Fourth Down Baby: A May-December Romance

by Lauren Landish

  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."

  "What happened?" I ask, caught up despite myself. "What happened to him?”

  "First, Nebraska happened in his freshman year. This was back in the Tom Osborne days, when those corn-fed boys were some of the baddest defenders in the entire country. Your Dad got beaten harder than I've ever seen a quarterback get beat down. Randy should have been taken out in the second quarter after taking a blindside sack, but he came out to start the third quarter after the second- and third-string QBs got sent to the hospital in the time he was down."

  I shake my head, not believing it. “Is this the part where you tell me that Dad led a comeback for the ages and they beat Nebraska? Then tell me it was all a bunch of bullshit?”

  "Beat Nebraska?" Coach says, barking a laugh. "That year, Nebraska went twelve and one. No, Randy took a beating so hard that even the refs were trying to help him by the end, letting the Texas guys hold the fuck outta Nebraska just to slow them down. He didn't complete a pass the entire second half, and the rest of the season, he was a shattered shell of what he could have been. It was during the offseason that he started hitting the bottle, I heard, and by the time I was ready to graduate high school, he'd been kicked out of Texas and was back in town, a fading king already, trying to live off the last vestiges of his glory."

  "Then he knocked up Mom," I groan, "and I ruin it the rest of the way for him."

  "Don't you ever say that about yourself, Troy," Coach seethes, and I see real fire in his eyes. "You, despite all the flaws you've got—I know about almost all of them. We teachers aren't quite as stupid as you students seem to think we are. You're a better man at your age than Randy Wood ever was. I'd like to think I've had a hand with that, even if you aren't as good a quarterback as he was."

  I nod, looking out on the field. "So what now?"

  Coach stands up and brushes off his pants. "Well, first you're going to follow me to my house. My wife had plans for a pancake brunch, and that’s probably going to be a lot better for you than that old pizza you've got sitting in your backseat. Not a good idea, by the way, unless you're trying to get yourself a case of food poisoning. And I'm going to overlook the fact that the polo you're wearing right now and the pizza in your seat are from the same restaurant, and if I poked around more, I'd find a paystub from that place in your pocket most likely. How long's that been going on, Troy?"

  "Three years," I admit. "But until this year, I only did it in the offseason. Honest, Coach. The owner thinks I'm older. I kinda need the money."

  He nods. "If it were up to me, I'd . . . well, I'd do things that would get me fired and you declared ineligible for the NCAA, so I’d better not. But I can have a student over for a meal and tutoring, so that's what I'm doing. As for Randy, if he lays a hand on you again—and don't tell me that black eye you sported earlier this week was because of that new girl you're seeing—I’m stepping in. I won't have you risk your future being hijacked by his past and his inner demons."

  We leave the stands, and in the parking lot, Coach turns to look at me. "When we get to my house, take about twenty minutes to take a shower, too. You smell like football stadium and old pizza. Not good, especially if you've got yourself a new girl. What's her name? Whitney?"

  "Yeah," I admit. "Whitney Nelson."

  "I taught her in American history last year," Coach tells me, smiling. "Nice girl. You could do a lot worse. But we'll talk about that later."

  Chapter 7

  Whitney

  "And in second place . . . Whitney Nelson!"

  The crowd in the stands claps hard, and I raise my hand, acknowledging the announcement while the crowd goes nuts. It's okay that I'm in second, since that means that Dani gets to be homecoming queen, and really, she deserves it more than me. She's the one who has been the social queen for all of high school. At least I get to be on stage with her tomorrow night, and besides, if I'd won, I'm sure I would have gotten some smart ass comments that I just don't need.

  Dani looks cute and kind of embarrassed as she accepts the crown, still in her cheerleading uniform, and then the sash. The band plays the school alma mater and a pretty terrible version of the Miss America theme, and at least that part of the night is over. We head back to the sidelines, ready for the second half of the game.

  "I'm sorry you didn't win," Dani says when she comes back after getting another photo taken by the local paper. "Really."

  "Babe, don't sweat it," I say, picking up my pompoms. "You deserve it, and besides, I got the birthday gift I really wanted."

  Dani smiles as I look down at the silver and blue number 12 jersey that I'm wearing for the game. Each of the senior players had the right to nominate a girl for homecoming, and that girl got to wear that player's away jersey for the entire week. I'd been rocking the silver jersey with the royal blue 12 on it for five days. To say I'm proud of it is an understatement. I don't want to give the damn thing back Monday so that Silver Lake can wear their away jerseys next Friday night. "It looks good on you."

  "Looks better on him," I say. Dani's wearing the number 54 of Pete Barkovich, a nice guy who is Troy's starting center. I'd have never expected Dani to accept Pete's request. He's nowhere near the level on the social ladder of some of the other seniors, but then I remembered that Dani is my best friend. Maybe she just specializes in finding diamonds in the rough. "Pete's going to be over the moon, getting to dance with you tomorrow."

  "Maybe," Dani says in a way that makes me wonder if she'd just accepted Pete's offer out of purely charitable purposes. "Come on, the second half is starting."

  The game is another win for Silver Lake, but the hardest fought one we've had so far. The Round Rock Mountaineers are usually one of the pushovers of our conference, but this year, they've got a couple of studs on the team as well, and Troy and the boys have their hands full until Troy intercepts a pass over the middle about halfway through the fourth quarter and returns it for a touchdown. It's no surprise at the end of the game that Troy is announced as the game ball player, even though he told me that Coach Jackson likes to spread the MVP balls around.

  But even I can't miss the results Troy puts for in the homecoming game. Two passing touchdowns, another two rushing, a sack, and of course, the interception for a touchdown. Silver Lake scored thirty-five points for homecoming, and Troy has a hand in all of them.

  After the game, I'm waiting outside the locker room for Troy. Mom has gotten used to us being together, and even the school, which burned for two weeks with scandal until it became less scandalous for us to be seen together, has accepted us. Troy comes out near the end of the line of players, and I smile to see that he's showered before coming out, something not all the players do. "You know, I know I asked you for a win for my birthday in my note, but you didn't have to take it so seriously."

  "For my girl's eighteenth birthday?" Troy says, picking me up and swinging me around before setting me down. "You could have said tonight's game was against last year's Super Bowl winners and I would have still figured out a way to win. You deserve it."

  "You say the cutest things," I giggle, pulling him in for a kiss. "So what about the rest of my birthday?"

  "Your Mom's not going to kill me?" Troy asks, and I shake my head.

  "Mom thinks that I'm hanging out with Dani, and she's agreed to cover for us," I say, warmth spreading through my body as I think of our evening's plans. "If anyone asks, Dani and I went camping, and you're just dropping me off since she’s taking care of the cheerleading stuff. I'm not seeing you until tomorrow for the dance, got it?”

  Troy nods, and there's a certain tremble in his hands as we let go of each other and walk to his car. We get in and drive for thirty minutes, far out into the woods outside town, to a place that Dani told me about when she saw what I'm planning in my eyes. It's quiet, with absolutely no light from town to pollute the view of the night sky above us. The air is just a little bit chilly, and I'm gl
ad that Troy packed two blankets that he pulls from the trunk of his car. I grab the cooler and help him spread out the blanket on the soft grass, sitting down after we're done. "It's beautiful out here."

  "It is," Troy says, and suddenly, I realize he's the one who's nervous. He's sitting kind of hunched up, his arms wrapped around his knees and his back to me. I smile and put a hand on his shoulders, rubbing the big muscles around his neck.

  "What's wrong, Troy?"

  Troy turns and shakes his head. "I'm just . . . I'm worried, that's all."

  I laugh lightly and stroke his arm, the muscles so hard even after the exhaustion of playing a whole game of football. "Think you're too tired for this? I can understand if you are. You kicked ass tonight."

  Troy looks at me intensely. "I guess, well, this is the first time I've been . . . oh, you know! Emotionally involved, that's all. Before, it was just fun, a little whatever you want to call it."

  "And you are this time," I finish for him. “Why do you think I asked you to bring me out here tonight? I wouldn't have if I wasn't one hundred percent sure that you cared about me."

  Troy's hesitation fades away with me in his lap, and he brings his arms around my body, pulling me closer to him. My t-shirt and jersey that I'm wearing rub against his t-shirt, and the pressure sends warm tingles through my breasts, which feel heavy and sensitive inside my bra. I feel a hard bulge rise in his pants between my legs, and liquid fire is added to the sensation.

  Our tongues wrap around each other, and I can feel Troy's desire, but he holds himself back, which reassures me. Instead, he kisses me softly, finding the pulse points along my neck and stroking my back.

  In the darkness, we keep kissing, Troy in no rush except to bring me pleasure, and I smile, looking down at him. "It's okay, Troy. I know this first time, it's going to hurt some, isn't it?"

  "That's what they tell me," Troy replies. "Are you . . . you know?"