I don’t feel like talking, because I already know what he’s going to say and I don’t want to hear it.
“What’s going on with you today?”
“Nothing, coach.”
“Bullshit.”
I flick my eyes up at the coach because he rarely uses profanity. He must be really pissed.
“You were throwing the ball at your teammates instead of to your teammates. You almost took out one of Russell’s eyes.”
“That was an accident.”
“You’ve got to block out whatever is going on in that thick head of yours, Freak. You’re on The Nighthawk’s shortlist for quarterback draft choices. Do you hear me? The Nighthawks short list. It would be the perfect place for you.
“You deserve to play in an enormous market where you’ll get major media coverage and endorsement deals. But in order for all of that to happen, son, you’ve got to play well for the rest of the season. So, get your head into the game and forget about whatever else is going on personally, because there’s time to handle all of that when you’re on the other side of this. You’re in the home stretch.”
I’m staring mindlessly at the floor of the locker room, not really knowing what to say in response. I know what’s at stake, but I just can’t seem to find my focus.
“Do you understand what I’m saying to you, son?” he asks.
“Understood, coach.”
I avoid all eye contact.
“How are you doing with the writing class and the tutor?”
“I’m handling it.”
“Really, because I talked to Professor Lee and he said you’ve missed at least two sessions with your tutor.”
I’m not proud of it, but I didn’t know if I could sit through a session with Willow without interrogating her about the Tri-Gamma party.
Did Aaron try anything with her when I left?
Did he touch her?
Did she kiss him?
Because that fucking kiss between us… I’ll never forget it. Her lips melded into mine like they were made for me, and I’m baffled how she didn’t feel the same way. Was it all just a figment of my imagination? Am I the only one who realizes that this arrangement of ours is a farce and that the only guy she should even be thinking about is me?
“I wasn’t feeling well.”
“You missed more than one appointment.”
“I’ve got it handled, coach.”
“Listen, I stuck my neck out on the line with Lee and Roberts to make sure that you pass that class, so I’m going to need a little more from you than you’ve got it handled. You’re going to fix this. I want proof every week that you’ve been to your sessions, because I have a reputation at this university that all of my players graduate on time and they do it actually by completing their own coursework. No shortcuts. You’re not going to be the first blemish on my record because you suddenly lack discipline.”
I feel like shouting at the top of my lungs. I love football and I’ve always loved the game ever since I was a little boy, but the pressure to practice, to perform, to pass my classes is so overwhelming. I’m not undisciplined. Sometimes I wish people would just let me have one bad fucking day.
“Got it, coach,” I say, swallowing the frustration inside of me and sending it down to my gut to churn.
“Good, now fuel up and be ready with your A game tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
