“Absolutely.” I straighten in my chair. I’ve always gotten good grades, and I have no problem cutting down on the booze and chicks. The guys on the defense don’t mind having someone else in charge. Between Hammer and me, we’ll have it covered. “What do you need?”
“No more pictures with girls. No more excessive partying.” He ticks a finger with each order. “And convince Anderson that he’d be better off at safety.”
I nod. No chicks. No booze. Get Ace—
“What?” My screech is high enough to be mistaken for a teenage girl, and I think my hearing short-circuited. JR “Ace” Anderson is our quarterback. The one we won the National Championship with. Coach knows all of this, so I must have misheard him. The only thing I can think of to say is, “I’m on defense.”
Coach Lowe doesn’t even spare me a glance. “I’ve got a commitment from Remington Barr out of Texas. He’ll come if he can start. That kid won four straight Texas State High School Championships. I want him. He’s going to be the key to my future here. Ace is athletic, but we both know he’s not good enough to play at the next level. So you convince Ace to move to safety and the C is yours.” He shoves a patch toward me.
The circular patch in gold and blue, with a big old “C” in the middle, is sewn onto a captain’s jersey. It’s an honor to wear the patch, but in order to own this letter I’ve got to tell my quarterback, the one who just helped us win us a national title, that his time at the vaunted QB position is over?
I swallow hard. Not only do I play on the opposite side of the ball as Ace, but my time spent with him generally consists of running by him during practice since he’s considered off-limits even when we’re wearing pads. We aren’t best buds even though we do play on the same team.
“I...I’m on defense.” I sound like a broken record. “I mean that I don’t have any classes with Ace. We don’t hang out. I’ve never had a meaningful conversation with the guy beyond encouraging him to play well. I think my influence over Ace is about the same as I’d have over a herd of cats.”
There. That sounds reasoned and sane unlike Coach’s bizarre request.
“I haven’t asked you to ride herd over cats. Besides, you don’t have to convince Ace directly. You’re free to talk to the rest of the team. If he doesn’t have the support of the team, he’ll move on his own.”
Is there any way to tell your coach that he sounds like he’s taken one too many drags off the pipe? That he’s talking out his ass? Because this shit seems off to me. Shouldn’t he be talking to Ace and addressing the team? Why me? I try another tack. “I have no problem playing monk for the rest of my tenure here—”
“Son?” Coach Lowe interrupts, tone mild as if he hasn’t just released napalm in his office.
“Yeah, Coach?”
“You’re dismissed.”
Okay then. I heave myself out of the chair and walk toward the door. Maybe if I turn around and come back in, the conversation will be completely different.
“Mr. Iverson,” he calls. I turn back just in time to see the patch sailing across the room. I catch it reflexively. “You forgot something.”
3
Lucy
When I get home, I find my two roommates installed in front of the television eating ice cream and watching Say Yes to the Dress. While none of us is even dating, we seem curiously addicted to the show. I think it’s because we have shitty relationships with our moms and this show is all about the momma and daughter drama.
“Tell me there’s a half gallon left of that.” I don’t wait for an answer but throw my backpack on the chair and start rummaging in the freezer. If there was ever a night for real cream, sugar, butter and eggs, tonight was it. I need some relief after talking with Matt Iverson. His number has implanted itself in my head followed by the words call me.
But I can’t eat sugar unless I want to risk sending myself into a diabetic coma, so I resign myself to the sugar-free, fat-free frozen yogurt, which I tell myself is just as good. Just like turning Matt down was the right choice. I stare at my frozen yogurt container with a frown.
“I was going to ask how your mock trial practice went, but since you’re shoving yogurt into your face like tomorrow is the last day on earth, I’m guessing it was shitty?” Sutton rests her pointed chin on the edge of the sofa. Her streaked violet hair clashes against the rich red velvet of the cushion.
“Shitty is too nice of a word to describe how poorly it went.” I throw myself into one of the two Papasan chairs that Sutton contributed to the décor and dig into the yogurt. The icy tartness hits my tongue, and some of my agitation melts away. “But it’s early. We still have a lot of time.” Regionals are right before Spring Break so there are nearly two whole months for us to get our act together.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Charity, my other roommate, informs me.
I pause, my spoon halfway to my mouth, and narrow my eyes. “Why not?”
“Remember 1C complaining about cockroaches?”
“What now?” 1C is an apartment inhabited by two Stepford Wives in the making—both blondes with stick straight hair, identically styled. Every time I’ve seen them, they’re wearing headbands. Who above the age of eleven still wears headbands? Even if their matching hairstyles didn’t remind me of the plastic women from the infamous novel, the robotic looks on their faces and the fake smiles they wear creep nearly everyone out.