All Broke Down (Rusk University #2)

by Cora Carmack

  I start laughing, and I’m not even really sure why. Only that this all feels like some script I’m playing directly into. Like these first couple years at Rusk were just the setup, letting me believe I’d moved on, created something better for myself, only to have it all start falling apart, or rather falling back into familiar territory.

  I laugh even though it’s not funny, but what the fuck ever. I stumble down the stairs, and I must have been staring at my ceiling for much longer than half an hour because the party is over.

  Torres is indeed passed out naked on the floor, and someone has balanced a throw pillow on his bare ass, and that seems so damn funny to me that I forget how to breathe through my laughing.

  Torres doesn’t stir. Neither does the new recruit asleep on the couch.

  I make my way to the kitchen, but it feels like ages before I get there. Time never makes sense when I’m high. I blink, and it somehow feels like my eyes have been closed for centuries and seconds all at the same time. I load up on snacks, more weed, and a couple of beers. With my arms full, I turn to head back to my room only to find Torres standing at the entrance to the kitchen. He’s pulled the throw pillow around front to block his junk, and he’s looking at me through squinted eyes.

  “Is it morning?” he asks me.

  My chest bounces on a silent laugh, and I shake my head. He rubs a hand over his face and says, “What the fuck happened last night?”

  He’s the one laughing now, and my mood turns on a dime. All of a sudden things don’t really seem that funny.

  I can’t shake the feeling that last night was the beginning of the end, and everything is downhill from here.

  “Nothing good,” I answer. “Nothing good at all.”

  Torres groans in agreement, and stumbles off in the direction of his room, while I head up to mine. I only eat a couple of handfuls of chips before I pass out for the night. Perfect oblivion.

  I keep chasing that nothingness through the rest of the weekend, switching to alcohol when I’m out of weed and too lazy to go buy more.

  Brookes comes in Sunday evening. He’s the most stable in the house. He and Torres are best friends . . . both receivers. They’re the jokers on the team, but really couldn’t be more different. Torres clowns around for the attention. Brookes does it to put people at ease. He’s also a fast motherfucker, which is why I barely have time to raise my hands before he’s by my bed stripping back the sheets.

  He’s holding one of those jugs of water you buy at the grocery store. Throwing it on my bed, he says, “You’ve had your final weekend of fun or whatever the hell this was. Take a shower. Drink some water. Get it the fuck together. Practice starts tomorrow.”

  I groan, but I grab the water because he’s right. I don’t know what I was thinking.

  Scratch that. I know exactly what happened. I’ve been trying my damnedest not to think at all.

  It’s not about Dylan. She’s just a girl. A girl who is nothing like any other girl I’ve ever known, but still just a girl. It’s all of it. All the things that have happened, and all the things that haven’t, but inevitably will.

  Because she was right. Levi was right. I’m bad . . . a bad decision, bad seed, bad blood . . . whatever you want to call it, that’s what I am. And it’s only a matter of time until it has me turning out just like Levi, cut off from the people I know and the only thing I love.

  I peel away the circle of plastic around the mouth of the jug and pop it open.

  “Isaiah,” I stop Brookes as he turns to leave, my pale hand wrapped around his dark forearm. He flexes his fingers into a fist, and I let him go. He might be a little more pissed than I thought. “I’m sorry, man. It was just one of those weekends. I’m good.”

  He walks to the door frame and lightly raps his knuckles against it a few times. “I’m not really the one you’re hurting, Silas. Just be glad we already took our drug tests when we reported on Friday.”

  Fuuuuuck. Yet another thing I hadn’t thought of. The chances of Coach popping another drug test on us now are almost zero, but still . . .

  He leaves, and I do as he says, starting with the shower. I drink the full jug of water and try to get some sleep.

  Try being the key word.

  I mostly lay there, resisting the urge to scream obscenities loud enough to wake the whole house.

  I go for a run, but a hangover has already started creeping over me, and the nausea makes me feel like my organs are shifting with each stride. I call it quits and walk the rest of the way home, knowing I’m going to be a fucking wreck at practice in six hours.

  I take another shower. I think about jacking off, but as soon as I picture Dylan draped over my lap, her hair falling out of that braid, the feel of her against my hand—a bass drum pounds in my head. I brace my hand against the tile, let the water pelt my face, and try not to throw up.

  I chug some more water when morning comes, and think again how damn lucky I am that we did our drug tests when we reported on Friday. Not that there aren’t ways to beat them. I learned plenty of tricks freshman year, but none of it is foolproof.

  I remember Torres being scared shitless last year when his name came up for the random test. We taught him all the things that gave him a better shot at passing (which he did), and all the dude talked about for the week afterward was that he was scared the Midol we had him take was going to give him manboobs.

  I’m sitting at the table, plowing through a mountain of toast, when Torres hurdles down the stairs.

  “Look who’s alive.” He grins, grabbing a protein drink from the fridge. “Zay sort you out?”

  Brookes enters the kitchen from the living room. “I just brought him water.”

  I finish my toast, have a little more water and a few pills. And that’s as good as it’s going to get.

  I opt to take my own truck instead of riding with the disgustingly cheerful duo. I don’t even make it to the locker room before a voice reaches me from the coaches’ office.

  “Moore!” It’s Coach Oz, the team’s strength and conditioning coach.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Coach Cole’s office. Now.”

  And . . . fuck.

  Just fuck.

  I could probably live the rest of my life only using that word and it would sum things up fine.

  I step into the office and every coach inside turns to look at me. I nod at the first few, but then I’m stuck doing this stupid head bob that makes my headache worse. So, I give it up and head straight for the door to Coach’s private office. The door is half open, so I poke my head inside.

  “Sir?”

  He looks up from his computer, looks back at the screen, and types for a few seconds longer.

  “Come in, Silas.”

  And . . . another fuck. Coach only uses first names when shit is serious. I sit down, and the silence freaking swallows me. He takes a sip from a coffee mug, sets it back down, and waits another few seconds to look at me. Then he just stares. Straight face. Blank. Almost expectant. This must be what it’s like to have a parent around to piss off all the time.

  “How was your weekend?”

  Damn. Who told? I start running through the names and faces of who was at the party. No one saw me high that I know of, but they could have just told him about the party in general, and it was at my place.

  “Fine, sir.”

  “Fine.” He repeats, nodding. “Fine.” He draws the word out a little longer the second time. “Then explain to me why I heard from a friend in the sheriff’s office Saturday morning.”

  I close my eyes and drop my head back. I didn’t even think about that. I’d assumed since Levi didn’t press charges that I was in the clear.

  Wrong.

  “It was all taken care of, Coach. They only held me for a couple of hours or so. Nothing will show up on my record.”

  “I don’t care about your record. What the hell were you thinking, kid?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Levi just got under my skin, I guess.”
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  He stands up and plants a hard fist on his desk. “Then get thicker skin.”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  He stands straight and paces behind his desk.

  “You’re a good football player, Silas. And I see it in you when you play . . . I know what this team means to you. But your grades are mediocre. You have a temper. You have a tendency to make poor decisions.” Goddamn it, talk about a broken record. I get it, world. I suck. It’s pretty clear now.

  Coach continues, “I want to trust you . . . I do. You wield a great deal of influence over this team, and I want to make sure it’s a positive one.”

  “I understand. I want that, too.”

  “Then stay the hell away from Abrams. He’s banned from school property, but I don’t want him poisoning this team from the outside.”

  “Done. I promise.”

  He surveys me, almost like he doesn’t believe me.

  “I need you to step up. I need you one hundred percent in this.”

  “I am. One hundred percent.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest and continues studying me.

  “Then you won’t mind proving it by getting a head start on practice. Get dressed. Coach Oscar will meet you on the field for sprints while I meet with the rest of the team.”

  Of course. Just what my body needs right now. Something else to make me feel like vomiting.

  “How many, sir?”

  “Until I feel confident that there will be no more calls from the sheriff’s office.”

  In other words, until I damn near die of exhaustion.

  THEY CALL THESE sprints suicides for a reason. You start at one end zone, sprint to the first ten-yard line, and back to the end zone. Then the twenty-yard line and back. Thirty. Forty. And on and on.

  Coach Oz even has a little special twist he likes to add, in case you weren’t already tempted to spill your guts all over the grass. He’s one of the youngest coaches on staff, and as such feels the need to be a complete hardass so we take him seriously. So being the sadistic bastard that he is, he makes us do twenty push-ups every time we return to the end zone.

  I’m already exhausted by the time I get to the fifty-yard line, and it feels like I still have an eternity to go. As I approach the end zone, Oz yells, “Pick it up, Moore! Looking slow today.”

  That’s because I feel like I’m going to throw up my lungs, Coach.

  I drop to do my push-ups and the constant up and down makes my nausea double. My arms are burning when I finish and drag myself to my feet.

  “Move your ass, twenty-two!”

  I’m still running when the rest of the team comes out on the field, and Coach Cole lines them up along the sideline to wait and watch as I finish.

  I try not to get angry. I really do, but the humiliation gets to me. Might as well make me hold a sign that says I can’t do anything right. Not even on the first day of practice.

  I grit my teeth so hard I expect my jaw to break as I finish my last sprint from one end zone to the other. I drop for my push-ups and growl my way through them. When I’m done, I stand and face Oz. It’s a dumbass move, but I’m pissed and not thinking straight, so I raise my eyebrows and ask, “Should I keep going?”

  It’s Coach Cole who answers. “That will do for now.”

  As I walk over to join the rest of the team on the sideline, I try to keep my breathing steady, but it feels like one of the linemen has been using my chest as a trampoline.

  “Mr. Moore has just helped demonstrate our new discipline policy, gentlemen. When you skip a class, when your grades drop below the line, when your actions reflect poorly on this team, that’s an infraction. For the first infraction, you run.” He gestures back toward Coach Oz, and a few players groan quietly. “If you commit a second infraction or the problems persist, your entire position group runs with you.” People start looking around at the players around them, the guys who now determine whether or not they’re subjected to the will of Coach Sadist. “And if one of you is stupid enough to get in trouble a third time, you, your position group, and your position coach will run.” He shoots his staff a sly smile, and I can tell this is news to them. And when they fix their eyes on the players, they definitely aren’t screwing around. “We are a team,” Coach yells. “We win and lose together. So, we’ll screw up and get better together, too. It’s not just your own ass on the line, it’s everyone’s.”

  Brookes catches my gaze, and I turn away. Like I don’t feel like enough of a chump already.

  “Any questions?”

  Players and coaches alike shift, but no one says anything.

  Then Torres opens his big mouth. “If we get in trouble a fourth time, do you run, sir?”

  Nobody moves a freaking muscle. And I just know . . . we’re all gonna run for that one. But then Coach surprises me. He laughs and shakes his head, but when he speaks, he’s serious again. “Mateo, you don’t want it to get that far. It won’t be pretty.”

  My new roommate never does know quite when to shut up, though.

  “No, I imagine that wouldn’t look pretty at all, Coach.”

  “Teo!” “Torres!” “Seriously?”

  Every player surrounding him turns and lays into him. He covers his head with his hands and jumps back.

  Coach blows his whistle, and we all snap back to attention. “It looks like you boys are beginning to understand what it means to be responsible for your teammates.” He stares at Torres for a long moment and then looks at the team. “We’ll let that one slide. Now, into your position groups. We’ll start by seeing what you’ve retained over the summer.”

  A small whoop raises up from the crowd and as we disperse, Torres yells. “I love you, Coach! You’re the best!”

  “We’ll see if you still feel that way when we’re through. You know we don’t do easy days here, not even first day back.”

  Chapter 9

  Silas

  I get my ass handed to me.

  Multiple times.

  By multiple people.

  I’m focused. My head is in it, but my body just isn’t. Between my binge weekend and my punishment at the beginning of practice, my legs are too fucking slow and my arms too weak to hold the ball as tightly as I need to. I keep making stupid little mistakes, and odds are that I’m going to leave practice with a damaged eardrum from all the yelling.

  Coach is on me because he’s still pissed about the fight with Levi. Coach Gallt, the running back coach, is all over me because he’s taking over offensive coordinator from Coach Cole now that the team is settled. The entire offense is his responsibility now, which means my failures come down on him. So, he’s coming down on me . . . hard. And some little asshat freshman (the same freaking one that passed out on my couch Friday night) is all keyed up trying to outdo me, soaking up every bit of praise like he’s just won the freaking Heisman.

  All of the noise just keeps swarming around me, and I can hear myself fucking panting for breath, and I’m melting in this heat, and I’m so damned frustrated I could scream.

  “Damn it, Moore!” Coach Gallt yells. “I’m sick of watching you screw up. Is this what this season is going to be like? Because if so, Williams is gonna take your place in no time.”

  I don’t even know who Williams is, but when I get a good look at the cocky grin on the freshman’s face, I figure it out. His name is Keyon, or something like that. I don’t give a fuck.

  I rip off my helmet. To do what . . . I don’t know. My head is about to explode, and I feel like I can’t breathe with it on. I’m about to mouth off to Gallt when Coach Cole cuts in. “Go get some water, Moore. Shake it off.”

  I do what he says and head off to the sidelines. I gulp down a few mouthfuls of water and dump the rest over my head. It’s so dry and hot out that the water feels like heaven. Or as close as I’m likely to get to it anyway. I go to repeat the process when McClain sidles up to grab a drink of his own. Unlike me, he’s been killing it today. I had no fucking clue when Levi got kicked off the tea
m that Carson would ever be able to replace him, let alone be better than him. But he did it . . . is doing it every day. Knowing him, he probably didn’t take a single day off all summer.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  I wipe some of the water and sweat from my forehead and say, “Fine, QB. Just an off day.”

  “Yeah. Of course.” He nods, but I can tell choirboy has more he wants to say. He doesn’t wait long to get to it, either. “Listen, that lady who showed up at your party . . .”

  Damn it. I knew this would come eventually.

  “What about her?”

  “Who is she?”

  “Nobody,” I say. “She doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s just . . . you seemed pretty freaked about it, and Stella thought she might be—”

  I shove my helmet back on my head.

  “I said she’s nobody. Leave it alone, McClain.”

  “You took off so fast after she showed, and next thing I know you’re calling me to pick you up from a police station—”

  “Listen. I’m grateful that you came to get my sorry ass Friday night. I am. But I’m not Ryan. We’re not gonna talk about my shit while we lift or whatever the hell it is you two do. You and I will just play ball, okay? That’s how this friendship works. All you need to know is . . . I’m fine. I’m good. Same as I always am.”

  Or I will be. As soon as I get rid of this fucking hangover.

  I spin to walk away, but not before adding, “And tell Stella to mind her own fucking business, too.”

  The rest of practice doesn’t get any better. In fact, it just continues to get worse because now my head is as out of it as my body. When Coach blows the whistle calling it quits, all I want to do is hit the showers and get high again, but that would be the stupidest thing I could do.

  Not that I’m above stupid. Stupid and I go way back.

  And bad decisions are apparently what I do best. I sure as hell wasn’t at my best in anything else today.

  I’m only thinking about getting to the shower and getting out of here when I feel a hand on my shoulder.