by Zoey Shores
It’s the most detailed piece of writing about Luke himself yet to appear in the paper, though plenty of speculative and tabloidish pieces centered on him filled out pages last year. In general, it’s the most balanced, realistic, and informative look at the controversy that’s embroiled the team and the entire campus since the beginning of last year’s season.
Well, at least I think it is.
After staying up almost all night last night finishing it, I’ve spent the last two hours pouring over it, polishing up the writing, making sure there are no mistakes. I know that Dr. Gasten wants to make his decision on who he gives the full-time football assignment to as soon as possible, and I know that this finished article is going to basically be my one and only application for the position. And I know that Greg wants the position just as bad as I do, and that he’s going to do whatever he can to be the one chosen for it.
After one final thorough read-through, I hold my breath and hit send on the e-mail to Dr. Gasten. I’ll find out what he thinks about it during this afternoon’s staff meeting, in preparation for this Thursday’s first issue.
I get up from my seat in the corner of the library, where I retreated to after my eight-am class to obsessively scan over my finished article one last time. The rest of the day is pretty much booked up with back-to-back classes until it’s time for the newspaper staff meeting this afternoon, so at least staying busy should help keep my mind off the anxiety I can’t help but feeling over whether the article I just sent will prove to be good enough to earn the coveted football assignment that I’m after.
As I was writing my first draft last night, there were times I considered adding in some information about Luke’s past – the kind of information only someone who grew up with him would know. I know that Dr. Gasten would go wild over a piece like that, push it on the front page, and probably hand me the full-time football assignment on a silver platter. But I knew it wouldn’t be right. Luke’s past is his own story to tell, if and when he decides to, not mine to tell for him.
As I walk across campus to my next class – sociology – Rory calls me.
“Heidi!” her raucous voice booms in my ear the second I place the phone to the side of my head.
“Geez,” I cringe from the volume of her greeting, not expecting it. “What’s up?”
“I’m directing the big production this semester!”
“Wow, that’s awesome!” I’m genuinely happy for her. Even though you’d think that in a top-ranked theatre program every student would be dying for acting roles, according to Rory it's really the position of play director that’s the most sought after.
I guess it makes sense; in any given play, there’s dozens of acting roles, but only one directing role. It’s a highly coveted position, and one that those who want it compete over fiercely. Not unlike regular front-page columns on a long-term assignment on a newspaper.
“What’s the play?” I ask.
“Macbeth,” she answers, her voice swelling with excitement. “I’ll tell you more when we get home. I have a class starting in one minute, I just had to let you know right away!”
“Congratulations, Rory. I know you deserve it.”
We hang up and I settle down in my seat in the middle of the room for my Sociology class and hope that I can focus on the lecture.
“Heidi Locke!”
Dr. Gasten voice booms as soon as I walk through the doors of the staff room of the student paper.
I stare at him wide-eyed, taken aback by the unexpected attention. He hurries across the staff room towards me. I notice papers clasped in his hands. My article?
“Your article,” he begins as he approaches me.
Was awful
Was terrible
Was boring
Isn’t what anyone wants to read
A wave of worst-case scenarios crashes through my head before he can finish his own sentence.
But he ends up finishing, “Is the best piece of writing on this story we’ve got yet!”
He’s now stopped in front of me, excitement in his eyes and a smile on his face. The smile of an old school reporter who sees that he’s just snatched a perfect angle on a hot story, an angle that no one else has – an angle that’s going to get readers to pick up and read his papers in droves.
It takes me a moment to register his actual words.
“Really?” I ask.
“Definitely, we gotta get this on the front page,” he says, talking quick and excitedly.
He turns around and quickly walks away, before turning his head back and motioning to me, “Come on, follow me.”
I hurry to keep up with him. While we pass a desk in the middle of the room, he quickly says while passing by, “Greg, follow us.”
Oh, great. Wherever we’re going, and for whatever reason, pretty soon I’m going to have to share the vicinity with Greg.
He cocks up an eyebrow and passes a dismissive glance over me as I pass by him, hot on Dr. Gasten’s heels. He stands up and walks after us at a slower pace.
Dr. Gasten leads the two of us back into his personal office. Once we’re both through the door behind him, he turns toward us and measures us with a quizzical yet appreciative gaze.
“Well, I was hoping that I’d figure out who got the full-time front-page football assignment by the middle of this week. But I can’t decide between the two of you, after the articles you both just submitted for our first issue.”
My mouth goes dry. Oh, God, does this mean I’m going to have to share a by-line with Greg?
Luckily, Dr. Gasten dispels my worries. “This Saturday is the first game of the season. A home game. You’re both going to go and report on the side-lines and write up your first article. Pretend that you’ve already got the job, and you’re writing the flagship article for the paper, about the one story that everyone wants to read about. Whoever’s is the best gets the assignment for the year.”
I can feel the disdain and disappointment that Greg exudes standing next to me.
“Remember,” Dr. Gasten continues. “This isn’t a sports reporting gig. Well, not really. You’re not just there to report about first downs, field goals or how the offensive line’s holding up. This story goes way beyond the game being played on the field, and that’s why people want to read about it right now. You’re there to report on the personalities, the drama. I’m sure you both already understand that, given the quality of articles you both just submitted. But you have to always remember what you’re writing, why you’re writing it, and who you’re writing it for.”
Dr. Gasten dismisses us, promising that both of our articles will be featured on the front page of this Thursday’s first edition. Greg’s was, predictably, a tabloid piece about the fight at the Alpha Kappa house Saturday night. I’m sure it was one-sided and filled with either lies or half-truths, but I’m sure he got direct quotes from people personally involved in the scuffle, which no one else on the paper’s staff would have access to.
Except for me, now.
I glance to my side as we walk out the door – I'm almost just a little bit ashamed to admit it, but I can’t deny that the sour countenance on Greg’s face gives me some satisfaction, especially after how arrogant he was on the first day yesterday.
“Counted your chickens a little bit early, huh?” I quip.
Greg looks at me with narrow, determined eyes. “It’s not over yet.”
He’s right about that, at least.
While the Winthrop Wolves are competing in the opening game of the year, I’ll be on the sidelines, in a competition no less fierce.
And there’s a voice in the back of my head that won’t let me forget: while I’m on the sidelines, Luke will be there, too.
CHAPTER TWELVE: LUKE
At the end of our last practice session before this Saturday’s opening game, Coach Riker brings us all together to take a knee in the middle of the field. He stands up straight in front of where we’re gathered as a group, right at the fifty-yard line, his clipboard
of plays clutched tightly in his hand.
“Alright, boys, this was more like it. Damn good practice today.”
Practice really had gone smoothly today. Even though there was some tension in the air between me and Carson, we were able to run our drills professionally and effectively. Our defensive line is incredible this year. Talk about being forged in the fire, our offensive line is going to be more than prepared for whatever the opposing team brings against us.
And this weekend, the opposing team is Michigan State. One of the top football programs in the country, and a perennial favorite from the national championship. Shit, even if we just lose a close game, it’s going to be a major statement – Winthrop will be cemented as one of the top programs in the country, a team that can beat anyone on any given Saturday.
Of course, none of us are comfortable with making a statement by winning a close game. We want to make a much louder statement, by winning. And no one more so than me.
“Tatum, up to your feet,” Coach Riker addresses Sage. Sage’s still youthful face blanches, intimidated at being put on the spot, as he rises to his feet.
Coach Riker continues, “You’ve showed me a lot over these last three practices, Tatum. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever been as impressed with a rookie fresh out of high school.” Riker props his hands on his hips and levels an appreciative look at Sage. “I never start freshman rookies. Even the most promising, I’ve always said they had to earn their spot. But damn it, I’m starting you this Saturday.”
“Alright, Sage!” Chase claps his hands together, starting up a whirlwind of applause from the rest of the team.
I can’t help but sneak a look at Carson. He’s clapping along with the rest of us, but with a begrudging countenance. After having been show up by me last year and losing his Quarterback spot, I know the last thing he wants is competition for the title of top Wide Receiver on the team.
If Sage truly makes it to that level, though, I know it’s still some time away, and it’ll take a hell of a lot of hard work on Sage’s part. As much as I hate to afford him any praises, Carson is a damn good receiver. Even if I hate to admit it, I have to say that I’m glad I’ll have him down the field to catch my passes this Saturday. Winning means more than our mutual dislike.
“Don’t let it get to your head, rookie,” Archer says as he playfully tussles Sage’s hair once Sage goes back down to one knee with us.
“The rest of you,” Coach Riker continues. “You gave in your all this first week back. No slacking from any of you. I wouldn’t expect any less, but still, I’m impressed. You know I don’t say that lightly. So, don’t let the compliment go to your heads and start slacking on the field this Saturday, or I’ll have to go right back to putting my foot up your asses.”
We all laugh, appreciating the compliment – Coach isn’t a bullshitter, so we know it’s as sincere as compliments come – but at the same time knowing his threat is no empty one.
“Alright, boys, you know I’m not a man of too many words. Whatever we have left to say, let’s say on the field. I don’t know about you all, but I’m damn sure ready to show everyone that the Winthrop Wolves aren’t an up-and-coming team anymore – we're a top team, we can beat anyone any night, and we’re gonna start with beating Michigan this Saturday.”
“Damn right,” Lincoln comments from among the huddle, drawing similar exclamations for the guys.
“Alright, all in,” Riker takes a step toward us and reaches out his hand; we all stand up in a circle and put our hands in the center.
“One, two three, WOLVES!” Riker leads the chant, and we all shoot out hands up and end with a clap on the three.
“Dismissed!” Riker blows his whistle to signal the end of his post-workout speech, sending us back to the locker room.
Everyone’s buzzing as we’re getting changed and showered in the back. Morale is high all around, so much so that the tensions that normally exists between the new players and the Alpha Kappa guys is noticeably subsided – subsided, but not nonexistent. Still, spirits are high, the excitement is palpable, and no one is interested right now in prioritizing old rivalries over the teamwork it’s going to take to come out of this Saturday’s game with the win.
Archer, Chase, Lincoln and I are all chatting together as we get dressed; we overhear a conversation from the other side of the locker room that causes us to quiet down and our ears to perk up.
“Come on Rookie, you want to prove to everyone you’re not a pussy right?”
It’s Bryce; obviously, talking to Sage.
“Nah, man, I don’t think I need to prove anything to anyone.”
Chase’s face lights up in pride after hearing Sage defend himself. Chase has really taken Sage under his wing during these last three practices, teaching him the ropes of the playbook, and coaching him in his route running. “That a boy,” he smiles to us other three.
“What’s wrong, you just Luke’s bitch or something?” It’s Carson’s voice, now.
“Whatever,” Sage retorts, his voice making it clear that he’s over Carson and Bryce’s intimidation and peer pressure tactics.
“You don’t wanna be an Alpha Kappa?” Bryce grills him again. “If you’re not an Alpha Kappa on this campus, you’re nothing. You don’t want those transfer student losers as your only friends do you?”
I expel an air of laughter. There was a time last year when hearing a comment like that would draw my anger. Not anymore, though. When push comes to shove, I won’t let Carson or Bryce punk me out, but I’m past the point of allowing them to bait me.
I hear Sage chuckle. “You know what, maybe I do. See you Saturday, guys.”
“That’s your boy, Chase!” Archer explains.
“My boy? Linc’s the one who held his hair while he puked,” Chase jokes, drawing laughter from Lincoln.
Sage’s walks past our lockers, his pace quick enough to not notice us as he tries to get away from Carson and Bryce.
“Yo, Sage!” I call out. He stops and backtracks towards us.
“Hey, guys,” he says, a warmth in his voice. Yeah, I’m thinking Sage is definitely gonna be part of our crew for the rest of our time at Winthrop.
“Why don’t you come by tonight and hang out? I’m sure it’ll be nice to get out of the cramped freshman dorms.”
Sage smiles. “It sure would. I’ve heard my damn roommate jerk off more times this week than I’ve actually done it in the last month.”
Archer throws his head back and guffaws. “Maybe you don’t wanna come over then, because Luke here can’t keep his hands out of his pants for more than five minutes at a time.”
I sock Archer in the arm, drawing a high-pitched yelp from him as the other guys laugh. “Don’t let Archer’s sick fantasies scare you off, rookie. Come by around six tonight and we’ll have dinner, sound good?”
“Yeah, man, sweet.”
We say our goodbyes and head out of the practice facilities. Today, I’m the only one of us four who doesn’t have another class in the afternoon, so the other guys head off to campus while I walk home, ready for a more-than-deserved hour or two by myself to relax.
While I’m walking down the sidewalk, I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. I fish it out and see the contact name on the screen: Ryan. My older brother.
My jaw clutches just slightly. I love my brother to death, but the last couple times he’s reached out to me, it hasn’t been good news. Ryan’s been in and out of trouble for years now, and even though last year he was looking to finally be back on the straight and narrow, holding down a full-time job, he got fired in the middle of the summer and started being sucked back into his old habits. Drinking. Some drugs. Making money in various less-than-legal ways. Gambling.
But I still love him. He was the father I never had growing up – even if he played the role of a father of the distinctly dysfunctional variety. Whenever he calls, I’ll always answer. No matter what.
“Hey, Ry,” I answer.
“Luke, what’s up,
short stuff?”
“You’re gonna call me that for my whole life just because you’ve still got a half inch on me?”
“You know it. And it’s a lot more than half of an inch if we’re talking about what’s in the pants.”
I chuckle. “What’s up?”
“Look, bro, I hate to ask …"
I feel a sinking in my chest. I know what’s coming.
“Could you spare eight hundred bucks? I’m good for it by the end of next month.”
“Eight hundred?” I sigh. “Bro, what now?”
“Man, the opening Seahawks game … they had it in the fucking bag, right? I put down money with Phil. It should’ve been a sure thing. How the hell did they fuck that one up and lose?”
I stop and lean against a lamp post, shaking my head. Phil’s the local bookie – the kind with connections, if you know what I mean. When someone doesn’t pay their debt to Phil, they don’t get forwarded to a collection's agency. He sends guys with steel pipes.
But I don’t have eight hundred dollars to spare. I have to make my stipend and financial aid stretch as thin as money can stretch, since I can’t possibly hold down a job during the football season. If I could help Ryan, I would ... but I can’t.
“I don’t have it to spare, bro, I really don’t.” I take a deep breath before adding the suggestion, “Have you asked mom?”
I cringe as the words leave my mouth. Our mom’s done so much for the both of us, sacrificed more than any woman should ever be asked to, and she did it all with a smile, letting herself go without so that we never had to. Neither of us wants to ask her for anything more than she’s already given.
Ryan pauses on the other end. “It’s no problem, bro. I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about it.”
The cheeriness in his voice is totally artificial.
“Look, Ryan … if it turns out you just can’t get the money any other way, and you really need it … give me a call, I’ll figure something out.”
We both know the subtext to what I’m saying. I’m saying, before you try to rob a convenience store, or if Phil’s goons at at your door with baseball bats.
