It’s the disappointment in his voice that finally penetrates my thick, dumb skull. “Football gives back what you put into it. The rest of it, like Buckley’s saying.” I wave my hand in the general direction of what I think might be the jukebox although it might also just be a bunch of boxes of empty beer bottles awash in neon. “Love just ruins you.”
“Bullshit.”
“What?”
This is Hammer. Who loves football. Whose entire wardrobe consists of Warrior T-shirts, shorts, and workout gear. He bleeds blue and gold. I knock my hand against my ear. Did he just call bullshit on the only true and reliable facts of our lives—football is it.
“We both know I’m not going pro. Most of the guys that play at Western won’t ever even get to sniff the turf at a pro stadium unless they’re paying to be there. That’s why I took this job writing articles for a woman’s magazine. You think it’s funny as hell, but this is going to get me a good paying job when I graduate.”
Hammer grabs my shoulder and forces me to look at him. “This thing with Ace? It’s not even about winning anymore. It’s whether we’re going to enjoy playing together. Matty, fuck, this is our last year. I don’t want to go out wondering what if, and regretting the time I spent. Even if we don’t win another title, I still want to know that I gave it all I had because I was playing with the best motherfuckers in the world. I don’t like saying this, but you kinda need a wakeup call. Is it possible she had a good reason for kicking your ass to the curb?
You aren’t a good risk.
She’d known it all along, and I’d laughed it off. Because on the field, I’m reliable as they come. Off of it, I duck anything close to responsibility. It’s not that I mind a challenge. Challenges are fun. But conquering a challenge isn’t the same as shoving on a pair of shitkickers and getting down in the trenches into messy, dirty, uncomfortable things.
The night we took Lucious out, I got drunk rather than stick to my own rules of no booze, no chicks.
I wasn’t thinking of Luce that night. I was thinking of myself.
I was a good lover because it reflected well on me.
I pursued Luce because it was fun—for me.
It’s always been about me. Even when she broke up with me, I didn’t see things from her point of view.
We were even in this random joint twenty miles from campus because I didn’t want to be around Luce.
I feel sick, and it’s not because of the liquor. The acid of self-disgust is mixing with all that booze, and I can feel it climbing upward.
“I need the john. Where is it?”
Hammer sizes up the situation immediately and starts pulling me through the crowd. People scatter in the wake of his two-hundred-and-eighty-pound form until my drunk ass is in the bathroom. I barf up the shots I’d been pounding since I arrived like I was participating in some cheap Spring Break contest. Guy who drinks the most shots in two minutes gets a free chaser of beer and a card with the local ambulance number on it.
I wipe my face with toilet paper. Flush three times and then dunk my head in the sink. After I wash away any residue and hopefully some of my dumbassery, I grab a handful of paper towels and run them through my hair.
“What do you want to do?”
“Me?” Hammer points to himself.
“Yeah, we’ve been doing my crap all week. What do you want?”
He ponders this. “There’s a redhead out there who’s been eyefucking me. I wouldn’t mind doing her.”
Okay. “Here or back home?”
“Here. Definitely here.”
Which is how I find myself sitting on the dingy barroom floor, directing people away from the men’s room for thirty minutes while Hammer and the redhead enjoy an energetic and sometimes noisy interlude.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, we’re greeted with some unwelcome news. Because of our inability to get along, according to Coach Lowe, we’re shipping off for a “retreat.” We’re sent home to pack our bags, which means I can’t go over to Luce’s place like I need to. Like I want to.
I debate texting her, but that’s a low-class move and one that doesn’t have much chance of success anyway. Over the phone, via text, it’s easy for her to ignore me.
If I’m going to apologize, I need to do it in person.
Tensions in the locker room are high as we gather our shit. Players are chirping at each other and not in a fun, friendly, busting your balls way. Fozzy tells Darryl that he’s slower than molasses off the block and snidely wonders whether Carter Hunt, the incoming freshman center, is going to replace him. The two get into a shoving match right in front of Ace, who leans back and watches the interaction as if it’s a goddamned sitcom.
The team is falling apart.
Yeah, it is. And Ace isn’t going to save it. Masters isn’t here anymore. So it’s me or nobody. Hammer gives me a whatchu doing about this mess look. I make a face because once I stand up, that pretty much means I can’t pummel Ace into the small ball of dust he should be reduced to.
Responsibility kind of sucks donkey balls, which is why I probably avoided it for so long.
Shooting one last annoyed glare in Hammer’s direction—who gives me an irritating two thumbs up—I rise to my feet and stride over to where Fuzzy and Darryl have their arms interlocked like two combatants in a WWE match. We just need Bish to come flying in with a chair.
“You two think this is a dance class?” I bark out. Darryl’s head jerks around because he’s not used to this from me. Fozzy tries to take advantage of Darryl’s inattention but I’m able to shove them apart.