"What in the hell were you boys thinking? Explain it to me, because I've spent the last five hours trying to figure it out, and I don't have a God damn clue. Was this just some sort of stupid-ass prank?"
"No," Luke says quietly, looking down.
"Then what? You wanted attention? Wanted to be somebody better than your teammates?"
"No," I say, sinking further and further with every word that comes out of Coach's mouth.
"Then what. Tell me what compelled you to think this was in any way a good idea."
"I thought it would help the team," Luke confesses in a very small voice.
"You thought it would help the team," Coach repeats, his tone laced with disappointment.
I suddenly remember what I said earlier, in the heat of the moment. Maybe his plan wasn't thought out that well, but me essentially calling Luke stupid was... beyond terrible. I want to take it back, even in the middle of all of this. But it's too late for that. The best I can do is share the blame.
"We wanted the team to have their identity back. It was just supposed to boost morale. We never thought it would go this far."
Coach Haynes sits back in his chair, his hands folded in front of him on the desk. I know that look. That's the look he gets on his face when he wants to yell, but is trying very, very hard to keep calm.
At this point, I'd almost prefer the yelling. Right now it feels like Luke and I are being left to sweat it out in an interrogation room. I half expect Coach to leave and watch us squirm from the other side of a two-sided mirror.
But he doesn't keep us dangling on that hook for too long.
"Well. Your fantastic idea to 'help the team' is going to cost them any chance of a salvageable season. So I hope you're real proud of yourselves."
"They can't do that," Luke says. "If they want to punish someone, it should be us. They can't punish the whole team."
"Son, I don't think you understand what's happening here." He leans forward again. "You didn't just perpetuate this little story in the locker room. You lied to the press. You brought media attention to that lie, and because of that, we sold more tickets and the program profited from those sales. So yeah, the NCAA wants to make an example of us. And they'd be justified in doing it."
I let out a shuddering breath, my blood cooling in my veins. I never wanted this to happen. In the back of my mind, I knew this worst-case scenario was always a possibility. But I thought this would end with Luke and I getting suspended. Not with the whole team suffering because of us.
"They want to take back all the wins the team has gotten since you two started this shit-show. You may remember, gentlemen, that we lost our first three games. This would put us 0-6, so any hope of a post-season is well out of the question." He sifted through some papers, then picked up his reading glasses. "The other option they're giving me is to keep the wins, but forfeit the rest of the season. Puts us in the same spot, but punishes the guys who'd have recruiters coming out to watch them play."
"There has to be another way, Coach," Luke says.
Coach Haynes looks at Luke, and for a second I can see past the anger in his eyes; past the deep disappointment. He's tired, like he's been dealing with a barrage of bullshit since this came out. He probably has been.
"There is, but it's not anything you'll like."
"It has to be better than this," I say.
Coach flips open a folder and skims a long, dense document with his finger.
"They're willing to let us keep the wins and finish the season, but only if you two are expelled from the team."
My breath catches. I shouldn't be surprised. I guess I didn't come into this thinking I'd ever be able to play for Eastshore again. But it still hurts. The weight of a reality without Eastshore slams into me, tearing the breath from my lungs. I can see my future spinning down the drain. Any hopes I ever had of going pro are now just stupid dreams.
"As much as I hate what you did, I don't like any of this,” he says. “You're good kids who made a stupid decision, and either way, they want to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk straight. If you two really did this for your team, though, I think you know what the right choice is."
I close my eyes. It's over. There's no way I can throw my teammates under the bus for something I did. If Eastshore is denied those games, it completely kills their season. There are guys who won't get offers because of it, and coaching staff who won't be kept on next year.
The decision is clear-cut, but it's still painful.
"Yeah," Luke says, glancing briefly at me. "We'll do it."
Coach nods. "Lawyers will be out here to go over all of this with you and to witness you signing all the shit they've got for you to sign. This is just for me and the team."
Great. Even more of this.
The room is dead silent after that, but for the shifting of papers and the scratch of a ballpoint pen as we sign the documents laying out the terms. With one swift stroke, I'm signing my whole future away.
And I realize, as we get up and head out of Coach's office, that it's nothing compared to the pain of losing Luke. Even without that fight, there's no way we'd recover from this. I can see it in his eyes.
"I'm going to stay with a friend," I say quickly. "Text me when you head to the gym or something. I'll wait til then to come get my stuff."
It hurts to do this, but I don't know what else I even can do. We've destroyed everything. Our relationship for sure, but our friendship as well. The only thing I can think to do is not make it harder on either of us.
Because I don't think I can take seeing him while I pack up my things.
"Sure," he says, using that same, flat tone of voice I'm starting to hate. "Guess I'll see you when I see you."
I can feel my heart being compressed like it's in a vice. Soon there won't be anything left but a gaping hole where it used to be.
"Yeah," I manage.
Then I head out of the locker room for the last time, leaving my best friend behind.
17
Luke
For the next few days, I don't bother to go to class.
What's the fucking point? I'll have enough credits to graduate, and it's not like I need to maintain a high GPA anymore. Plus, the idea of seeing my teammates--former teammates--and all the Eastshore students who know the whole deal by now is completely mortifying. I've already had reporters coming up to my dorm, asking for interviews. PR's called five times to remind me I'm not supposed to answer any of them.
It's a fucking mess, and the worst thing out of all of it is that I can't even lean on Brandon to get through it. He's just gone. He said he'd grab his shit when I hit the gym, and he did exactly that. No note, no nothing. There's just an empty bed with neatly made sheets.
I was hoping--really fucking hoping--that once this all shook out, maybe we could be men about this and move on. Our friendship has survived so much that I always figured it could survive this, too.
I guess I was wrong, and now that I know what Brandon really thinks of me, maybe I'm better off.
I try to tell myself that at least, but every time I hear a knock on my door, my heart leaps straight into my throat. For just one terrible second, I hope it's Brandon.
Then I come to my senses.
"Fuck off," I say, expecting the same mob of reporters that's popped up every hour on the hour since Tuesday.
"It's me," a familiar voice says.
Erica.
For half a second I wonder if it's a trap. She's a reporter, after all, and it's not like my friends betraying is anything new after these past few days. But I can't afford to shut her out. If she's genuinely here for me, I need her support.
I get up and head over to the door, undoing the lock to let her in. It's just her, thank fuck. She takes one look at me and I can tell she thinks I've gone off the deep end.
"Jesus, Luke. I knew it would be bad, but I didn't think it would be this bad."
"Yeah," I say, closing the door behind her. "Join the club."
"
I'm so sorry about what the NCAA is doing to you. It's complete bullshit."
I just shrug. "Hey, it means you were right, at least. This was a stupid plan to begin with."
"I didn't want to be right," she says with a sad smile. "And it wasn't a stupid plan. Short-sighted, maybe, but I know your heart was in the right place."
I just give her a little shrug and act like I have something real important to do in straightening the desk. A desk that only has my shit on it now.
Erica must take a look around the room, because she asks, "Where's Brandon?"
"Staying at a friend’s place."
"...But all his stuff is gone." I can hear it in her voice; she's already putting the pieces together.
"Yep."
She lets out a sigh, and before I even hear her approach, I feel her arms wrap around me from behind. She hugs me tight, and I let out a shuddering breath, trying not to give away how much I need that right now.
The hell of it is that I need it from Brandon, not from Erica. But I set my hand on top of hers all the same, offering silent thanks.
"What happened?" she asks quietly, her voice muffled against my back.
"What, all this shit isn't enough?"
"For you two?" she scoffs. "You've been inseparable for as long as I've known you."
I stiffen, and I know she feels it because she tightens her embrace. Fucking stubborn-ass Erica.
"Yeah, well. Things change."
She lets go of me, comes around to my front and puts her hands on my face. She's so short compared to me, but she gives me her most intimidating stare. And it works.
"What happened?"
"We got into a fight," I say like it didn't rip my heart out while it was going on. "Said some things to him I never thought I'd say. Heard some things I never thought I'd hear."
"Like what?" she asks, not letting up.
So I tell her. I tell her about the thing with my dad and how I was afraid of him being like Brandon's folks. I tell her how Brandon reacted to that, and how everything went to hell when he got back. I tell her that Brandon laid the blame at my feet, and how I batted it back at him in the worst way possible.
By the end of all of that, she finally lets go of my face. I look over at a spot on the wall.
"That was a really shitty thing to say to him," she says.
As if all of this wasn't painful enough. Now I'm going to lose two friends. She'll take Brandon's side and I won't see either of them again.
"You think I don't know that?"
She shakes her head, but the look she gives me isn't reproachful. She just looks sad. For me, for Brandon, I really don't know.
"You don't know. Not the truth. If he'd actually told you, you would've never said something that insensitive. I know you, Luke. You're not that guy."
I try to shut her words out, because I sure as hell feel like that guy right now.
"Told me what?" I ask. I can't help myself.
Erica steps away from me and threads her fingers through her hair. She lets out a sigh, seems to war with herself for a little while, then turns back to me.
"Brandon is nuts about you. He has been since the seventh grade."
I can feel the walls I've built up around my heart starting to crack and crumble.
"Yeah, right," I say, knowing she's well aware my defenses are being shattered as we speak.
"I'm serious, Luke." She looks into my eyes. "He's been in love with you for years. You remember that night you went home with Olivia Maxwell?"
I comb through my memory, finally pulling up something that seems right. "The rebound chick I hooked up with after you?"
She nods. "I found Brandon at that shitty bar off of 1st Ave. He was working on his fourth beer when I got there, and bought a couple shots to top it off. Within a half hour, he told me everything."
I remember that night. Brandon came in smelling like a fucking Budweiser factory, drunk off his ass. He asked me if Olivia was a good lay. While she was still there. I always figured he was pissed at me for bailing on him as a friend.
But if what Erica's saying is true...
"Shit," I say, replaying my own words.
"Of course, what he said to you was pretty shitty, too. And I hope you know he didn't mean it. You aren't stupid, Luke. You just have a big heart."
Sure. A big heart. A heart that was so hurt by what he said that I hauled off and said something even worse. A heart so scared of going through what he did that I couldn't man up and tell the truth when it mattered most.
A heart that's completely crushed without him around.
It hits me all of a sudden, like a ten-ton weight barreling straight into my chest. None of this matters to me. Not the bad press or the expulsion or even the end of my career as a D1 football player. Not my relationship with my dad or all the friends I've probably lost because of my choices.
The only thing that hurts about this is losing Brandon. And damn, does it hurt.
"I think I love him," I find myself saying, looking up at Erica.
She gives me that same sad smile. "So what are you going to do about it?"
What am I going to do about it? After the way I acted, the things I said, I don't really expect Brandon to take me back. Not in that way. But if I can make things right--if I can put him first and make sure he's taken care of--maybe I can win back his friendship someday.
I have to try.
"Got some people I need to talk to. Thanks, Erica."
I don't say anything more than that, just kiss her cheek and head out of the dorm, hoping I won't be too late.
"Are you sure you want to do this, son?"
Coach Haynes waits with me outside of a small conference room. He's asked me that question three times now, ever since I first came to him with the idea two days ago. Now, ready to face the NCAA review board, I give him the same answer I gave the other three times.
"Yeah, I'm sure. This is the way it should've been from the start. I'm just trying to set things right."
The door opens and a woman steps out. "Mr. Trent? We're ready for you now."
Coach Haynes puts a hand on my shoulder, but he stays behind. They're not allowing anybody else in, which is probably for the best. As I walk into the shark pit, my rental suit feels too tight, pinching me in the chest and shoulders. I'm sweating under the collar of the dress shirt, and I just want to get this over with.
"Have a seat, Mr. Trent," a nicely-dressed man says. "I understand you're here to provide further insight into the incident?"
The incident. Is that what they're calling it? Seems awfully downplayed for how serious it's become, but maybe they deal with this sort of thing all the time.
"I do, sir." I take a seat, gather my courage, and prepare to tell them what I've been practicing for days. "I just wanna make sure the NCAA has the full truth of it. So I'm going to start from the beginning."
They probably expect me to tell them when and why I first came up with that plan. Instead, I tell them about the first day I met Brandon at camp. I tell them that I hated his guts because he was a better player than me. I tell them about how we eventually became friends, and about the years that followed.
I mostly get impatient stares while I’m doing it. The one woman in the bunch taps away on her MacBook. Maybe taking notes, maybe ignoring me completely.
"When I set all this up--and I'm the one who set it up; the most Brandon ever did was go along with it--I figured it'd be fine because we're best friends. I thought we could get through anything. But... I didn't know Brandon was actually gay."
That get some attention. The typing stops, and I'm not looking back at vacant expressions.
"I also didn't ever count on our fake relationship turning into something real. But it did. I know what Bowman said, that I'm always around some girl or another. It's bullshit--pardon me saying so--but even if it wasn't, it doesn't matter now. It hasn't mattered since the first time I kissed Brandon."
Now the stares start to become uncomfortable.
&nbs
p; "Are you saying you had a physical relationship with your teammate?"
"Yeah. It was more than that, though. More than I've ever had with anybody else. Brandon is my best friend for a reason, you know? He gets me. I get him. We just clicked, and being with him felt like the most natural thing in the world."
I look around the room and see three sets of eyes staring back at me. All three of them look like they're trying to figure out what to say to this. I'm guessing they don't get a lot of confessions like mine during these hearings.
I'm not done, though. Not even close.
"Football's my whole life, pretty much. Ever since I was a kid. I love it, and I'd hoped to maybe have a shot at the pros one day. So yeah, it hurts to know that's off the table--"
"And I'm afraid we cannot offer you the traditional route to a professional career, Mr. Trent," the second man says. "We have already laid out the consequences to your actions. Coach Haynes assured us you were not attempting to appeal our decision. If that is not the case..."
Wow. These people really don't like to listen to a whole story before they launch into what they figure the point is.
"I'm not trying to appeal it. The decision you've made about me is the right one. I f... I messed up. I made my team, my school, and the whole league look bad. What I'm trying to say is that as much as that hurts, it's nothing compared to seeing Brandon lose those things. Especially when I know he hasn't done anything wrong."
More typing. I start to wonder if she's just keeping a record of everything I'm saying. Maybe they'll go through it later and try to decipher it, because I'm sure it's pretty fucking meandering right now. As much as I practiced, I can't seem to stop the words from just coming out as they please.
"The accounts given state that Mr. Tucker shares equal part in the blame. He signed a statement saying as much. Do you believe that to be false?"
"He went along with it, sure," I say, "but I don't think it was ever fake for him. The relationship he had with me was real all the way. I'm the one who had to catch up. And he wasn't angling for press attention--that was probably the last thing he wanted. He was just being a good teammate and a good friend."
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