ME:I like the glitter better on you.
LILY:Aww, and I was about to offer you a pole dance.
ME:Wait!
Her typing dots disappear, and I know I’m meant to be left hanging with that.
“Jesus Christ, are you going to be like this all year?” Cameron says over my shoulder.
I swipe my screen off, toss my phone into my bag, and push the locker shut.
“Your fault for looking at shit over my shoulder,” I say, taking a test whiff to see if he’ll be playing his first game high this season. He smells clear, which means maybe we might be half decent today. Cameron’s fast, and his hands somehow catch everything thrown in their vicinity. Probably because he couldn’t give two shits what happens to his body when he leaps into the air and lands on his neck.
“Gentlemen!” Coach Fuentes gets our attention, and we all line up on the rows of wooden benches.
For a private school with a serious endowment, our locker room is still stuck in the 1960s. After rolling a well-worn chalkboard to the front of the room, Coach runs through the key plays we worked on this week. I’m paying attention, but I’m not really listening. My focus has drifted to the back of Raskin’s head, two rows in front of me.
My pulse has ticked up with anger, and I want to flick his red freckled ear that sticks out like a doorknob. After about ten minutes of review, Raskin turns to the side, and I’m right there waiting for him.
“Let it go,” Cameron whispers at my side.
“I’ve never liked that asshole,” I grit back.
“I know, but let it go,” he repeats.
For such a wild human, Cameron’s oddly a pacifist. He’s sat back and watched me throw punches plenty of times over the years. And when I ask why he doesn’t jump in and have my back, he shrugs and always says, “You’re a big boy.”
Deciding Raskin isn’t worth it, I heed his advice for now and do my best to get into a competitive headspace. James leads us in a prayer, and I go along with it, figuring I could probably use some extra fortune. If I’m decent this season and manage to come out of the internship with some good recommendations along with an improved GPA, pretty much any school on the West Coast is in my cards. It’s about three thousand miles from my mom’s house to Stanford. That distance feels about far enough.
We all file through the hall, passing the trophy case that doesn’t showcase any football hardware from this century . . .yet.The clacking of cleats along the concrete floor sounds like a rainstorm echoing off the walls until I break through the double doors. It’s a short walk down a path cut through the grassy hill to the field. With the changing leaves hovering along the riverbank behind the home stands, the scene is almost plucked out of a New England Thanksgiving Card. The weather isn’t quite crisp enough yet, but in a few weeks I’ll see my breath during this walk. Some people hate the cold. I’m not particularly fond of it most times, but on game days? I live for it.
The Welles drumline pounds out the traditional drill beats that we always charge into the stadium to, and I glance to my right as we pass them, something seeming to draw my sight. Instead of focusing on the syncopated strokes of the snare drummers, though, my gaze goes right to the last person I want anywhere near me ever again.
My mother brought fucking Neil to my opening game!
I break from the team, shirking off Cameron’s grip on my arm before marching up the grassy slope to where Neil is standing with his fat arm draped over my mom’s shoulder. His polo shirt is too tight for his gut, and his Rolex looks out of place on his arm compared to his ill-fitting pants held up by a belt that must be made of magic.
“Why are you here?” My eyes bounce from my mom to Neil as I growl my words through the mouthpiece I left between my teeth. Good thing it’s there because I’m close to cutting through it with my molars right now.
“Theo! We wanted to surprise you.” My mom’s voice is overly bubbly. She’s putting on a show for me. This is how she sells a pile of shit to people with the hopes of convincing them it’s gold. It’s not. It’s Neil—aka, a pile of shit.
“Surprise! Great, now tell your guest here to run along,” I say, sweeping my hand in the air and shooing him. I wish that had a physical effect. I know what will—my fist in his jaw.
“Theodore, son.” Neil’s smoker voice gurgles through the words.
I point at him immediately and spit out my mouth guard, letting it dangle from my helmet.
“I’m not your son.” I step in front of him so I don’t have to see his face, and meet my mom’s panicked gaze. She could not have possibly thought his would go well.
“What are you doing with this asshole? Why did you bring him? Ma!” My head is throbbing with my rising blood pressure.
“Theo, you’re not being fair. We’ll talk after your game. You must concentrate.” She takes my hand and I let her because she’s my mom, but I keep staring at her with an open mouth. She squeezes my palm and looks up at me with beggar’s eyes, and the only response I can muster is ticking out a short laugh before walking away.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter on my way back down the hill. The team has already run through the banner the student prefects made for opening day. By the time I walk through, it’s nothing but shards of paper. I plop my helmet down over my head and jog until I’m standing next to Cameron.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about today,” he says.
“Yeah? Why’s that?” My tone is hostile. Even I hear it and cringe. I don’t apologize for it, though.