“Good,” he answers. “Your bars were awesome.”
“Daddy said that Knox is going to try to see our game against Florida State since he plays Jacksonville the next day.”
“That’s right.” Ty arches an eyebrow in my direction, as if I’m going to completely lose it at the sight of my old teammate.
Yeah, it’s not something I’m looking forward to. Knox is best friends with Matty Iverson, Lucy’s boyfriend. But I’m not a fragile flower who’s going to fall apart at the first hint of conflict. If that were the case, I wouldn’t be the fucking starting quarterback of one of the best college teams in the country. “Be good to see an old teammate.”
“Won’t it, though.” Ty’s voice is flat, as if he’s remembering all the bad blood that drove me from Western State to this locker room.
“It certainly will,” Bryant says. She pats my chest and the uneasiness fades, replaced by an anxiousness of a different nature. “Have a good game tomorrow. I’ll see you after.”
She turns away, trailing her perfectly manicured fingernails across my chest. Goosebumps pop up on my exposed forearms, and I have to exert some willpower to prevent a shudder from breaking out at that light touch.
My loose sweatpants feel too tight. This no-girl thing is killing me. What I need to do is convince her to climb back in bed with me so that we can fuck each other out of our systems. So my body doesn’t immediately react every time she comes within sniffing distance.
Her dad already knows we’re seeing each other, and I’m still the starter for tomorrow’s game. Tomorrow night, after we win, I’m going to borrow a few of Zane’s power-thrusting moves and fuck Bryant senseless.
“You bet your sweet ass, you will,” I mutter.
Bryant’s mouth curves up. “Can’t wait.”
I watch that juicy butt as she walks out, and when I notice Ty watching, too, an involuntarily growl rumbles in my throat. He throws a smirk in my direction before heading to his own locker.
I tear my eyes away to frown at the floor. Did I just growl at my teammate like an animal over a girl I don’t even really want? And what about the way I acted with Kent the other day? I was irritated that he wanted in her pants. Ty eying Bryant, Kent wanting to be her man—none of this should bother me. But it all does. I chalk it up to unfinished business. She’s an itch I need to scratch. I get in bed with her, screw her, repeat my no-relationships speech, and then we’re done. Over. Finito.
Bryant stops at the doorway and turns slightly, her voice carrying so that the entire roster of a hundred or so guys can hear her. “Zane’s right, boys. It’s all in the glutes.”
I’m effing doomed.
7
Bryant
Like superstitions, pre-game rituals are as important as anything. They don’t exist merely because players believe a certain set of events need to happen to secure a win. Instead, it’s sort of a mental muscle memory. Practicing the same thing a hundred times a day, a thousand times a week, ensures that the ball is snapped at the exact moment or thrown to the precise spot just as the receiver arrives. Similarly, high-fiving a sign or rubbing the pig’s belly or, as is our case, slapping the behind of an iron horse as the team runs down the tunnel, puts our boys in the winning frame of mind.
The day starts out with a team breakfast, followed by a team meeting wherein the captains talk about how the team is like a military unit. They lose together, and they win together. Everything is done together. Secretly, I think if they shit, showered, and shaved together, Daddy’d be for that, too.
After the captains’ speeches, the team breaks up into its smaller components. The quarterbacks and skill positions, such as the running backs, wide receivers and tight ends, meet together to go over the scripted first fifteen plays. The defensive squads huddle together to be reminded of their assignments.
Once the meetings wrap up, the players collect in the locker room and are given time to settle their nerves. Most choose to sit in front of their lockers with their Beats headphones and their preferred musical selections blaring in their ears. Some will cruise Twitter or Instagram or Snapchat. The trainer’ll come in and make sure everyone’s got every pad, sock, cup, and glove that they need. They gear up. Outside in the stadium, the fans are gathering. The band’s marching off the field. The cheerleaders are getting into formation.
About twenty minutes before the opening whistle, Daddy enters the locker room to extol the virtues of perfection. Every college team that wins a championship must strive for perfection. Nothing else is acceptable, because in college, one loss can mean the end of your season. The goal from the spring workouts through summer camps and pre-season scrimmages is to prep the team to win a championship.
Lots of teams schedule a weak opponent for the first game so that their boys can get a taste of the field before the real competition starts. Not Daddy. We start off with a big-name opponent because the Renegades aren’t afraid of nobody. That and because winning against only weak teams has prevented more than one team from being deemed worthy of one of the precious four playoff spots. Playing strong non-conference teams can also serve as a hedge against a loss, God forbid, knock-on-wood, throw the salt over the shoulder, should we suffer one.
I stand halfway down the cavernous cement tunnel next to the assistant Athletic Director. Sally’s a wiry woman with ash blonde hair that looks gray in certain lights. She adamantly refuses to color her hair, saying that the coaches should know how much they stress her out. Her thin fingers are wrapped around a clipboard that has about five thousand things on it, only ten of which are of any importance.