In the past, whenever I’ve had stress in my life, I’ve coped with booze, weed, and chicks. During the season, it’s almost solely chicks because of the random drug testing, and because unlike Hammer and Ace, I can’t drink like a fool and still get up the next day and do fifty burpees without puking halfway through the set.
Learned that lesson freshman year.
So that’s what I do again. It seems like the perfect antidote after being told I’m not worth some neurotic girl’s time.
Hammer and I cruise the local town bars, staying away from the Gas Station, on the shaky premise that I’m tired of Western coeds. Hammer wisely says nothing as I pick out and discard woman after woman after woman.
I’ve ridden this amusement park attraction for three years and the thrill is entirely gone. It’s not just that my dick is dead in my pants but that I can’t even summon a smile for these pretty women.
“If you keep growling at these ladies, I can’t go out with you anymore,” Hammer declares. “You’re a shit wingman and your conversational skills are lacking. I’d have a better time with a potato.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter and throw back another shot.
Hammer eyes me with caution. “You may want to slow down there, brother. That’s the fourth shot you’ve had in less than two minutes.”
I roll the empty shot glass in my hand, wondering how my perfect life went to shit in under two months. “Worried I’m going to ralph all over your new shoes? Promise I’ll save it for the entire O-line tomorrow.”
“No, I’m worried for your liver. You’ve drank enough this past week to move past pickled and into mummification.” He gestures for the bartender, who hops right to. He’s a fan. So many fans in here. The one person I want to be a fan? Isn’t, of course. Because that’s how life apparently works for me now.
The team that I love is in shambles. We can’t work out at the same time now because half of us hates the other half.
The girl I thought I loved threw my declaration—something I’ve never said to any female other than my mom before—back in my face.
My streak of Academic All-American semesters might be in jeopardy because I can’t concentrate for shit. And because I’m too hungover to haul myself to class. In January, the profs were lenient. We had just won the National title. In March? Apparently they care if you show up thirty minutes late to a fifty-minute lecture.
These past couple months have shown me one thing. Success is fleeting. Enjoy it while you can.
A glass of water appears like magic in front of me. I look up with a scowl. “This is not booze.”
Hammer claps me on the back hard enough that my chest bumps into the edge of the mahogany bar. “Fucker, that hurt.” I massage my chest, wishing the pain inside could be so easily rubbed away.
“Good. I was worried you were too numb for this.” He reaches out and slaps his open hand across my face. It’s not a hard blow. My head barely moves when he makes impact, but the shock of it? The sound of flesh striking flesh? I jump up, forgetting momentarily where I am and who just hit me. My fists come up because my fight or flight instinct? Definitely, one hundred percent fight.
I swing, and then sense or God or something sets in and I check myself inches away from Hammer’s unapologetic face.
I drop my arm to my side. “What the motherfucking hell?”
“You need to wake up,” he says simply.
“I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.” I slide back onto the bar stool and clench the glass of water between my hands so I have something to do other than punch Hammer’s lights out. One of my best friends. I hang my head. What is wrong with me?
“Haven’t you had enough?” Hammer reaches past me and taps the rims of all my empty shot glasses. All eleven of them. I swallowed two within seconds of ordering them—the third by the time Hammer ordered his drink and then four more in quick succession. I wasn’t paying for them. They kept appearing in front of me like a cartoon version of shots where there’s no bottom to the booze and the glasses multiply magically. So I drank them.
“Don’t know. Why don’t you hand me the one at the end that’s full and we’ll see if I’m still upright?” I gesture toward the end of the row.
“Is drinking really making you feel better? Because we’ve drunk every night this week and I’m beginning to feel overstuffed. Kinda like how your pants are too tight right around the time that the second NFL game starts on turkey day.”
“Because I have a dick, I’m not allowed to be sad about something?” I snap. Someone starts playing Buckley’s “Hallelujah,” the saddest dirge about how cold and broken love can leave you. Nice. I grab the last shot glass and down the contents. My throat’s so numb I can’t even feel the burn as the liquor slides down my throat. I’m going to have to switch to whiskey.
“You ain’t sad. You’re feeling sorry for yourself. You’re moping around like someone took your football away. On the field, you’re awesome, Matty, but off of it? You’re letting everything fall apart. I don’t know exactly what went down between you two but I can guess. And she might be a stone-cold bitch and you’re better off shot of her. But at some point, you gotta stand up and work for something off the field.”
He rubs a hand down his face. “I don’t know why I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”