Then she strolled in, her long blonde hair streaming down her back like shiny ribbons. She sat down and started flipping her pen and sighing so hard I thought she might blow herself off the chair.
It would’ve been a crime to not offer her an ear. And when she looked at me with her big brown eyes, I couldn’t tear myself away. The invitation came out of my mouth because…well, that’s what guys do with pretty girls. They ask them out. And I guess they get turned down, too.
I’m not a slouch in the academic department. I get good grades and have been an Academic All-American every year since I’ve been eligible, but no one I know starts studying until a week before midterms.
Studying as a reason for rejection lies somewhere midpoint between I can’t because my mom died and I can’t because I’m clipping my toenails. At least she looked regretful turning me down, as if she wished she could take me out for a ride but couldn’t quite bring herself to throw her leg over the saddle.
Any other night, maybe I would have pursued her harder. Or just brushed off the rejection, snapped my fingers, and waited for a willing babe to magically appear and soothe away the sting. Which isn’t exactly a stretch—when you play football for Western, there’s no shortage of willing babes at your disposal. But I’m not in the mood tonight.
I’m not sure why. It’s not because I popped into my friend Masters' place this afternoon and he was reading a book while Ellie was on her computer. They looked domestic and boring. The little pang in my chest was probably heartburn from the three burrito bowls I had at lunch. It wasn’t…envy
Halfway home, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see a text from Stella Lowe, one of the team managers.
Stella: Coach wants to see you.
I wonder if I’m the only one who thinks it’s weird Stella calls her dad Coach. The digital clock reads 8:05 p.m. It’s been a week since the National Championship game. You’d think he’d be enjoying some R&R. Guy certainly deserves it.
I’ve taken full advantage of the post-championship high. There’s not a bar in town that doesn’t have a bottomless tap for a Warrior player. Not a girl on campus—or off it—who isn’t chomping at the bit to do a little chomping on my bits.
Okay, maybe there is one girl who isn’t interested, but for the most part, I’m sitting on top of the mountain of life. Other people are struggling. Other people are sighing their asses off in the coffee place. Me? Anything I want is mine for the asking. I could walk into any bar in the city and people would be trampling each other to buy me a drink. At the Gas Station, there are coeds who would suck me off under the table while I watch SportsCenter highlights.
Life is good. So good that I don’t even care I just got shot down. So what if some uptight girl—who’s spending a Wednesday two weeks into the semester studying so hard that it makes her head ache—turned me down for a date? Just gives me more time to enjoy my off-season, what little of it that I’m allotted. Spring ball will be here soon enough, and I’ll have to fend off hungry freshmen and sophomores who think they should be ahead of me on the depth chart.
Until then, I’m planning on coasting through classes during the day, napping long into afternoon, and enjoying late, wonderful nights.
Well, and apparently random evening summons from Coach.
On it. I type back.
* * *
“YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, Coach?” I stick my head around the corner into Coach Lowe’s office. He is on the phone but gestures for me to enter. I suppose he’s recruiting. The official signing day starts in about four weeks.
No one likes coming into the coach’s office. Meetings on the field, inside the locker room, during film—you know what those are all about. When you’re summoned to his office, you’re literally being called on the carpet.
I step inside gingerly and make my way across the thick pile—dyed Western State Warrior blue—and over the helmeted head of our mascot woven in rich gold, black, and white, to stand by one of the heavy leather chairs situated in front of a massive dark wood desk.
“Sit down, Matthew.” He gestures to a chair in front of him. Coach Lowe doesn’t look like a football coach. He’s small, under six feet, and wiry. He never even played college ball, but it hasn’t hurt him. He’s got two national championships under his belt in less than ten years. That’s enough for the whispers of “dynasty” to start.
Coach Lowe steeples his fingers together and leans forward, his wrists resting on some cut sheets. Reading his own good press? I’d do that, too, if I were him.
I position my hands the same way and wait patiently. Mirroring is a good technique to set someone at ease per the sociology class I'm taking on human interaction this semester.
Coach Lowe examines something on his desk before turning his attention to me. “You enjoying your off-season, son?”
Not the question I was expecting.
“It’s going okay.” It’s been pretty fricking awesome, thank you.
“I’d like to win another National Championship next year. How about you?”
“Yessir. I want that, too.” My interest perks up. I’ve been wanting to discuss draft placements, combine invitations, and scouting visits, but figured that wouldn’t take place until spring ball or the summer camps. This is probably what I’ve been antsy about today, why I didn’t want to go to the Gas Station to get laid, why the rejection from Lucy at the coffee shop hung with me longer than it should have, why the sight of my friend Masters and his wife, Ellie, made me feel like I was missing out.