Downed (Gridiron #3)

by Jen Frederick

  Is that why she invited me to sneak into the house tonight? So I wouldn't feel bad I was left out? I toss my phone on my bed in disgust. I'm a grown-ass man. At twenty-three, I don't give a shit whether my teammates invite me to their drinking parties. As long as they listen to me in the huddle, whatever happens outside of a game shouldn’t matter.

  But fuck me if it doesn't.

  I don't sleep well, and by the next morning I decide that I'm going to do something about the teammate thing and take a page out of Bryant's book. She cooks for these yahoos all the time. I don't subscribe to that old yarn that a way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I think it's lower down, but these guys slaver over her every time she appears with that Tupperware container.

  I can't make donuts or granola bars, but even a fool can make a pancake. I drive to the grocery store and pick up a box of pancake mix, syrup, bacon, eggs, and milk. I'm back before anyone is up.

  There's a pro game in London, so I snap the television on with the sound muted and get to mixing up the pancakes. I nuke the bacon between some paper towels, a trick that Matty Iverson taught me back at Western State. I pause before shoving the second batch in. He was a good guy. I don't know why I shit on him.

  When the pancakes are all done, my roommates are still not up. I sit down and scarf down half the bacon and four pancakes. Then I sit there like an idiot. The game's boring as hell. Since I have shit all to do, and Bryant's probably at church, I decide to call my mom.

  “Joseph!” she greets me. I roll my eyes. She’s the only one who calls me that. “How are you?”

  “Good. Just sitting here watching football.”

  “Of course you are. Honey, this is your last year of college. Don't you think you should be doing things that aren't football related?”

  Translation: What the hell are you going to do with your life when you don't have the game?

  “It’s my last year. I figured I'd enjoy it.”

  “Have you sent out any feelers or resumes? There's always internships at my company.”

  My mom works in a brokerage firm, answering phones, filing papers, and fielding telephone calls from unhappy clients for an old guy who leers at her legs and orders her around like a slave. I'd stab myself in the eye with my fork before I'd go and work there.

  “I've got a few things on my mind,” I say, but it's a lie. I don't want to think about what happens when my college career is over. Maybe I'll go to grad school. I’ll be graduating with a generic communications degree, but I can't see going into journalism, even if it was to cover sports. Writing and communicating have never been high on my skill set. I don't like people, putting pen to paper, or sitting in an office.

  There are three types of majors most athletes are herded into—health sciences so you can train professional athletes and be reminded every day of how you weren't good enough, communications for that post-injury career, and management, which is one of those catch-all degrees where you get a degree in absolutely nothing. I chose communications.

  Maybe I can smash all three areas of study together where I work as a receptionist at a physical therapy office and manage someone else's calendar. Yeah, I think I need to go to grad school.

  “Good. Let me know if you need anything on my end.”

  “I will.” I hesitate before asking the next question. I don’t like making my mom feel bad, but it’d be nice if she came down to see a game. I just don’t know if she can swing it. “So, um, homecoming is in three weeks. What do you think?”

  “Funny you should ask that. Your father called me last week saying that he thought it’d be nice if we both showed up for the homecoming game. Since you’re a senior, they’ll be honoring you, right?”

  “If by honoring, you mean announcing my name, then yes. Are you okay with the flight? You could sleep in my room if you don't mind my teammates wandering around. Game tickets are no problem.” It sucks I can’t have a part-time job to help my mom out. I get a ton of free gear that I could sell on eBay, but taking even five bucks in exchange for so much as an autograph is a violation that could affect my eligibility and any games we’ve won.

  “Strangely enough, your dad says he’ll spring for the flight so the money I’ve been putting away can be used toward a hotel room. I can't sleep in your bed before a big game.”

  Alarm bells ring like crazy inside my head. “How was he able to swing that?”

  “He made a big hospital sale, he said. Isn’t that nice?”

  I can't tell if she's serious or not. The two are starting to talk again after a decade-long cold war—one that began when Dad decided to sleep with the neighbor's wife and continued after the divorce papers were filed.

  “What kind of hospital sale? One in Boston?” I say hopefully.

  “You know, honey, I didn't ask. Why don't you call him? He says you two haven't talked for a while. I thought you were making a better effort to get along. He's so proud of you.”

  Is he? I think cynically. Or am I only a tool for him?

  “Sure thing, Mom. I'll call him as soon as we hang up.”

  “Wonderful. I love you,” she says brightly. “Take care of yourself.”

  “Love you, too.”

  As soon as the line buzzes, I dial my old man.

  “Ace, my boy! How’s it going? What a game on Saturday! You were a stud out there. I watched the game with some friends back home down at the bar, and we were cheering like crazy. They talked about you on College Game Day on ESPN. Did you catch that?”

  Who the fuck cares about that shit? I ignore it and get to the point. “I just got off the phone with Mom.”

  “Yeah? What'd she say now?” he asks in a wary voice.

  “She says you're flush with cash. Something about a big sale?” I try to maintain as even a tone as possible, because I’ll look like an ad if it’s an actual commission he's earned.

  “Sure as hell did,” he boasts. “Local hospital down in Nashville is looking to change distributors for all their disposables.”

  “Nashville,” I say flatly. “That seems like a far cry from your Northwestern territory.”

  He chuckles. “With my son down south, it made a lot of sense for me to pick up new areas. I'm timing my flights down to see your games with business trips. Nice, huh?”

  His good humor grates against my nerves. “Yeah, nice.”

  “Say, do you know who prints up the media guide?”

  “No idea, why?”

  “I noticed that the Game Day folks didn't mention your mom or me. And during the first game, my buddy says he didn't see me on TV. ABC interviewed that Masters' kid's dad.”

  “Dad, I have no idea who controls that stuff, but it's not me.”

  “It's got to be someone in the PR department. What'd you say your girlfriend did?”

  “First, I never said.” I rub my forehead. Why'd I call in the first place? It escapes me now. “Second, you told me to stay away from her, remember? Third, who cares if you're on TV or not? You wanted to see the game.”

  “My friends mentioned it,” Dad protests. “It's not like I care, but anyway, if you get a chance, talk to the PR rep. The media guide doesn't mention what I do for a living. I think that my medical experience might be interesting. What do you think? Should I write something up for them?”

  I give in. “Yeah, write something up.”

  “I'll email it to you first thing.” There's a rustling sound and then a soft voice calling my dad's name. “Be right there, Lara. I'm talking to my son. Give me five.” He comes back to me. “My neighbor's up for her run. I’ve been seeing her for a few months. You remember her, right? She's got the good ass, but the ugly face? Doesn't matter when we're running, though. I pace myself behind her and watch her tight ass jiggle all day long. It's not like it matters what she looks like when the lights are out.”

  “Have fun, Dad,” I mutter, although I think I'm talking to a dead line.

  On the television, I watch the quarterback scramble around before getting crushed b
y a d-lineman.

  “Damn, that looked like it hurt,” says Zane.

  I look up to see my roommate standing at the end of the hallway. He's fully kitted out, in sweatpants, hoodie, and sneaks. He even has a hat in his hand.

  “Not going to have breakfast, bro?” I ask, trying to act casual.

  “Nah, there'll be food where I'm going.” His eyes don't meet mine. A surge of anger courses through me. These assholes want me to throw them the ball all damn day, they want me to leverage my experience into a National Championship win, but they can't stomach spending five minutes with me outside of the fucking locker room?

  “Carter going with you?” The two receivers are attached at the hip.

  “Ah, yeah, Carter, man,” Zane yells, “we gotta book it.”

  My other roommate pops out of his room. “Ready.” He stops abruptly when he sees me at the kitchen table. “Hey, man. You up?”

  “It's eleven. What do you think?”

  His jaw tightens. “So, we're going over to Masters' place to watch his brother play. You wanna come?”

  “Carter,” Zane whines.

  I curl my fingers into my fists so I don’t give in to the temptation to flick my roommate off. “No, thanks.”

  Carter shrugs. “Okay, well, we'll catch you later.”

  The two shoot out the door. As it closes, I can hear Zane say to Carter, “Dude, that was uncomfortable. Why'd you invite him?”

  “Man was awake. I had to. We both knew he'd say no, anyway.”

  There's more chatter as they walk away, but I don't hear it. I spend way too long glaring at the closed door. Finally, I get up, grab the plate of pancakes sitting by the stove and dump the whole lot in the garbage. The ones I ate sit like lead in my stomach.

  The smell of bacon, butter, and dough lingers in the kitchen, taunting me. Grabbing my keys, I head out. Once I’m out in the parking lot, though, I don’t know where to go. I decide to text Bryant. Sex would be good. It’d get my mind off of things.

  Me: Roommates gone. Wanna come over? I’ve got a condom w ur name on it

  I sit there for five minutes waiting for her to answer, but I get nothing because she’s doing church things with her perfect family. I toss the phone on the seat and head for the Fieldhouse. The only way I’m going to be able to live with myself is if I sweat out some of my irritation.

  It’s a short trip from the apartment to the Fieldhouse. I strip down to my briefs and grab a pair of gym shorts and T-shirt from my locker. To my surprise, the weight room isn’t empty. Julio is there, lifting, a worried look on his face.

  My mind starts connecting dots. At the Mansion, Dad first brought his proposal to the table. When I refused, he didn’t fight it. Bryant mentioned he pumped her for information. Julio’s been squirrely for the last several weeks. His family doesn’t have much money. His dad has been to every home game. My dad’s now flush with cash. I don’t like the picture that’s forming.

  “Hey, man.” Julio greets me with a chin nod, both hands wrapped around thirty pound dumbbells.

  “Not going over to watch Masters?” I ask.

  “Nah, it gets crowded and loud. You can't see the game, anyway. Besides, with it all quiet, it's easier to get a good workout in.”

  “Good point.” I sit down on the leg machine and start doing curls. Covertly, though, I'm watching Julio. He's a good kid with a special set of skills, but he needs his time in college. This is a top tier program, and Southern usually sends at least five to eleven kids into the draft every year. If he gets caught doing piddly shit like giving insider information to douches like my dad, all of his dreams are in the toilet. “How's your family enjoying the games?”

  “Great. My dad is loving it, but...” Julio squints uncomfortably. Maybe he felt a twinge in his arms, but I'm guessing it's something sharp in his conscience. “But sometimes he wants more than I can give him.”

  “Dads are like that.”

  “Yours, too?” Julio asks in surprise.

  “Yeah. My dad called me this morning asking why Masters' dad was on TV during our game the other week but he wasn't. Supposedly one of his co-workers was asking questions.” I roll my eyes.

  Julio grins as he sets down the weights and takes a water break. “So my pop wants to know why he doesn't have better seats. Some of the parents sit on the fifty instead of the twenty. I told him he'd have to wait until I was a starter. Then he was all, you should be starting anyway and threatened to call Coach.”

  I wince. “That's not a good plan. I can't see Coach taking that very well.”

  “No kidding.” Julio pushes back up to his feet. “So I guess that means I got to do more in practice to show Coach I belong in the starting position.” He shoots me a worried look. “But it's not like I want it if I don't deserve it. You know? You aren't going to say anything to Carter or Zane, are you?”

  “Nah. It's between you and me.” Those two can suck their own dicks, for all I care. “If you ever have an issue, come to me. I'm not going to judge or blab it around. Sometimes we get in over our heads and don’t know what to do.”

  Julio nods but doesn't spill any real secrets. I get to work on my curls. I've planted the seed. Hopefully, the kid comes clean before any real mess happens. My phone beeps.

  Her: Can’t come over. AO thing tonight. No dates with other boys, though, so don’t worry.

  Her: …

  Her: Do the condoms really have my name on them? Because my name is really unusual. I never find it. Not on keychains or candy bars or anything.

  The condom wrapper didn't have her name on it, but a minute after I get in the apartment door, it will. I type back a response.

  Me: Guess ull have to cm ovr and c

  Her: I will. Tomorrow night. I can make dinner.

  Me: How abt pizza after

  Her: After what? You have to study?

  I snort. After we have sex

  Her: Ohhhhhhh! Yes. Okay. ;)

  Me: Ur adorable

  Her: :)

  17

  Ace

  I'm in a relatively decent mood when I arrive at the Fieldhouse for practice the next day. Bryant texted me a neck-down sexy selfie, which I used to jack off. She wasn't naked in the picture, but the lacy underthings she was wearing didn't hide much.

  I read somewhere that girls don't want dick pics unless they request them, so I didn't send her one. I did shoot off a couple of dirty texts about how I couldn't wait to see her on Monday night and that she better eat her Wheaties because we were going hardcore.

  She replied she had class in the morning, to which I said that she should take an afternoon nap.

  All in all, while it wasn't as good as the real thing, rubbing one out while staring at her pics took the edge off. Surprisingly, I haven't died from the lack of regular sex. I got a hell of a lot more tail back at Western State, but I think the sex with Bryant's better quality. I'm not sure why, but I have zero desire to be sticking my dick in any other pussy. I pat myself on the back. I might be failing the whole team thing, but I'm actually making a pretty damn good boyfriend.

  The Fieldhouse is already packed when I get there. Coach Johnson’s present and all the assistant coaches are fanned out in a line behind him. This isn’t good. Coach usually only addresses the entire team on game days. During the week, you meet with your position coach.

  Thankfully, I’m not the only one “late.” About a dozen players straggle in behind me. Everyone settles into their chairs and looks expectantly at the middle of the room. When Coach talks, no one even breathes heavily.

  “Men, we’re six games in. We have seven left to play. During the summer and now, through the first third of the season, we’ve learned something about ourselves. We learned how to win, but that’s only the first step. Now we have to learn to finish.” Coach holds his hands out wide. “Finishing means we’re focused, dedicated, and determined. There is one goal for this team. It’s not a perfect season. It’s not a playoff win. Mr. Anderson, tell us what our goal is.”
/>
  “The championship.” I was brought here for one reason. The scholarship could’ve been given to a top-rated high school student. Instead, the money came to me. The weight of the decision hangs like an anchor around my neck.

  Coach Johnson nods in my direction. “That’s right. Mr. Anderson is the only man in the room who knows how to win that championship. That’s why he’s here, but one man can’t achieve this goal by himself.” Coach’s tone never changes. It doesn’t get higher or lower, only continues in the same, steady pace. “Together, we will achieve this goal, but as we win more games, we’re going to draw more interest. There will be more boosters and more reporters and it’s important that we show them our best faces. This means we’re not going to have any more pictures on social media of us looking drunk and stupid.” Masters drops his head. “No idiotic tweets.” Travarius looks at the ceiling. “If you party, you do it behind closed doors.” Carter and Zane both share a grimace.

  Coach doesn’t acknowledge these small, non-verbal signs of guilt. “If you’re having a problem with your girlfriend, take her out. Give her some attention now that you’ve got a couple home games. If you’re having problems in class, we’ve got tutors. If you’re having problems with cash, come talk to me.” I flick my eyes toward Julio, who’s busy inspecting his shoes. “There’s no problem we can’t work through together. Do not pack these problems away, letting them fester until they hurt us when we need you the most. Stay away from too much booze, any drugs, and all boosters.”

  He finishes by clapping his hands. “All right. Let’s have a good practice today. We’ll meet on the field in ten.”

  He spins away and the assistant coaches fall in behind him. When the last coach is gone, Ty yells, “You trying to take endurance drugs to keep up with your runner, Carter?”

  “Fuck you, Ty. I wasn’t the one who had a million snaps with those sisters.”

  “We were comparing twin features,” he protests. He’s trying to lighten the atmosphere, but the laughter in the room is strained and forced.