Everyone in the room—myself, included—exhales in relief. Nobody even spares a consolatory look at the two sophomore backups. They’d already proven to be absolutely useless, and they look equally relieved by the news.
“Mathis,” Coach barks. “You got anything to say to your team?”
The new guy smiles at everyone. Tall, decent looking, and friendly? I can already hear the Astor girls’ panties dropping to the floor. “Just that I’m looking forward to getting to know y’all and taking home that trophy.”
Several players nod their approval. Me, I’m still sizing Mathis up.
Coach’s gaze shifts in my direction. “What about you, Royal? You good with this change-up?”
Now that Reed has graduated, I’m the unspoken leader of the defense. If I welcome Mathis, the other guys will follow my lead. Coach knows this.
“Aw, Coach, look at you, taking my lil ol’ feelings into consideration.” I wipe away a nonexistent tear. “I’m touched.”
“I don’t give a flying hoot about your feelings, kid. I just know how difficult you Royals can be.” He arches his bushy eyebrows. “But you’re not going to be difficult today, are you, Royal? You’re going to welcome your new quarterback with open arms, isn’t that right?”
I pretend to think it over.
“Royal,” he warns.
A grin breaks free. “Nah, I’m not gonna be difficult.” I spread my arms wide and beam at Mathis. “Come in here for a hug, big guy.”
A few of my teammates snicker.
Mathis looks startled. “Um. Yeah. I’m not much of a hugger.”
My arms drop to my sides. “Dammit, Coach, I welcomed him with open arms—literally—and he rejected me.”
Babbage busts out with laughter.
Coach sighs. “It’s a figure of speech, kid. Just shake his damn hand.”
Laughing, I step forward and slap my hand against Mathis’s. “Good to have you on board,” I tell him. And I mean it. We desperately need a QB that can throw the damned ball.
“Good to be here,” he replies.
Coach claps his hands again. “All right, boys, get changed and hit the weights.”
I strip out of my Astor Park uniform. Dominic Warren is beside me, putting on a pair of basketball shorts.
“Yo, Mathis,” Dom calls across the room. “What’s the tail situation over at Bellfield?”
“Tail situation?” our new QB echoes.
“Yeah, tail. You know. Chicks.” Dom flops down on the bench and bends over to lace up his sneakers. “I’m thinking of finding myself a Bellfield girl—I’m tired of these Astor chicks.”
Mathis grins. “Hey, from what I’ve seen so far, Astor Park girls are smokin’.”
“Yeah, they’re easy on the eyes,” Dom agrees. “But they’ve got sticks up their asses. Their daddies are billionaires, you know? Most of them act like they’re doing you a favor just by talking to you.”
“They don’t all have sticks up their asses,” I disagree, thinking of Ella and Val, the two coolest chicks I know.
I’d add Hartley to that list, too, except I don’t know her well enough yet. Her mom, however, definitely had a stick or two up her ass last night. What the hell was up with that woman? I’ve met a lot of prissy, snooty rich bitches, but even the snootiest of them have a default code of manners. We’re southerners, for chrissake. You’re invited inside and insulted over a glass of sweet tea and a slice of cake. Doors are not slammed in your face.
Dom rolls his eyes. “That’s another thing you should know,” he says to Mathis. “Royal here has hooked up with every chick at this school.”
“I’m a stud,” I confirm, shoving my feet into my sneaks. “Stick with me, QB, and you’ll get laid no problem.”
Chuckling, Mathis wanders over to me. “Gee, thanks, Royal—was that your name?”
“Easton Royal,” I confirm.
“Which one do you prefer?”
“Whichever. What do you prefer—Mathis or Brandon?”
“Bran, actually.”
“Bran? Like the stuff in cereal that makes you shit?”
Mathis throws his head back in laughter. “Yeah, like the stuff that makes you shit.” He claps me on the shoulder. “You’re a funny guy, Royal.”
Don’t I know it.
He’s still laughing as we file into the gym. Normally I partner up with Pash or Babbage, but since I wouldn’t mind getting to know my new quarterback, I offer to spot him.
“Sure,” Mathis says gratefully.
He lies on the bench. I stand at the head of it, my hands hovering over the heavy barbell. I study his arms—they’re long, muscular but not too bulky. I hope he’s got a decent throwing arm.
“So…Bellfield Prep, huh? Means you were living over in Hunter’s Point, right?” I ask, referring to a town about twenty minutes west of Bayview.
“Still living there, actually. My folks weren’t about to pack up and move just so I could be fifteen minutes closer to Astor. My mom loves her garden too much to give it up.”
“What does your family do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where did the Mathis fortune come from?” I clarify in a dry voice. “Oil? Exports? Transportation?”
“Oh, ah, there’s no fortune. We’re middle class, I guess? My mom’s a teacher and my dad is an accountant. I’m here on scholarship or I wouldn’t be able to swing it. Tuition’s about ten times the cost of Bellfield.” He sets the bar in place and takes a couple deep breaths. His face is red from the strain of lifting.
“Ah. Gotcha.” I feel a little stupid for making the assumption, but Mathis is a cool guy. He didn’t bat an eyelash over my questioning or look offended or embarrassed by his social status. Not that I go around bragging that my dad’s part of the three comma club, because what does my dad’s money got to do with me?
The conversation keeps flowing even as we switch places so I can lift while he spots me. He tells me that he started for Bellfield last year during the regular season, but a broken wrist kept him off the field for the playoffs. His backup lost them the first playoff game by throwing three interceptions, which is why Astor Park never played Bellfield Prep in the postseason. They’ve never made it there and are apparently pissed that Bran left them for Astor.
“But Astor opens doors, you know?” he says. “Better curriculum, better connections.”
I wouldn’t know. I’ve never moved outside the Astor social circle. If you’re part of that world, you went to St. Mary’s School for Boys and Girls, even if you weren’t religious. After St. Mary’s, you were shuttled to Lake Lee Academy. Finally, you ended up at Astor.
We’re a breeding ground of privilege with our trust funds, luxury cars, and designer clothing. And private jets, if you’re a Royal.
“What’s the social scene like at Bellfield?” I ask. Judging by the guys I fight and gamble with, the only difference between an Astor Prep punk and a kid from the dock is the price of the liquor we drink. We bleed the same, hurt the same.
“I’m not much of a partier. I don’t drink.”
“Like during the season?”
“At all. My parents are really strict,” he admits as I hop off the bench after my set. “My dad’s a football fanatic. As in, football is life. He monitors my food and drink intake. We have a nutritionist who comes to the house once a week with new diet plans. I’ve had a personal trainer since I was seven.”
That sounds like a nightmare. I can’t imagine my dad monitoring all the toxins I put in my body. There’d be too many of them for him to keep up with. The only thing he really puts his foot down about is flying. But as much as it bugs me that I’m banished from the cockpit, I know it probably has something to do with the lawsuit Dad dealt with a while back. One of the test pilots for Atlantic Aviation died, and post-accident investigation turned up a drinking problem. Dad’s been strict on the no bottle to throttle rule ever since.
“That’s brutal,” I say sympathetically.