by Lila Price
It was no big deal to watch the game, I told myself. So I got the tiniest, littlest bit into football while dating Jacob. That wasn’t a problem. Plenty of people got into new stuff in college. Really, it was a good thing— I could have gotten into drugs or shitty music or bad tattoos.
The game hadn’t started when I turned the television on— first muted, then at an ever inching-up volume— but the announcers were in a frenzy over Jacob’s return to the field. They showed clip after clip of him at practice, had a sports medicine guy in to explain the injury (complete with a creepy muscle hologram), and of course, did the side-by-side comparison to Adams. When Jacob led the team out of the stadium tunnel to thunderous applause, I caught myself grinning. Maybe Jacob would be all right— maybe he really was fine to play. I wanted him to be fine. I wanted him to be more than fine. I wanted him to make Adams look like a rec league player, to get his NFL contract, to be the Harton hero again. Part of my brain laughed at myself, cheering for my ex like this— wasn’t I supposed to be wishing that his kneecaps fell off or something?
Whatever. You’ve got this, Jacob, I thought, staring at the television for the starting kick.
The game moved quickly, the sportscasters shouting and cheering along with the fans. Someone was tailgating in the apartment’s parking lot, and the smell of beer and burned hamburgers wafted up to my nose; I opened the doors and let the fall air and smoke encircle me. The Rams were up seven to zero, but Clemson had heart— each yard Harton gained hard won. Jacob was spectacular, according to the sportscasters. “He’s not just his old self again, he’s better!” one exclaimed after an impressive pass.
I kept my eye on Jacob throughout the game, trying to spot a hint of pain or hesitation in him. I saw neither— though, granted, the cameras weren’t especially interested in capturing glints in his eyes. They rolled into the fourth quarter with Harton still in the lead. Adams was pacing on the sidelines; the cameras panned to him during down time, speculating on how it felt to be relegated to the second string once again.
“And with that in mind, you’ve got to wonder what it’s like to be Jacob Everett right now,” one of the way-too-cheerful sportscasters said during a long shot of the marching band. “He’s more or less got to pack a season’s worth of amazing plays into the next few games if he’s still hoping to be a top NFL draft pick.”
“That’s right, Dan,” the other sportscaster— who I thought might also be named Dan?— said. “And you know, this is when we start to really talk about the difference between scoring the most points and really winning a game. Jacob Everett has made a truly amazing comeback here, and that’s no small thing given the measure of his injury…but he’s going to have to be more than just the Harton Hero if he wants to gain back the attention he lost while he was out.”
I decided that all men named Dan could go fuck themselves. What more did they want from Jacob? They said he was better than before, he was winning the game, he was spectacular— that was the word they’d used! Spectacular.
I suddenly didn’t care quite so much about how tender my heart felt about all things Jacob. I wanted him to win. I wanted the NFL people to see him and be amazed. If I wasn’t Jacob’s type, fine— that was only because he was going to be a super famous football player, the kind you see in Coke commercials and on Dancing with the Stars. Jacob Everett was going to be everything he’d ever wanted to be.
He wheeled his arm back. The clock was ticking down, the last thirty seconds of the game. There was no real way Clemson could win, but it was also unlikely Harton could score again, making the game a tidy win rather than a talked about upset, like Jacob needed. Jacob looked left, looked right, time slowed— this was his chance, his last chance in the game, to do something to get everyone’s attention. I knew, somehow, even before the ball left his hand, that he was going to take it. He was going to end the game and secure his place as the hero. He was going to get everything he’d wanted.
“Come on,” I whispered aloud to the television.
The ball rocketed from his hand, so fast it looked more like it’d been hit than thrown. The wide receiver ran backward, farther, farther, the announcers starting screaming. Forty yards, he’d thrown the ball forty yards, and there was no chance of anyone catching it except—
The wide receiver— Greene, it was Greene— leapt into the air. The ball landed neatly in his arms, and the moment his toes hit the ground, he started sprinting for the goal line. The stadium was in uproar, I was on my feet, my school work scattered on the ground, go go go go go—
“Touchdown! And that’s the game! An unbelievable pass by Everett, that was such an amazing risk and it paid off—“ the announcers were yelling breathlessly, like they’d just witnessed a miracle. The stadium exploded in green and gold color, the cameras panned across the coaches getting soaked with buckets of water, I collapsed back onto the couch, hands knitted together in pain and excitement. I wanted to go to Jacob, I wanted to celebrate with him, I should have been there to celebrate with him.
But it wasn’t meant to be, I reminded myself. That doesn’t mean you can’t be happy for him.
A petite blonde sportscaster on the field elbowed her way amongst the players, looking for Jacob. I stared, rapt, waiting to see his face on the screen—
“This doesn’t look good, I think something’s happening,” the reporter said, trying to look both at the camera and over her shoulder, at the same time. Coaches were shouting, players looked dire, the cheerleaders appeared to be huddled together, vying for the best view. When the crowd cleared, my head sunk.
It was Jacob. Oh the ground, being tended to by sports medicine doctors and coaches. Clutching his shoulder.
“I’d hate to think he played too soon and re-aggravated that injury,” one of the announcers said. “For a quarterback, shoulder problems can be career-ending.”
I turned the television off for several hours, though I couldn’t focus on much of anything. Where was Jacob now? The hospital? With his parents? Where was Adams? Was he celebrating with Piper? As the sun began to set, I dared to turn the television back on, hoping for an update to lessen the now overwhelming desire to text Jacob and check up on him. ESPN was just starting up their evening recap of all the college games, ticking through them before they finally began discussing Harton. Jacob’s pass was considered the play of the week, a bittersweet trophy given what the anchors said next.
“It sounds like he tried to play on that shoulder injury too soon, though, because he’s currently at the hospital with his coaches and family, having that injury assessed. There’s a real possibility he’ll need surgery, and if that’s the case, he might never quite have the arm he used to have,” one of the men said.
“And that’s the risk here, with these young guys— they’re taught that they’ve got to play, that they’ve got to be superheroes, but they’re just as human as the rest of us. Coaches have got to start teaching players to respect their injuries and their bodies,” the other said, looking sad.
“I can tell you though, as a former college player myself, that’s easier said than done,” a third anchor said, leaning over the desk. “You’re a cog in the machine, and the machine fails without you. It’s hard to just say that you’re not feeling great, it’s hard to let the machine down like that. Some people would rather risk permanent injury. Jacob Everett has always been an amazing leader, so I’m not surprised he’s one of those people.”
The other anchors nodded. “Some actually say the pressure came from an outside source— we’ve got a clip that up and coming quarterback, Adams, posted to his social media accounts. It’s no secret there’s an intense rivalry between Adams and Everett, and it’ll be interesting to hear what the coaches have to say about this.”
The screen flipped to a clip filmed on a phone, clearly shot in the Manhattan. Music was pumping, there was a shuffle of bodies and eyes eerily lit by the phone’s glowing screen before it focused on Adams’ face.
“Hey hey, Rams,” Adams said. �
�In here, celebrating our win, celebrating the future. You guys want a leader, someone who’ll be there for the team, not someone who’s gonna peace out on you when his arm gets a little sore. That’s why I’m here, yeah? I’ve got the arm, I’ve got the focus, I’ve got the power, and I’m here, baby.”
Piper suddenly appeared beside Adams. She was sweaty and leaning heavily on him; I knew she was likely drunk, but Piper held herself together well enough to pass for sober. Adams wrapped an arm around her shoulders, his biceps as large as Piper’s head, and the girl’s eyes went serious.
“Horton, trust me— Jacob Everett’s girl toy is my roommate. He’s way too distracted by her to play to win right now. She hates football and has been trying to convince him to quit. This guy here is where it’s at,” she said, pointing enthusiastically to Adams. She opened her mouth, but the clip went back to the sports anchors, who looked both horrified and curious.
“And then she goes on to discuss some things we have to censor here on ESPN, but folks, let’s just say I hope her mama gives her a call tonight,” one of the anchors laughed. “Anyhow, I’m curious to see what the coaches say about this on two fronts: One, about one teammate trash-talking the other like that in a public way. Two, if they have anything to say about Jacob Everett and this girl. Was he distracted, not doing the proper work to get himself back in shape?”
Another anchor nodded. “If Jacob tried to carve out some time for a relationship rather than working on healing…makes you wonder if maybe that’s why he’s re-injured his arm.”
“And yes, that’s the thing I’m curious about here. If there’s truth to this girlfriend thing, does that have anything to do with his playing and his re-injury? Doesn’t sound like she’s very supportive of the game, so maybe she convinced him to skip a PT session or two, that sort of thing—“
I turned the television off.
22
It all happened relatively quickly. News spread of ESPN’s report, of Adams’ video, of Piper’s claim. Piper had no problem outing our exact address, which meant a handful of reporters from the local and school papers parked themselves outside, waiting to pelt me with questions. “Do you really hate football?” “Did you ask him to skip PT?” “Do you want him to give up the sport entirely?”. It was enough to drive me back into the house for the entirely of the day Sunday; come Monday morning, I ducked my head low and ran to class as quickly as I could, which only resulted in a handful of unflattering, twisted-face photos of me on social media.
“I just told the truth,” Piper said, chin lifted, on Monday afternoon, when I saw her again for the first time back at our suite. “I didn’t know so many people were going to see it, but it’s not like I said anything false.”
“We’re supposed to be friends,” I snapped back, throwing my hands to my sides. Piper hadn’t come home at all on Sunday, which meant my anger had a chance to morph in to general dismay…but Piper was still pretty lucky that I didn’t know how to throw a punch.
“You know we’re not friends,” Piper said, rolling her eyes as she poured herself some wine from a box in the fridge. “We never got along. And I’m just being honest. It’s just who I am—“
“That’s an excuse you use to act like a bitch,” I snapped back.
Her eyes lit up. “If you’re this mad about it, maybe it’s because you feel guilty,” Piper said, shrugging. It was clear she was loving this— that it was the final, ultimate revenge on me for snatching Jacob out of her hands months ago. It was also clear that Kiersten found the entire confrontation entertaining, like she was watching a soap opera scene rather than real life.
“Guilty for what?” I asked, hating the fact that I even cared a little bit what she had to say about anything.
“You had to chance to just hook up with him and let it go. You’re the one that tricked him into an actual relationship. I’m not saying that’s the only reason he’s hurt again and that Adams is the new star, but I’m saying that there were no problems before you showed up here and started meddling with him.”
I closed my eyes to keep from screaming, then walked to my room and slammed the door. I couldn’t stay here with Piper— I had to leave. I had to go somewhere, anywhere. But who could I even call? The idea of calling Jacob was way too stressful; between their breakup and his injury and Adams’ video, even a string of text messages would be overwhelming. The truth was, other than a handful of people I knew from group projects, I only knew one person at Harton other than her roommates. I grabbed my phone and called.
“Hey. Things are just so crazy here— is there anyway you could come pick me up?” I said quietly into the phone.
There was a sharp knock on the door about an hour later. I had just finished packing a bag of clothes and my school stuff into the largest bag I had on hand. I slung it over my shoulder and left my bedroom to find Piper and Kiersten standing in the kitchen, staring at the person in the living room.
“Oh! Sasha,” Jenna said, smiling cheerfully. She looked tiny and compact and fierce, and her face was hard. “I was just telling Piper that she and Adams are going to shut the fuck up, or they’re going to be public enemy number one and two here at Harton.”
“What? How?” I asked, confused.
“Well, you see, there’s an ethics clause that all the athletes sign,” Jenna said, explaining this slowly, so there was no possibility Piper could fail to understand. “It’s pretty vague, but one part is clear— that nothing scandalous can happen in the McMillan Alumni Hall. The guy who donated the place, McMillan, was a Southern Baptist. Anything goes on there, the entire house goes back to his estate.”
“What’s McMillan Alumni Hall?” Kiersten asked.
“Football House,” Piper said, scowling. “But everyone drinks there, and besides, Sasha’s the one who’s underage. She’s the one breaking the actual law.”
“Ah, yes, that is true,” Jenna said, giving me a serious look. Then she turned back to Jenna and smiled, so artificially sweet that it could cut you. “But I’m not talking about the drinking. I’m talking about you and Adams fucking in the room upstairs. I saw it. Sasha saw it. Kiersten saw it. And moreover, the cameras in that house saw it.”
Piper laughed. “Well then guess what, Jenna? Jacob is in trouble too, because he’s forever fucking girls in that house.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. Jacob goes to the garden. Or to the alumni building. Or his apartment. Not technically in Football House, which means the contract doesn’t apply.”
Piper’s face paled, and mine felt a swell of amazement. Was Jenna telling the truth?
“So you’re going to call the papers— whatever papers are posting this shit about Sasha— and tell them you lied. That you’re a stupid girl in need of attention, bitter that she didn’t get to fuck Jacob Everett, and that you made all that bullshit up. That Sasha is the best thing to ever happen to Jacob.”
“You’re over-reaching,” Piper said, regaining her composure. “Harton isn’t going to throw their only real quarterback off the team because he has consensual sex in some dead guy’s house.”
Jenna shrugged. “Probably not. You’re totally right. But Harton also isn’t going to let the football team continue to use Football House if there’s a risk of athletes getting themselves in trouble. So, do you want to tell everyone that you and Adams ruined everyone’s fun? Or should I? I mean, I feel like people will want to know that you’re the one who got the whole place shut down. They’ll probably turn it into a cocktail hall for alumni before or after games. You know, for fundraising stuff.”
Kiersten gasped and gave Piper a horrified look. Piper’s face contorted into something twisted and angry and, frankly, terrifying. Jenna smiled sweetly at her, then looked at me. “Ready to go?”
“More than ready,” I said, and followed Jenna toward the door.
“Oh!” Jenna said, glancing back. “By the way, Piper— I slept with Adams too, and eleven inches isn’t all that great when he clearly has no idea how to use it.”
***
Jacob’s injury was, to my relief, not as serious as it could have been. The Clemson game had definitely stressed it, but a couple of weeks later he was back in action and better than ever.
Jacob the conquering hero had finally returned.
The fact that he’d bounced back so resoundingly from his injury actually seemed to work in his favor, even, and rumors of him being a top draft pick filtered across the internet, the newspapers, the school. It made me smile each time I saw a new report, even though my heart continued to ache for Jacob.
A few times I caught myself thinking I might be starting to pull myself out of the hopeless pain I was feeling at being apart from him, only to be tossed back into sorrow when I saw someone that looked rather like him downtown, or even when I simply passed the alumni resort, or ate feta fries.
“Just text him. Don’t even call. Text. Send an emoji, for gods-sake,” Jenna groaned as she and I walked toward the sciences building one day. I’d continued to stay with her the past couple of weeks and it was a relief not to have to deal with my suitemates.
I shook my head. “No, no— I care about him, but it’s pretty obvious we aren’t going to work out.”
“Why do you think that?” Jenna asked, looking astounded.
I shrugged. “He knows where to find me. He could have tried to talk to me if he wanted to.”
“Did you consider the fact that maybe he was trying to respect your break up?” Jenna asked. “You’re the one who dumped him.”
I shrugged. “It wasn’t really that simple. I just wanted him to fight for me, but he wouldn’t even stand up to his parents on my behalf. Now that he’s playing again, now that he’s off the injured list, now that Adams isn’t breathing down his neck…if he wanted to try to prove to me that he still wants to be together, he’d find me. But he hasn’t. So it must not be that important to him.”