Jockblocked (Gridiron Book 2)

by Jen Frederick

  “Then you best go take a shower.” Anything to get him out of here.

  “Nah, I mean, if you got a problem, brother, then I can meet up with this chick later.” He types something into his phone and looks up at me with bleary eyes.

  Damn, he’s a good friend, and frankly, I need someone to share this shit with. As soon as this recruit signs his intent papers, it’s going to be all over the news anyway. But…I’d rather talk to a sober Hammer. It’s hard to tell with him. His capacity for alcohol is kind of shocking.

  “How much of your stink is from your drinking and how much is just from you rolling around on the floor of the Tau Omega house?”

  He throws up his size fifteens onto the desk, and I push them off. “I had four shots.”

  Four shots is sober for Hammer. I wheel away from desk and turn around. “Come here.”

  He leans over, one hand braced against the desk. “Please tell me we’re watching porn.”

  “With you hovering over me like a mother on her first recruiting visit? I’m not even going to watch a cooking video with you this close.”

  “Mmm. You know I love me some Giada De Laurentiis. That chick is a fucking goddess.”

  “Swear to God, you touch your dick right now and I’m going to punch you in the nuts.” I click through my list of previously played videos and pick the one where Mr. Texas played the worst. He only passed for 240 yards that game, and his team only won by twenty-two points. Only.

  Hammer makes a grunt of annoyance when the video starts playing. “Shit, son, are you so bored during the off-season that you’ve resorted to watching highlights of North Arlington High? This is what you’re blowing me off for? Jerking off to some high school player in Texas—” He stops talking when the quarterback slides out of the defender’s grip, steps up into the pocket and releases an arrow thirty yards downfield off his back foot. “Wait, what did I just see?”

  I reach back and try to massage some of the tension out of my neck. The tightness appeared midway through Coach Lowe’s lecture and hasn’t left me since. “We’re not scouts, Hammer. We play the game someone else has invented. We take the playbook, study our opponents, and then try to make them cry on Saturdays. That’s the full extent of what we’re supposed to do, right?”

  “I guess?” he says cautiously. “I mean, we study film, so in a way we’re scouting the opponent.” He peers over my shoulder again to stare at the screen. The smell of souring vodka is too much, so I push away from the desk and start pacing.

  Hammer begins cycling through the videos. After five minutes of total silence, he jerks to his feet. “Let’s get Darryl and Masters in here.”

  “Masters isn’t on the team anymore,” I point out. Masters' early declaration for the draft makes him ineligible to play another down, so the lucky bastard doesn’t have to deal with this. Instead, he’s training like a demon so that he kills it at the combine in April.

  “Yeah, but like you said, we aren’t talent scouts. Let’s get some other eyes on this.”

  There’s no point in protesting because Hammer’s out the door by his last word, yelling for Masters and Darryl, our nose tackle, to come up.

  Masters appears first. His new wife must be busy because usually they’re in Masters' upstairs apartment trying to break some kind of record for most sex in a twenty-four-hour period. Masters was a virgin before he and Ellie hooked up, and now he’s trying to make up for all those lost years. It’s a miracle Ellie can walk.

  Masters claps his hands together. “Heard you were holed up in your bedroom for two nights running, so either your pipes are getting backed up or you have some girl stashed under the bed. And I have to tell you that the type of girl willing to live under your bed for days at a time is the type that will kill you in your sleep.”

  “Is this from personal experience? If so, I want to be the first to tell you that it was nice knowing you and I hope you’re okay with me comforting Ellie after your unfortunate passing.”

  Masters gives me a death glare. “I’m going to kill you right now, asshole. Right now.”

  “Hold up,” Hammer says from the doorway. “No killing until after we watch these videos.”

  “What’s up? We playing a game?” Darryl appears, eyes bloodshot and feet unsteady.

  Yeah, it’s called Rip the heart out of your starting quarterback.

  Masters points to each of us. “Seems to me if I lay waste to all of you, I can avoid watching game film and go upstairs to—”

  “My wife,” we all chorus in unison.

  He’s addicted to calling Ellie his wife. It’s mildly irritating, but Masters couldn’t give a fuck. He’s always marched to the beat of his own drum.

  “What’re we watching?”

  “This.” I start playing the videos. The guys crowd around the monitor while I watch them. Their expressions turn from slight boredom to interest to this guy is the greatest thing since Joe Montana drank his chicken noodle soup at halftime and went out and scored three touchdowns. Video after video plays, each showcasing Mr. Texas’s perfect passes, his pocket sense, his rocket arm, and his ability to elude the defense.

  “Was that an eighty-yard pass?” Hammer asks.

  “Did he just get by five tacklers?” Masters wonders. “I know this is high school ball, but that Houdini act of his is ridiculous.”

  “That run got me hard,” Darryl groans.

  “Me too,” Hammer agrees.

  “Dick’s in hand,” Masters confirms.

  Finally, Hammer pushes away. “Someone shut that porn off. I can only get so erect.”

  He collapses on the bed and looks at the ceiling. Darryl looks confused, but Masters catches on right away.

  “Is Coach recruiting this kid?” He jerks a thumb at the computer screen.

  “Has recruited. Has a commitment. Wants me to smooth his path.”

  “What about Ace?” asks Darryl. He’s not the brightest crayon in the box, but he is one of the best run busters in the country.

  Masters strokes his chin. “Recruit has a better arm than Ace. Makes decent decisions on the field. Ace’s primary skill is not making mistakes, keeping a cool head, and seeing the short option down the field.”

  Last year, the few explosive, big-time passes came courtesy of our running back, Ahmed Strong, who averaged eleven yards after the catch—meaning he caught short passes and muscled his way down the field for a ton of extra yards.

  “We wouldn’t have won the National title without Ace.” I feel the need to defend him. He is our quarterback, after all. “He’s smart and had only a few fumbles and a handful of interceptions.”

  “But the strength of the Warrior team is in this room,” Masters points out. “And you lost two starting offensive linemen who are being replaced by sophomores and juniors.”

  We all fall silent. Last year’s team had seven first team All-Americans, six of whom were on the defense. Ahmed was the only decorated offensive player. The new offensive line might be even worse than it was this year.

  But we won last year because our defense didn’t allow people to score. We were big and mean and tough up front, so Ace didn’t need to be a superstar. We needed him to hold on to the ball, not turn it over too often, and make a few first downs. He did all that.

  Introducing a high octane offense might change our dynamic, change the whole makeup of our team. I’m not convinced it’s the right move.

  “What’s this got to do with you?” Darryl asks.

  I exchange a grim look with Masters. He gives me a sympathetic glance but remains silent, his eyes telling me this is my show now.

  The defensive unit operates near flawlessly because we’re so tuned into each other. When one person is out of sync, like the time that Masters and Ellie were fighting and he played like utter shit, we struggle. If we want to repeat as National Championship winners next year, we need to work as one unit.

  That means everyone has to support the choice of quarterback.

  I give my neck one last sq
ueeze and then drop my hands to my sides. “Coach is going to make this change regardless of whether we’re on board, but he wants us to be supportive. I think if the team stood behind Ace, Coach wouldn’t start this guy. He’d let Ace play until we lost. And when we lose, the loss will be on our shoulders and not his.” Masters nods in agreement. I continue for Darryl and Hammer, in case they haven’t fully grasped what a shit show our team could turn into. “Coach wants me to persuade Ace to move so that the switch from him to the new guy is bloodless. No unhappy, anonymous leaks; no sock puppet forum posts; no rumors of locker room dissension.”

  “Why not move Ace to backup?” Hammer asks.

  I sigh because I don’t know for sure. “Coach didn’t share his reasoning with me, but if I had to guess, this is a way to make nice for Ace. He still plays, plus he positions himself better for the draft. No one is drafting Ace at the QB position.”

  Everyone falls silent because while we all know it’s true, it’s not the kind of thing we like saying out loud.

  “The minute Mr. Texas announces, all those sports guys are going to be talking about what this means for our future anyway,” Darryl points out, finally catching on.

  “Not if Ace is willing to move to safety. No controversy, just a celebration.” Which is what Coach wants. Even though the screen has gone dark, the plays the high school quarterback made keep running through my mind. I make one last-ditch effort at convincing my friends that Mr. Texas is not the golden child. “We watched an admittedly great high school player, but so what? Every starter on Western was the best high school player in their division. Good high school stats mean squat in college.”

  The guys all exchange looks and then Hammer speaks first. “You got to do it, man. An arm like that, even on a true freshman, could be the difference between a perfect season and a one-loss season. With our defense and an awesome quarterback, we would be unbeatable.”

  Darryl nods slowly. The idea of having a little less pressure on the defense is appealing. “We should at least give him a chance. Have them fight it out during the summer.”

  “A quarterback controversy?” Hammer balks. “Who are you—Rex Ryan?”

  “The noise level would be insane. Press would be contacting all of you guys nonstop about which quarterback you supported. Emails. DMs. You don’t want that kind of distraction,” Masters says. He turns to me. “You’re the signal caller for the defense now. You gotta call this one.”

  “Coach hasn’t said that’ll be my responsibility,” I object. I haven’t even decided it should be my responsibility regardless of what Masters is trying to silently project.

  The videos have started replaying, but I’ve watched about as much Mr. Texas as I can stomach. I reach over and flick the computer off.

  “I gotta go shit and shower,” Hammer announces and rolls his rank carcass off my bed. “I’m a worker bee. Tell me which target to destroy and it’s gone. But I’m for Mr. Texas. Ace will come around.” At the door, he pauses, “Either way, I’ve got your back.”

  “Same,” Darryl declares and disappears with Hammer. Only Masters remains.

  “You know you gotta do this,” he tells me.

  “No, I don’t know anything.” I find my wallet and stick it into my back pocket. The room is stifling. I need to get out of here.

  “Matty, you gotta be the leader here.”

  “Why?”

  Masters gives me a perturbed look. “Sophomore year we played Penn. We were set for a blitzing play, but I ended up intercepting the ball. Why?”

  “When we got to the line, the offensive was set up for a dig route across the middle by the slot receiver. Blitzing would have put our guys out of position.”

  “Right. You came over to me and we changed it up. Had four men rush the quarterback. I dropped back, and the ball landed in my hands. “

  “You ran it back for a touchdown.” I grin. That was a good play.

  “Because you recognized the offensive play. I didn’t. I have great natural talent, but you memorize the game. We sit in film and you see it once and it’s imprinted in your head. That’s why the defense is going to follow you.”

  “I don’t want that. I don’t want that kind of responsibility.”

  “Too bad,” he says unsympathetically.

  “This isn’t even leadership,” I scowl. “It’s mutiny.”

  Masters tries a different tack. “You once told me your favorite character from your favorite series was the bad guy who’d done a heinous deed because it helped save the world.”

  I pause with one arm shoved into my winter coat and glare at my friend. “That’s fucking low, Masters. Real fucking low. I was drunk off my ass when I told you that story.”

  “I know,” he says unrepentantly. “Don’t change the facts, though.”

  7

  Lucy

  “You grabbed the steering wheel as the ice resurfacer took off?” Heather Bell asks, her voice heavy with disbelief.

  In the chair we designated as the witness seat, Emily Hartwig nods with pretend wariness and probably very real confusion since Heather is not supposed to be cross-examining her.

  “Is that a yes?” I mutter under my breath. Heather misses her cue, though, and stands, forgetting that all non-verbal responses have to be verbalized or it’s not part of the appealable record. It’s something we’re specifically scored on in competitions. I hold my breath. Please tell me she’s not going to approach without—

  “Let me show you what you said in your deposition,” Heather says and swishes her way across the fake courtroom floor.

  Beside me, Randall groans. Heather whips around with a glare hot enough to make the papers in front of us burst into flames.

  “What did I do wrong this time, Mr. Perfect?”

  Randall rests his fists against the surface of the table, looking ready to spring out of his chair and launch himself at Heather. “How long do we have because that entire line of questioning is completely insane. Emily is our client. We don’t cross-examine our own client.”

  “Randall, she’s new,” I remind him. The last thing we need is for Heather to blow her top, too. In the four practices we’ve had since the semester started, these two have been at each other’s throats, rendering the whole team tense and unhappy. Regionals are in the middle of March, right before Spring Break, and none of us is going to make it to the tournament at this rate. We’ll have clawed each other to death well before then. It’ll be our own version of the Valentine’s Day Massacre.

  “Are you sure you’re Paul Bell’s daughter? Surely he would have taught you something,” Randall remarks snidely. I kick him under the table, and that earns me an unhappy look.

  On the makeshift witness stand, Emily’s once perky brown hair lies limply around her face. She’s wearing the same expression we’re all sporting—tired and defeated. She’s been up there for the last thirty minutes, while Heather has tried to work her way through a direct examination—something she’ll be required to complete error-free in under eight minutes at competition.

  The rest of our mock trial team shifts impatiently behind us. It’s time to call it a night even though we achieved nothing productive.

  I get to my feet. “We’ve been at this for two hours. Why don’t we adjourn for tonight and we’ll take it up again in two days?”

  “Hopefully Miss Bell will practice in those two days. Maybe read a few of our materials on how to conduct an examination?” Randall sneers.

  Heather’s response is predictably tart in return. “At least I actually bring some emotion to this dead room. Your opening was so monotone that five minutes felt like five years. Plus, do you have any clothes that don’t scream tacky? Hand to God, I’ve seen mannequins at the Salvation Army tricked out in better clothes than you have on.”

  Beneath his dark skin, Randall blanches and turns ashy pale. Heather’s good at dishing out insults like this. And Randall, a scholarship student like me, readily takes the bait. “If only you’d inherited some actual ski
ll from your dad instead of just his wallet.”

  When Heather opens her mouth to deliver another cutting remark, I jump in. “All right. We don’t need to snap at each other. I think we’re tired, hungry, and just need a break. Heather, if you could, there’s a set of sample questions in the original packet that show the difference between cross and direct. I can resend them to you via email if you want.” Hell, I’d write the entire examination if she’d agree to memorize and read it, but any time I’ve hinted at offering help, she shuts me down. “Randall, Heather’s new to this. We’ve got ten weeks, and I’m sure we’re all going to make mistakes between now and the Regionals, so let’s give each other room to make them. Patience.” I give them both a smile.

  Randall’s a stellar attorney-in-training. He’s sharp witted, quick on his feet, and can deliver a rousing argument. We need him. But we need Heather, too, because despite her inexperience, her tryout was the best we’ve seen since...well, our freshman year. Once Randall’s blood stops roaring in his ears, he’ll remember why we chose Heather in the first place.

  I made out an extensive risk assessment spreadsheet—even factoring in that Heather was inexperienced—and Randall had agreed with every item on the list. I guess I weighted her father’s influence too heavily, though.

  “Pack it up,” I tell the rest of the crew, who gratefully shove their materials into their backpacks and scoot out of the borrowed classroom.

  “Thanks,” Emily murmurs as she passes by the desks Randall and I pushed together to form our attorney table. “I was dying up there.”

  “No problem. You did well. You looked vulnerable and victimized. The judges will love you.”

  Our mock trial matches are judged by a panel of three individuals, usually attorneys in the community where the competition takes place. They score us on everything from correct courtroom procedure to witness demeanor and believability. After two straight years of losing in Regionals to Central, Randall and I were determined to field a winning team.