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  He shakes his head. "Sorry is right. Your QB play right now is sorry and tired. Maybe you should take a rest. Sit out the rest of the offensive first team work, and get your damn head right. If you think Blueridge has got a decent defense, their right guard on offense has got a hard on for you. You stole his girlfriend from him last year at the track finals. Or so I've heard."

  I shake my head, pissed off at myself. I never get benched, and here I am, being talked to like I'm some sort of scrub. "Fine. I'll get my head right."

  Coach Jackson studies me, then nods. "Alright then. Stay here until I call for first team D."

  He turns back to the field and walks away, already hollering for Roberts, the backup QB who expects to get nothing but mop-up duty playing time. I stand and watch, trying with my entire will to get Whitney off my mind. At least I don’t have any classes with her. I don't think I could have focused at all if I did. It was bad enough fucking off in Spanish and getting yelled at after just seeing her in the hallway.

  "Obviously I have a bunch of . . . boys, water break!" Coach yells, jerking me out of my memory. "You keep going like this, and I'm playing the scout team Friday, because at least they'll play Blueridge HARD!"

  The guys grumble as they come over, giving me dirty looks, and I give them right back. I hadn't been the only one to fuck up. I'd just been the most noticeable. "Get your head off your dick," Russ whispers after he grabs some water. "I can't deal with this shit much longer."

  "First team D! Scout team O! Let's get fired up, gentlemen! Get those war bonnets on!"

  Coach Jordan, the linebacker coach and our school's defensive coordinator, looks around the huddle as we gather together. "All right, Troy, lead your men. I want thirty-four reads."

  He steps away and I look at the defense, seeing doubt in some of their eyes. Shit. I'm the fucking boss, I don't get doubts. "It's cool, guys. Thirty-four Fireman Sam slant."

  Russ, who as the free safety is to call the defensive backs, gives me a hopeful smile and nods. "Cover three tight."

  "Break!"

  I settle in, reading the lineup of the scout team. As I half-squat, getting ready, my mind suddenly goes into left fucking field again, and all I can see in my mind is Whitney's legs in those jeans this morning, and I'm caught off guard again as the scout team snaps the ball.

  I'm a half-step slow and I know it, so I just say fuck it, running straight in to jam the line for a running play. Too late, I see that it's a pass, and in fact, I just blew my assignment, as the scout team tight end catches the little dump pass over the middle, right where I was supposed to cover if I'd stuck to the cover three I was supposed to. I should have lit that kid up like a damn firework. Instead, he catches and gets an eight-yard gain, just what I'm supposed to not let happen.

  Coach Jackson blows his whistle, shooting me a dirty look. "All right, let's try again."

  It's the end of practice now, and Coach is pissed. My piss-poor play has led to even more issues, and he finally blows his whistle in the three long blasts that signify the end of practice at only five thirty, a good forty-five minutes before he normally calls practice early in the season. "I'm done. Maybe tomorrow we can get some work done, when you sorry sacks of shit figure out if you want to play or not."

  Coach storms off, leaving all of us shocked, when some jokester speaks up. "Hey, you can get reprimanded for talking to us like that!"

  Coach turns back, and I take a deep breath. Now I've got more issues on my plate, as now I need to ride herd on a smart mouth as well as get my own head right. I expect Coach to go on an epic rant, but he just shakes his head.

  He walks off, his shoulders slumping, and Cory yanks his helmet off, looking around. "The fuck is his problem? Just because Golden Boy here didn't perform, he gets pissy. He usually kisses his ass over everything."

  "We all did terrible,” I say, taking off my helmet. I stand up and raise my voice. "Foxes! To me!"

  As team captain, it’s my privilege to do this, and I gather the team. I want to go off on the rant that Coach should have. I want to blame them, but it doesn't come out of my mouth. Instead, Coach's lessons flash through my mind, and I decide to do something else. Time to own it.

  "I fucked up today," I start, looking around at my teammates and friends. "But dammit, that doesn't mean the rest of you get to fuck off too! You know, I hear your complaining, and for three years I've heard it. I put up with it, and yeah, I'm a glory-hounding asshole, or as Cory here just said, Golden Boy. But you and I all know that we need eleven out there to play the game. What happens if I snap my leg in the first quarter Friday, and Roberts ends up having to lead the team this season? What, you're all going to roll over and let everyone ass fuck you?"

  "You should know about ass fucking," someone gripes, and I understand why Coach just walked off. I sigh and run my hand through my hair. My anger evaporates, and instead, I feel something else.

  "Guys, like I said, I'm sorry. I . . . I fucked up today. Listen, let's just go in, get changed, and tomorrow . . . we do it right. Me included, okay?"

  I’m surprised by the reaction of my teammates. I expected bitching and grumbling. Instead, Russ comes over and slaps me on the shoulder pads. "You're right. All right, let's get changed. Tomorrow though, scout team . . . I’m coming for your heads. You boys had better be ready."

  A grumbling cheer greets Russ's words, and he and I watch as the rest of the Foxes go into the locker room. Russ turns to me and looks me in the eyes. "She ain't worth it, Holmes. Epic tits and ass or not, she ain't worth you fucking up out here. You got your date tonight, right?"

  "Yeah," I say, realizing Russ had been reading my mind all practice. "Seven thirty."

  "Get your rocks off, and get her out of your head—I'll see you tomorrow." Russ turns and jogs inside, and I walk in, following him. Maybe that’s all I need, to get my rocks off. Maybe.

  I walk into the house and shut the door. I'm early still, but all I plan on doing is taking a shower and leaving. The less I'm inside before my date, the better. If I'd had my damn head together, I could’ve taken care of everything this morning and gone straight from the locker room to pick up Whitney, but of course, I was halfway to school before I realized I didn't have any money on me. I'm good at cheap dates, but free firsties is pushing it, even for me.

  "Where you been, boy?" a slurred voice calls from the living room, and I roll my eyes. A little fucking early, isn't it?

  "Coming home from practice. Where does it look like I've been?"

  I go into the living room and see my father already half wasted on the couch, Fox News on the TV and Bill O'Reilly ranting about something with the sound off. Dad loves his Fox News. "Don't get smart with me, boy, or else I'm going to come off this couch and teach you some fucking manners."

  Dad belches, and I wave my hand in front of my face as the grain alcohol smell fills the room like a toxic cloud. "Jesus Christ, it's only six in the evening and you're already drinking hard. What is it this time, the Seagram's or the Popov?"

  "You little bastard, it's my house and I can do whatever the fuck I want!" Dad yells at me. "I pay the bills. I take care of you! You're nothing, Mr. Big Shot High School boy! Your mother left because of you!"

  It's a longstanding line he uses, and even though it's about as correct as wearing your underpants on your head, it still stings. I hit back with what I know hurts most, the truth. "Mom left because you were a raggedy piece of shit that wouldn't stop drinking and beating her, you alcoholic asshole! You don't even have a job, just your welfare and unemployment in between those jobs you keep getting fired from! By the way, Dad, you’d better clean up enough to go down to Day Labor, because we're coming up on the end of your unemployment again, and my pay won't cover the rent this month."

  He surges from the seat but drops back before he can get all the way up. He waves at me, disgusted. "You know what, you ungrateful shit? Get the fuck out of my house. Go, get out!"

  I turn to leave the living room and toss words back over my sho
ulder. "I'll be glad to. After I take a shower."

  There’s no way I’m going to show up smelling like I do. Even after a light practice, I still smell like ten pounds of wet leather, foam padding, and plastic football armor . . . and that does not work for dates. I strip down and grab the bar of Irish Spring off the soap dish, glad that it’s both cheap and works super-quick at covering up football smells. I can shower in three minutes if I want, and I do, walking naked down the hallway to my room, where I pull on a fresh set of khakis and a button down shirt. Yeah, I can get dressed up, too. I make sure my pits are sublime and grab twenty dollars out of the little cigar box that I use. I should keep all my cash on me. I know Dad steals from me, but if I do that, he’ll just shake me down. If I keep some of it in the box, he filches from me, but I actually end up keeping more of it.

  I'm distracted as I tuck the twenty bucks into my front pocket, surprised I still have that much. Dad must have gotten a sale on his cheap booze this week. I'm so distracted that I don't notice that Dad has gotten himself to his feet, only to catch me with a sucker punch to my left eye as I come back past the living room. "That's what you get, you little bastard."

  I grab at my eye, not so much hurt as surprised. Dad's half drunk, and I've got fifteen pounds on him, and a lot of my body is muscle while his is . . . sloppy shit. Still, it hurts, and I'm shocked, an involuntary tear coming to my eye because his alcohol-covered knuckle nailed me literally directly in my eye, and that shit burns! I push him back into the living room, where by some miracle of luck, he falls back onto the couch instead of onto his ass in the middle of the room. "You . . .”

  Fuck it. I don't need a fight with the old man tonight. I walk out, ignoring his half-understood screams, and go out to my car, rubbing at my eye the entire way as I drive. I stop a little bit up the block from Whitney's house, knowing I'm way early but not knowing what else to do. Getting out of my car, I wonder how to break the ice, and what I know about her. Not a damn thing, really, except that she's hot as hell, and there is something about her . . .

  "Flowers, maybe?" I say to myself, then look around. I see one of those planters that people use by a mailbox a few houses away, and inside are some flowers that remind me of the way her hair gleamed in the sun when she was trying out yesterday. They're almost the same dark, nearly blackish brown red. I run over and grab them. What the hell.

  Holding my fistful of flowers and still rubbing at my eye, I walk the short distance to Whitney's house and ring the doorbell. There’s some rustling inside, and Whitney opens the door, surprised that I'm here. "Troy!"

  I nod, trying my best smile. "Hi, Whitney. I know I'm mad early, but Coach cut practice short, and I was thinking . . . well, tonight's a school night, and I figured your parents would want you home early. You know, class tomorrow and all."

  Whitney looks uncertain, but still nods. "Okay, one minute. Let me tell my mom that I'm leaving early."

  Chapter 5

  Whitney

  I don't really know what to make of Troy when I open my door and see him standing outside my house. Sure, my heart's in my throat and my pulse shoots through the roof, but he looks different than he did yesterday. First of all, he's got either the beginnings of a black eye, or something got in there, because his left eye is puffy and red, and hanging from his hands are red flowers that look suspiciously like the geraniums that the Tuckers have planted around their mailbox down the street. There are even little bits of dirt still hanging from one of the flowers, which was pulled up by the roots.

  Still, despite his strange appearance, it’s Troy, and even with the eye, he’s so handsome it's disturbing. Besides, there is something about the way he’s looking at me, with an intensity and a power that is just irresistible, and I nod. "Okay, one minute. Let me tell my mom that I'm leaving early."

  I only half-close the door and run into the living room, where Mom is sitting on the couch. "Your date?"

  "Yes, Mom. He says that he got out of practice early, and that he thought it'd be better this way. You know, with school tomorrow and all."

  She smiles politely and sips at her after dinner tea. Mom's really into the church, and never even touches alcohol unless she's taking communion. "All right, honey. Be careful, and remember to be a lady."

  I roll my eyes. Like I'm going to repeat the mistake she made. She's only thirty-five, having me when she was eighteen because she'd gotten caught up with some guy and gotten pregnant. I’m not going to be that dumb, and even if Mom wouldn't approve, I have a condom in my purse, one handed out by some safe sex advocates at the mall last year when I went shopping with Dani. Better safe than sorry, you know. "I'll be fine, Mom. Besides, Troy's too tired from football practice to get up to anything, you know."

  "I know football players, honey. Let's just say I'm glad you're wearing jeans. Have a good time."

  I run over and give her a kiss on the cheek and leave the house. I find Troy waiting on the front walk, still looking angry, his eye puffier than ever, with the flowers in his hand. "Here, I picked these for you."

  "Mrs. Tucker's going to kick your ass if she sees you with those," I say, taking them and giving them a smell before setting them in a pot on my porch. "Thank you, though. I'll make sure we don't get in trouble for them."

  "Well, come on then," Troy says, reaching out and taking my hand. "I hope you like fish."

  "Why?" I ask, but Troy doesn't answer, and I let it slide. Instead, we walk back to his car, which I see is older and more beaten up than mine. It has to be from the nineties or earlier. "Nice car."

  "Piece of shit is more like it," Troy says, opening the door for me. "Not for long, though."

  "Oh? You're getting a new one?" I ask as Troy goes around. He glowers, and I start to feel bad. I mean, I don't know anything about him except that he's built like a Greek god, he's a superstar athlete, and he's tagged every piece of ass from here to California. That's not exactly what I want to talk about on a first date. I try a new tactic. "So what classes do you have this year?"

  Troy shrugs and hangs a left toward downtown. "Spanish, Geometry, English . . . normal stuff. Doesn't really matter. I'm on cruise control at Silver Lake. I know what I’ve gotta do for my next step."

  "Which is?" I ask. He sounds more confident, and I admit, sexy. I like a man who knows where he's going in life.

  "The NCAA. I tear it up on the field, and I've got my ticket punched. My GPA is fine—I can cram in an SAT course or something to get that up enough, and then I'm getting the fuck outta this two-horse town. NCAA, then NFL. Don't really care where there . . . except for Cleveland. I ain't going to Cleveland."

  "Why not?" I ask. "Too cold?"

  Troy laughs, then he looks over, realizing I’m being serious. "Sorry. No, it's that Cleveland has just about the worst football team in existence. Shit, Detroit's better than they are. You . . . you don't know much about football, do you?"

  "Just what I've seen at a few games I've been to for school," I say, kinda blushing. "Dani got me to go a few times. I didn't really get it except that you were trying to get the ball into the end zone."

  "Well, that’s better than some girls," Troy says, shaking his head. "Why'd you go out for cheerleading then?"

  "Kind of a Dani Vaughn redemption project," I reply, and I’m actually enjoying talking about myself a little for once. "You know, I've been the invisible girl for most of school, and I wanted to do something this year. So, Dani had me start practicing on my own over the summer, and with my new diet, I kinda filled out. Speaking of diet, you said something about fish. Why?"

  "The Crab Shack has a good special on baskets," Troy says, all confident again. "I was thinking we could grab two baskets to go and then just go hang out over on Slater's Point. You know, watching the river?"

  I frown, and Troy looks over. "What?"

  "Uh, my bad. I guess I should have told you. I have a bad shellfish allergy. Like, we go to the Crab Shack, and the next place we go isn't the Point, but County General. Sorry."

&
nbsp; "Well, why the hell . . .” Troy starts to yell, then he takes a deep breath. He pulls over and slams his car into park, shutting off the engine. We're in the parking lot of a laundromat, and he gets out, walking around before slamming his fists on the hood of his car and yelling to the sky.

  I should be scared. Troy is looking and acting like some sort of caricature from an abusive boyfriend movie, and we're still on our first date. But I'm not. There's something about the way his eyes look that tells me he's not angry at me, and in fact, he's got a lot of rage inside him, but there's something about the fact that he actually pulled over and didn't keep yelling at me that tells me to approach him.

  "Sorry," he gruffly grumps as I come out of the car. "I shouldn't have yelled."

  "No . . . but I'd like to know why you did," I say softly, taking his hand. "Yesterday, you were Superman, as Dani called you. Today, I can tell you're not having the best of days. What's up?"

  Troy shakes his head, and I respond by not letting go of his hand, but instead squeezing it. "Come on, Troy. You didn’t make me spend six periods today debating in my head whether to call you up and cancel this date based on your rep, rip up my neighbor's flower pot, come to my house with what looks like a shiner nearly a half-hour early, and then go screaming to the sky like you're challenging Thor to strike you with a thunderbolt, and not get to at least talk to me. Tell you what. Change that Crab Shack plan to Mickey-Dees, and we can still go hang out at the Point. But if you think you're getting in these jeans tonight, buster . . . well, you might as well keep on yelling.”

  Troy stops trying to pull away and instead tilts his head, looking at me differently than he had yesterday or even a few minutes ago. Yesterday, I'd been a piece of meat, a hot piece of meat, I could tell, but just meat nonetheless. He’d still had that look when he picked me up. But now . . . Troy looks at me like he's seeing me for the very first time. "Okay. Uh, I only got twenty bucks though, so are you cool with just a Big Mac meal? I might be able to spring a McFlurry if I can scrape some change from between the car seats."