Love in Vein

by Britt Morrow

  “You realize we have a game tonight, right?” I shouldn’t be antagonizing him, but the fact that he’s drinking right before one of our biggest games of the season pisses me off.

  “You realize you’re a fucking buzzkill? No wonder Crystal left you for me,” he sneers.

  That’s far from accurate. I tired of Crystal after only a couple months of dating when I realized that her blowjobs didn’t make up for her constant inane chatter. To her credit, she took the breakup incredibly well. I’m pretty sure she went straight from my truck to Colt’s bed. Honestly, she was probably already well-acquainted with it.

  I choose to ignore the taunt. “I need you in the locker room in thirty minutes, and you better not be buzzed.”

  “Or what, Chief?”

  Chief is one of his favorite nicknames for me. The sarcasm doesn’t bother me, though; I know how much it rankles him that I’m team captain rather than him. There’s no doubt the guys would listen to him; I’m the only one who comes close to matching him in size. He only shows up to half the practices though, and when he does show up, he’s usually a couple of beers in. It infuriates Coach Hayes to no end that he isn’t taking his senior year more seriously. It infuriates me even more that he still manages to outperform me even when not taking it seriously.

  But I’ve been working harder than ever this season. Hard enough that even Coach Hayes, who’s reserved with his praise, said I might have a shot at getting noticed by a scout. He’s also notoriously tight-lipped, so the fact that he mentioned a scout means that there’s a pretty good chance that one of the college coaches will actually be showing up tonight.

  My strategy for tonight’s game is the same strategy that I have for every game: get the boys riled up. It’s no coincidence that some of the nation’s best football teams are in some of the poorest counties. Yeah, tens of thousands of booster dollars, extravagant pep rallies, and multi-championship winning coaches can do wonders for your football program. You’d be surprised at how far the suppressed anger and desperation born from poverty can get you, though. Scarcity breeds scrappiness: you have to fight for everything. Get a bunch of underprivileged kids together and encourage them to hit their opponents; they will - hard.

  Unsurprisingly, I’m the first guy in the locker room. That’s what I was hoping for, though: some time alone in the weight room to clear my head. The other guys need to get mean to play their best, but the quarterback needs to get focused.

  I take every game seriously; I realize that this is probably the apex of my life. In twenty years, when I’m sitting on my saggy porch with a couple of kids running around the overgrown yard, my days as a high school quarterback are what I’ll be reminiscing about. If I get recruited to a college team though, I might actually have a shot at more.

  Until the past month or so, I hadn’t thought of college as much more than a distant dream: something to fantasize about, but probably unrealistic for someone like me to actually achieve. Kind of like becoming a famous actor or the president. I’d thumbed through a few brochures in the school guidance counselor’s office, but apparently wearing navy polo shirts and loafers are requirements for going to college.

  There were no brochures depicting kids wearing threadbare flannels with dirt under their fingernails. When I mentioned this to the guidance counselor, she told me that the local auto-parts shop might be a good alternative. Evidently, the ‘Aim Higher!’ motivational poster behind her desk only applies to kids from decent homes.

  I considered asking whether someone had convinced her that being a guidance counselor to a bunch of disinterested adolescents was a “good alternative” to being a real teacher or a therapist, but I thought better of it. My frustration is better channeled towards football anyway. I’m going to use it to power through my last few bench press reps and get fired up for tonight.

  By the time I’m finished, the locker room is starting to fill up. It reeks of nerves and unwashed genitals. Colt is holding court, recounting an anecdote from last weekend’s post-game party.

  “Nice of you to put down the beer long enough to join us tonight,” I remark.

  His eyes dart towards Coach’s open office door, displaying uncharacteristic nervousness, before returning to mine. Colt is bigger, and no doubt stronger, than Coach Hayes, but Coach is more fearsome. His bullying comes with much more severe consequences. Coach can take away not only your lunch money or your girlfriend, but also your entire future.

  “If you wanna nag someone about their alcohol consumption, you should start with your Ma,” he retorts.

  It’s a low blow, and he knows it. I instinctively lunge towards him. One of the linebackers attempts to intercept me, but I’m faster. My fist connects with Colt’s nose in a sickening crunch. He responds with a blow to my ear before the linebacker succeeds in dragging me back.

  “What the fuck are y’all doing out here?” I can barely hear Coach’s shouting over the ringing of my ear.

  Coach Hayes is intimidating at the best of times; with his face beet red and spittle flying, he’s terrifying. Everyone immediately steps away from the fray. Coach registers the fountain of blood that’s become of Colt’s nose and the swelling starting around my temple.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you two? You couldn’t save your aggression for thirty more goddamn minutes?” he’s yelling so loudly that he has to pause to regain his breath before continuing, “Colt, get yourself to the nurse and get bandaged up. Levi, you better fucking hope that you don’t have a concussion. You’re playing regardless.”

  Everyone is shellshocked, including me. I’ve never been a fighter. And if I was ever looking for a brawl, I would have chosen an opponent who doesn’t have two inches and close to twenty pounds on me. I’d like to pretend that my aggression towards Colt was all just part of my plan to rile the guys up for the game, but the truth is that it was pure animal instinct. I can handle being the son of a vicious alcoholic. I can’t handle being derided for it by someone like Colt.

  The rest of the team dons their gear in silence, giving me a wide berth. I’m not particularly close with any of the guys, but usually they’re friendly enough. The unexpected attack on their ringleader seems to have left them rattled, though.

  Much as I hate to admit it, I’m relieved when Colt lumbers back into the locker room, holding an icepack over his nose. Not only does our defense need him, but he instills a confidence in our team that I’m not capable of on my own. It’s not hard to feel invincible when you have a 6’3 220-pound linebacker on your side - especially one who looks ready to murder.

  “If y’all are half as destructive towards the other team as you are with each other, this game should be a breeze,” Coach Hayes grumbles at us.

  Coach isn’t one for powerful speeches. I don’t blame him. The motivational locker room soliloquies you see in the movies would be lost on most of the guys anyway. The fact is, the majority of the room doesn’t care about the weaknesses in our opponents’ 3-4 defense, and how they’re strong enough to take on the defensive linemen but don’t have the speed to rush me on the passing downs. Coach and I have already discussed this in intricate detail over the past few days. I know what we need to do.

  “Play hard. Beer and pussy don’t taste as good after a loss.” Coach Hayes may not be eloquent, but he is accurate.

  And with that, we’re off: a surging mass of angst and hormones ready to annihilate.

  Chapter 2

  I started playing football because it’s just what you do around here: the alternative is opioids. I continued playing football though, because I love the sense of purpose. I never matter more than when I’m on the field, surrounded by a team of guys ready to execute the plays that I call out. The marching band heralds our entrance, the team mascot - a lion - amps up the crowd, the cheerleaders vie for our attention, and the entire town is gathered to watch. For those two-and-a-half hours on Friday night, I’m someone worthy of attention. Tonight, I may even be worthy of admiration.

  It’s one of those
rare nights where I’m able to just play instinctively. Usually, I’m continuously re-thinking plays and strategizing how best to gain an advantage. Tonight though, playing is almost effortless. The earlier confrontation with Colt has left me with a strange sense of calm: a release valve for my pent-up frustrations. The rest of the guys are uncharacteristically focused, hesitant to provoke me.

  The game passes in a blur of sweating, grunting, and hitting. It’s no wonder everyone loves Friday nights so much; it’s an expression of our basest animalistic desires. Especially on the nights that we win - it serves as an excuse for the wanton hedonism that follows. I can already tell that tonight is going to be especially debaucherous.

  Murfreesboro is giving us a run for our money. They’ve got better facilities, new equipment, and a coach who played college ball. But they’re lacking our scrappiness. And the scoreboard shows it. Thank God. The money the school spent on that scoreboard could have built a new library. Or at least stocked it with something other than ten-year-old Readers Digests and textbooks written during the Eisenhower administration.

  At the end of the game, the scoreboard reads 58-48 for us: a better outcome than I’d even dared to hope for. I’m so buoyed by the results that I’m not even irritated by the locker room towel-snapping antics and shit-talking.

  “You finally gonna get with Misty tonight, Cody?” Colt ribs.

  “Why are you so concerned? You tired of Crystal already?” Cody retorts.

  “Not yet. She’s got a great rack.”

  The one thing Colt and I can agree on.

  “What about you, Levi, are you actually gonna come out and have some fun with us tonight?” Colt calls over.

  The guys are all pretending to busy themselves with their gear, but I can tell that everyone is listening intently.

  “Where’s the party at?” I reply evenly.

  “Bonfire out behind the Cartwrights’ land,” Colt answers.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.” It’s the safest answer; I don’t want to go for round two with him tonight. Plus, I deserve to unwind after tonight’s performance.

  “You gonna get that checked out?” I ask, gesturing to his nose.

  “Nah, the nurse set it. Plus, chicks love an injury,” he grins.

  Turns out that all it took to win Colt’s respect was an unsolicited rhinoplasty.

  I take my time showering and dressing; no family is waiting outside to congratulate me and take me to a celebratory dinner.

  Coach Hayes makes a point of saying goodbye to me on his way out, though. “Tonight was a scout-worthy performance,” he tells me earnestly. “Keep playing like that, and you might have a shot at a scholarship. Have a good night Levi.”

  I’m not sure if he’s just saying it so that I’ll continue playing as confidently as I did tonight, but I appreciate the compliment regardless. It’s enough to keep my spirits up and my mind on something other than the uncertainty about what I’ll encounter when I get home tonight. Every night is different: fury, histrionics, or, my personal favorite, drunken stupor.

  The lights are off in the trailer when I pull up. Brandi is either at Bud’s, her dive bar of choice, for an extended happy hour, or she’s already passed out. Either way, it’s preferable to her being awake. She’s never been affectionate towards me, but the older I get, the more her vitriol increases. She can’t fathom why I would choose to spend my time on “shit that ain’t gonna get me anywhere” like school and football, rather than getting a job and actually contributing to the household. I told her that she was doing such a great job of defrauding the government with her disability payments that she didn’t need my help. She backhanded me hard enough to give me a black eye and refused to speak to me for close to a month. The peace and quiet were well worth the pain, though.

  I drop my football gear off in my room before heading to the kitchen. I already know that there won’t be anything in the fridge, but I check out of habit. I didn’t come home to eat anyways; I know that Pete will give me a burger and fries on the house if I swing by the diner. Football players eat free on game nights. Usually, I would go to the diner after the game and then come home immediately afterward. Tonight though, I’m actually contemplating taking Colt up on his bonfire offer.

  I never really found my place in the high school hierarchy. I’m good-looking enough to garner female attention, but too poor to be popular. Athletic enough to thrive on the football team, but too introspective to fit in with the jocks. Intelligent enough to do well in classes, but too disenchanted to be one of the academics. Partying never really appealed to me that much; nothing like being around a drunk all the time to turn you off of heavy drinking. Aside from my brief fling with Crystal, I haven’t been with very many girls either. The ones who hang around the football guys tend to talk a lot without ever saying anything. I’m not nearly as above it all as I like to pretend, though. Tonight, I wouldn’t say no to beer or an underdressed chick.

  I survey myself briefly in the bathroom mirror. Wavy dark hair, deep blue eyes, broad shoulders. Not poster-boy attractive, but handsome enough to have the cheerleaders fawn over me. They’ll fawn over anyone on the team, but I’ll take what I can get.

  I consider ridding myself of my five o’clock shadow, but the blade on my razor is old and dull, and I’m starving. It’s not like I have anyone to impress anyways.

  The diner is packed when I arrive, but that’s to be expected after a game. There are no empty booths, so I stand awkwardly for a moment until Cody beckons me over to a table where he’s sitting with a couple of other receivers. “Good game tonight, man,” he says enthusiastically as he pulls me into a one-armed hug.

  Cody’s Mom is an elementary school teacher, and his Dad is a construction foreman. He’s one of the few kids who always shows up to practice smiling, in clean gear, and devoid of suspicious bruises. I want to resent him for that, but he’s too amiable to hold a grudge against.

  “Everyone played well,” I agree.

  “Y’all played outstanding in fact,” Pete greets us as he brings me my usual burger and fries combo.

  “Thanks, Pete.”

  Pete was a star running back in his day, as he loves to remind us, and praise from him is relatively rare. He regales us with tales from his “glory days” while we devour our burgers. His football and hookup stories may be exaggerated, but his food is unparalleled.

  “So what’s next on the agenda tonight, boys?” he winks conspiratorially.

  “Start with a bonfire, see where the night takes us,” Cody responds.

  Pete grins and sends us off with a wave, no doubt wishing that he was still young enough to join in the revelry.

  “Colt and the others went to go start the fire, mind if we hitch a ride with you, Levi?” Cody asks, following me over to my rust-marred truck.

  We pile in, and Cody directs us along a series of dirt roads until a spire of smoke becomes visible through the trees. A crowd of fifty or so people has assembled around the bonfire, mostly high school seniors with cheap beer or coolers in hand.

  I back my truck into the circle of vehicles and retrieve the fifth of whiskey I store in the glove compartment: the upside of living with a drunk.

  No sooner have we arrived than Cody and the others are on the prowl for women and weed. Which is fine by me; I’d rather observe the revelry from a distance. Being a bystander is essentially my default state of existence. I like being close to the action, feeling like I’m a part of something, without being the focal point - I leave the showiness to guys like Colt. I’m content to drop my tailgate and be alone with my thoughts and the country radio blaring from a steamy-windowed Chevy parked nearby.

  As satisfied as I am with my performance tonight, there’s a pervading sense of melancholy. I can’t help but think that this may be as good as it gets. The pinnacle of my life: burgers with buddies, a post-game high, and lukewarm beer to look forward to tonight. I wonder whether I’ll spend the next 30 years of my life like Pete, bragging to the latest crop of teenagers
about my high school feats.

  The other guys don’t share my despondency. They’re more than content with shitty weed and a girl looking to fill a void. Maybe they’re the enlightened ones. They’ve already accepted their fate and figured out how to make the most of it. Why not take their lead for one night?

  The night is as young and hopeful as we are. This is my favorite part of a party: when everyone is anticipating the excitement the night will bring. These are the expectant minutes before things get sloppy and devolve into mascara tears, alcohol poisoning, and the inception of unwanted pregnancies.

  “Are you sharing that Jack?” I’m jolted from my reverie by a female voice.

  I don’t recognize her - an anomaly in a town of less than 1,500. And she’s not the type to go unrecognized: slim, long dark hair, pretty features.

  I hand her the bottle wordlessly. She takes a few deep gulps, drinking like she’s quenching a thirst. Maybe she is.

  “Thanks. You’re Levi, right?”

  “Yeah, how did you know?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Everyone knows.”

  “Are you going to tell me your name?”

  “Are you going to remember it?” she quips.

  “You don’t strike me as someone easily forgotten.” It was more honest than I intended on being, but she seems to like the response.

  “Charlie.”

  “I like it.”

  She hoists herself onto the tailgate beside me, holding out a hand for the whiskey. She takes a slow sip before responding, “What else do you like?”

  I could go with the obvious: football, trucks, and beer. There’s something disarming about her, though, so I go deeper. “I like the anticipation right before a game. When any outcome is possible.”

  She contemplates this for a minute. “I like that too. The feeling of possibility. Is that why you play?”

  “I guess. For that, and the recognition.”