Whitney
"You ready, Troy?" Coach Jackson asks, coming by. "Like I said, son, the future's in your hands."
I grin and pull my helmet on. With my teammates, we line up behind the big paper banner that the cheerleaders painted up for us, and I see Whitney out of the corner of my eye, standing on one of the other girls’ shoulders, holding the paper tight for us, and she gives me a smile, even if it is a bit scared from being up in the air like that. I smile back and wink.
I hear the band that's lined up on the other side of the banner start up the fight song, and I turn. "All right, it's SHOWTIME!"
We charge through the banner, and I lead my team onto the field. We win the toss, and as I watch Watkins take the opening kickoff, everything drops away. It's a comfortable feeling, one I've felt before. The rest of the world can be fucked up. But this field, this space that's a hundred and twenty yards long and fifty-three yards wide, this is pure and right, and I know I own this spot.
"Split left, forty-four blast," I say in the huddle, looking around. "That's you, Gabe. You got this?"
"See you in the end zone," Gabe replies, ready. I look around and grin. This is going to be fun.
The game goes by in a blur, and it isn't until the next day that I read my final stats. Seven of thirteen passing for eighty-seven yards and one touchdown, which isn't really all that great, but with our offense, it works. Fifteen carries for a hundred and eight yards rushing, and another two touchdowns . . . much better. But I'm proudest of the seventeen tackles, including three sacks, a tipped pass, and a forced fumble as we blow out Blueridge 35-7, their only points coming in garbage time of the fourth quarter after Coach had put in the second stringers to get them some game time.
I shake hands with the other team, then turn, looking for something more important than the newspaper guy who I see is hunting for a quote for the local paper. Fuck it, let Coach give him his quote. I'll let my play do my talking. Instead, I'm looking for Whitney, and I see her, still looking fabulous in her uniform, even if she's nearly as sweaty as I am after two hours of bouncing around, doing dances, and yelling her head off in the heat of the last week of August. I'm out on the field too much to pay attention to the cheerleaders during the game, but a couple of times, when Coach would pull me out to get water or during special teams downs, I caught a glimpse, and once, she returned my look, sending little quivers down my back and to my stomach.
"Whitney!" I call, jogging over. She's picking up her gear, and I see that she's struggling with the two pom-poms, megaphone, and her bag all at the same time. I grab her bag before it can fall on the ground and sling it over my shoulder. "Hey. Here, let me carry a little bit."
"Thanks," Whitney says, smiling. We're both flushed from exertion, and to me, she looks so hot I can barely believe it. Whitney blushes with the way I'm looking at her, and she brushes her hair back over her ear. "You did great out there."
"Thanks," I say, and it's my turn to feel warm, which gets even warmer when I hear some of the girls laughing.
"Whoa, she tamed him quick," Andrea Bissonette, one of the other seniors and a girl I'd fooled around with for a hot minute when we were juniors, says. "Damn, Whitney, you must be giving him something special."
Whitney looks mortified, which pisses me off. "Unlike you, Andrea, Whitney doesn't need to offer up a blowjob on the first date in order to make a good impression."
The laughs that greet that comment increase as Dani comes over, raising an eyebrow. "Troy. Good game. Do we have a problem?"
"Nope," I reply. Dani and I are pretty much the king and queen of campus, but we'd never hooked up. Not that she isn't hot, but I never really had the urge with her. Maybe I just respect her too much. "But you might want to have a talk with your cheerleaders about appropriate inter-team comments before I need to say something again."
"That may be, but I'll handle that," Dani replies. "And while I appreciate your willingness to help Whitney with her things, cheerleading rules—no outside help. We haul our own shit on and off the field. Unless, of course, you want me carrying your balls for you?"
I smirk, letting Dani know I'd caught her pretty smooth comment and how it could be taken a lot of ways. I don't know if Whitney understands, but her friend has just taken some heat off her. "Nah, I'm good. All right, I gotta go anyway. Hasta luego."
"You're paying attention in Spanish now? I’m impressed," Dani says and turns back to the other cheerleaders. "Come on, girls, lets get this cleaned up. Some of us have dates tonight!"
In the moment when Whitney and I are alone, she gives me a shy little smile. "Thanks. You tried."
"No problem. See you tomorrow afternoon."
Unfortunately for me, I'm sporting a brand new bruise on my shoulder when I pick up Whitney from her house. Her mother greets me this time, and as she looks me over, I feel like I'm being split in two, the guy I was as a junior fighting against the person I'm not even sure I am now.
Damn. If that's what Whitney's going to look like in twenty years . . .
Shut up, you idiot. I'm here to see Whitney, not horndog on her mom.
"Troy?"
I blink and realize that Mrs. Nelson is talking to me. "Sorry, Mrs. Nelson. Just daydreaming I guess. What did you say?"
"I said Whitney's getting dressed now. Why don't you come inside? And it's Ms. Nelson. There is no Mr. Nelson."
I nod, understanding and following Ms. Nelson inside. I’m shocked at their house, which is like the complete opposite of mine. It's picked up, with no dirty laundry, liquor bottles, or other crap lying around. There are even little curtains in the window of the kitchen, and the sink is totally empty, cleaned out. "This is a great place, Ms. Nelson. Thank you."
"You're welcome," she says, and my eyes catch the big cross on the wall next to the fridge. Whitney did tell me her mom is big on the church at lunch on Friday. I remember. "Troy, since you and I have a minute, I'm going to take this time to ask you a few questions."
"Uh, okay. I guess." Shit. The interrogation. Not what I want. I've called off dates for less, but there is something about Whitney that says I should put up with it.
"You have a reputation, to put it nicely," Ms. Nelson says, giving me the hairy eyeball. "What are your intentions with my daughter?"
"Mom," Whitney interrupts us, like an angel saving me from certain destruction. "I told you, Troy's been a total gentleman. Aren't you the one telling me that I should give people second chances and believe in redemption?"
Ms. Nelson looks pissed, but she nods and gives me a glance that is very clear. I got lucky. "All right. Well, Whitney tells me you'll have her back before three thirty, so I guess you two can't get up to too much trouble. Just know, Troy—I won't hesitate to protect my daughter."
"I understand, Ms. Nelson. I'll be on my best behavior. I promise."
Whitney and I drive over to the park, where she surprises me by taking off her sandals and splashing through the kids’ wading pool. "Come on, it's fun!"
I feel silly, but what the hell? I take off my shoes and wade in next to her, only to be met with a splash of water and a sparkling grin that warms me more than the sun. "Gotcha."
"Oh, you're so going to get it," I say, and we're splashing and engaging in a water fight like the little kids around us, much to their surprise and delight. I get Whitney once, but she gets me right back with a double handful that totally soaks my shirt and gets me right in the face, and I'm left sputtering and laughing. "Okay, okay, I'm whipped!"
Whitney stops her splashing, and I wiped the water out of my eyes. "What does that mean?"
I look at her, and I realize a few things. Her t-shirt is wet in all the right places, and the bra she's wearing underneath, while modest, is still very visible. She isn't talking about our water fight. Also, if she doesn't know, she's even more innocent than I thought she was. "Uhm, well, maybe we should talk about this where a bunch of little kids can't overhear," I say. "You know, sensitive ears and all."
Whitney looks around
and sees the kids I'm talking about, who are still smiling at us for a minute before they go back to their playing. We make our way out of the wading pool, and I gather up our shoes off the grass. There's a picnic table nearby, and I follow Whitney over there, where she sits down on top of the table, which is nice and warm from the sun.
Whitney looks at me innocently. "I mean, I know what the word is supposed to mean—pussy whipped—but the way you guys use it and the ways the other girls use it . . . it's just weird."
"It is," I say, and suddenly, I feel like the mature one again. It's weird and wonderful with Whitney that way. She sometimes makes me feel like I'm the one learning from her, like when we talk at lunch, but then there are conversations like this, where I feel like I'm the one who knows everything. "I think it comes down to the fact that guys want to feel in charge, and it looks bad for us to be running around all the time like a puppy dog on a leash."
"But you don't do that," Whitney says, and I look at her. "I mean, you came over to try and help last night, but it wasn't like I asked for it."
"No, but some girls, well, they get to expect it. I think that's what Andrea was talking about, saying you'd tamed me. That’s not exactly my thing.”
"Like I don't know that?" Whitney says with a smirk. "Remember, Dani's best friend? Troy, I may not know all the intimate details, but I do know the general gist of your social life. You're not a manwhore like your buddy, Cory, but you're no saint either.”
I laugh at the term. "Manwhore? I’m certainly no manwhore. I guess you could call me a man-slut maybe—I don't charge for my services, after all.”
Whitney laughs, then grows serious. "I'm not going to say who said what to whom, but I heard about your little blow up at Russ Thursday night. That sort of stuff gets around."
"I've lived the past three years in a kind of social microscope, and only my home life has been exempt, although I bet there are jackasses who talk about that, too."
Whitney's quiet for a moment, then she touches my shoulder. I hiss and pull back, and Whitney's face goes into immediate concern mode. "What did I do?"
"Nothing." I hiss, rolling my left shoulder. "Just . . . bumped my shoulder."
"Show me," Whitney says, her hand hovering over my arm. "Come on, please?"
I feel ashamed as I roll up my left sleeve, showing her the now dark purple bar that crosses my arm. "Is that from last night's game? I thought shoulder pads were supposed to, you know, pad your shoulder?"
"That didn't come from the game," I say, not wanting to explain. "I . . . I ran into a door."
Whitney studies me for a bit, then she shakes her head. "I should be angry about that. So far, you haven't lied to me until just now. But I'm not angry. I bet you say that sort of lie so often that it's second nature by now."
I don't know what to say, so I decide to change the subject. “How about we just go back to talking about my being whipped?"
Whitney studies me intently for another moment, then grins. “What are we going to do? Because I'll be honest, Troy. I kinda like this sort of setup."
"I was thinking . . . homecoming's not far off. And as a senior, and team captain, and overall man about campus, I've got the very important job of nominating a girl to be homecoming queen. Whoever I choose, well, she's going to have some heavy social expectations."
"Such as?" Whitney asks, a smile growing on her face. "I mean, these must be very heavy social expectations."
"They are. She's going to be expected to do a video for the homecoming committee, she's going to be expected to participate in the halftime ceremony, and if she wins, she and I are expected to dance together at the homecoming dance that Saturday night. That's a lot to expect."
Whitney hums and taps her lips with her index finger, like she's thinking hard. "Well you know, Dani would make a great homecoming queen. But she'll probably be asked by someone else, and pairing the school's top man and top girl . . . that's just not fair for anyone else."
"Besides the fact that until last week, I wasn't really thinking of asking anyone," I say, causing Whitney to arch an eyebrow. "I wasn't going to just nominate some girl just because. I told myself last year, if I nominate anyone, it's going to be someone special."
"You mean someone with special talents, or someone special to you?" Whitney asks, playfully intense. "Because such a girl, if she existed, would have to be your girlfriend. And most of the girls I know are jealous and possessive. They don't share very well. They'd want you all to themselves."
"You mean, they'd want me tamed, or dare I say it, whipped?"
Whitney grins and nods. "I could hear that said about you."
"So what do you think? Think you'd like to be my homecoming queen?” I ask. "More importantly, though, Whitney, I guess I'm asking if you'd like to be my girlfriend."
"On one condition," she says, and I roll my eyes. Her and her conditions. "Do you mind if we are public about it? I mean, I don't want to be some girl you keep on the down low because she's not popular enough for your crowd."
I grab Whitney in a hug and laugh, kissing her forehead. "I'm proud to have a girl so beautiful and cool as my girlfriend."
Whitney's acceptance fuels me all through work that day, which is okay. I mean, to avoid getting seen, I'm in the back the whole time, which is hot as hell because of the brick pizza oven and the fact I have to keep chucking wood into the fucker in between chopping ingredients and washing dishes, but I get free pizza out of it, and the owner lets me take home two pies at the end of the night, orders that had been screwed up by the cooking crew, and that was on top of eating half a pizza for my dinner for free. Getting home, I feel great about my day until I open the door to my house.
Dad's not passed out drunk like I thought he'd be. I mean, it's after midnight, and he's usually passed out by nine at the latest. I close the door and can immediately tell why. Dad's out of booze. "Run short on Popov?"
"Landlord came by while you were gone," Dad rumbles. "Had to give him the last of the money to get him to leave. What did you do with the rest, you piece of shit?"
I blink, too tired, confused, and pissed off in general to really answer with any sort of restraint. "Me? In case you haven't noticed, I've been at work for the past seven hours, you hungover fuck! What have you done with the money? Oh yeah, you drank it all! I'm getting by on leftover pizza and school lunch, and you're asking me about money? Fuck you! Fuck you and your fucking blame. I'm tired of it!"
"Get out!" Dad screams back at me, coming off the couch and raising his hand. "Get out until you learn some respect for your father!"
Any other day, I'd apologize, if only to get to sleep in my bed. Instead, I turn on my heel, but I turn back and drop one of the pizzas on the table. "Here, you fucking bum. So you don't starve."
I go out to my car, get behind the wheel and drive off, trying to figure out where to go. I want to go to Whitney. I figure she might actually take me in, but I also remember the way her mother looked at me. If I showed up at their place after midnight looking the way I do, I'd never get a date with her again. I can tell that Whitney's the sort of girl who listens to her mother.
So I go to the one place that makes sense to me, the stadium. The gate's locked, but I jump the fence easily, but not before grabbing some stuff out of my trunk. A letterman jacket from the local boosters may not be a Tempur-Pedic bed, but it's a lot better than raw aluminum. Folding up my jacket into a makeshift pillow, I tuck myself into the little gap that is formed by the press box and fall asleep.
"Wake up, son."
I groan and stretch, and I think I'm back home and that I'd just had a bad dream. Then my hand scrapes on the concrete base of the stands, and I remember. I slept at the stadium last night.
"Troy. Wake up, son. It's nearly eight o'clock."
I open my eyes and see Coach Jackson standing in the row in front of me, looking at me, concerned. "You're lucky, Troy. When Hank, the groundskeeper, saw someone sleeping in the stands, he should have called the cops. He checked you
out first, though, and called me instead. What in the devil are you doing here?"
"Sleeping," I answer. "Couldn't stay at home last night."
Coach sighs and sits down, looking out at the field. "Want to talk about it?"
"About what, Coach?" I reply, playing dumb.
He strokes his chin and looks back at me. "Troy, did you know that your father and I went to Silver Lake High together? He probably doesn't remember me. I was just a freshman when he was a senior, but I remember Randy Wood. God, anyone who played football against Silver Lake remembers him. Fast? Troy, Randy made you look slow out there. Had a cannon for an arm, and he had the looks too. The guys called him Iceman, because he looked so much like Val Kilmer in that old movie, Top Gun. I so wanted to be him when I was a freshman, especially when he got a football scholarship to Texas."
“Whoever you’re talking about, that doesn't sound like my dad," I say, trying to imagine the potbellied, jowly wreck that spends most of his days taking up the couch as a football player. "Sure you've got the right Randall Wood?"
"Sure am. You know, back when I played, we had a sort of initiation . . . oh, the school board would call it hazing nowadays, but we saw it as what it was, a rite of passage. We'd get what we called 'ripped,' where one of the varsity players would give you the atomic wedgie from hell, right up until your waistband literally ripped out of your underpants. The seniors would do it to the JV guys right before homecoming, kind of a passing of the torch. Woe to the poor schmuck who wore fresh boxers that week."
I laugh, not admitting that despite what the school administration may say, that tradition still existed. We just knew that certain guys, the pussies who'd go bitching to their parents or something, we didn't touch. "What, did Dad get you?"
“He did. I was proud as shit to have been ripped by Randy Wood. It was like getting a rub from a superstar, if you can dig it. So of course, I watched Randy's career as he left Silver Lake Falls to go play college ball. I even wore his number when I went up to varsity, although by then, he'd already started to fizzle out."
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