every day has always been better than the last. I can’t let that change now.
We hop into the Bronco and I slide the key into the ignition, but she doesn’t start. Nothing unusual there.
I turn the key again. And a third time. When nothing happens, I know I’m fucked.
“Dead again?” Lorenzo asks.
I pound my fist on the dash. “God fucking damn it. I thought I fixed this.” I have enough knowledge about cars to get the Bronco going probably half the time she gives me trouble, but my skills only go so far. “I’m going to have to get her into the shop.”
“You want to call a tow?”
“If I could afford it.”
“I’ll spot you.”
“I have no income right now, man.” I blow out a breath. “Let me open the hood and see what I can do.”
Lorenzo stops me before I can hop out of the car. “Let me call a tow. Pay me back next year when you’re signing that multimillion-dollar contract, okay?”
I rub the back of my neck, which is hot with embarrassment. “Thanks, Lor.” Maybe I will be pulling in millions next fall, but next fall might as well be a million years away for all the good it’s doing me now. I need a temporary fix, and I need it now.
THREE
jade
Thursday eveningI’m fifteen minutes early to the restaurant where I work, and I feel awesome about it.
I can already picture the look Cecily, my manager, will give me when I walk in: surprise, then approval, and then, ultimately, suspicion, because why am I early and what the hell do I want?
I don’t want anything—except the promotion to server that I’ve been angling for since June. I want it so badly that this morning I swapped out all the earrings I usually wear in my six sets of piercings for a single set of genuine pearl posts I bought used from a consignment shop. Cecily has never commented on my piercings, but during my first interview, she eyed them the same way my great-grandmother did when she first noticed them back when I was in high school. I don’t get people who judge others over a couple of extra earrings, but if this is what it takes to move out of my minimum-wage hostessing job and start bringing home real tips, then fine. At least she’ll never know about my nipple piercings.
