This is the kind moment I live for, right? That make all the rest of the bullshit worthwhile, the reason I want to keep playing football as long as I can. In truth, even if I don’t end up getting a high draft pick and a fat contract, even if I don’t get drafted at all, I would walk on somewhere and try out, work my butt off to make some team, because I love playing the game. Football is my Achilles’ heel as much as it is my salvation.
The announcer begins his intro and I do the sign of the cross for the coach. My teammates power up behind me, pumping and yelling. Raising my fist to punch the air, I run, leading the charge out of the tunnel, smashing through the paper banner to the middle of the home side of the field where the team huddles into a round cluster.
We grunt like a mob of mad men or rabid animals, not a lot of difference between the two. I lead the team in a crescendo of bloodthirsty ravings, standing at the center until we explode into a wild uproar of yells and fist pumps and grunts in a rush to the sidelines and the bench.
Coach Radz waits for us there with his minions, the coaching staff, managers, water boys and girls, public relations and photographers, all with badges hanging around their necks, all working for the St. Paul University football team. All counting on the team, and in particular, counting on me, not just to win the game, but for thier very livelihoods.
The equipment manager races up to me and checks my helmet and chin strap. A boy squirts water in my mouth. The QB coach brings the card over to insert into my wristband and reviews the game plan, tells me we’re kicking off if we win the coin toss. An airhorn sounds and the National Anthem strikes up. We stand single file, from me all the way down the line, well past the end of the bench, hands on our chest, all together as one, no deviations. We’re a unified team. It’s one of the things Coach and I are in synch about, both working for it in subtle and obvious ways. Like this morning’s team breakfast.
And like the celebration we’ll have later at BMOC house. Everyone on the team is invited down to the lowliest freshman on the depth chart. They sometimes don’t all show up and when they don’t, I find out why.
The National Anthem ends and I trot out onto the field with Tristan, the team’s co-captain, and meet the ref at midfield. Army’s captains meet us there and I’m handed the coin to flip.
“Heads,” I say because I always do, and then I toss the coin in the air a couple feet above our heads. The ref picks it up and says, “Heads. Receive or kick?”
I want to say receive, but since Coach instructed me otherwise and though it’s getting more and more tempting to defy him, I’m not crazy enough to sabotage myself. Not now.
“We’ll kick off.”
Digging my cleats into the perfectly groomed turf, real grass, I head off the field with Tristan. He has his game face on. I have no idea what my face looks like. It doesn’t matter. I have my game head on. My mind is dialed into football and beating the shit out of Army.
By the time I take the field after our defense holds them to only two first downs, I’m amped and ready, but we’re backed up to the three-yard line. We have our work cut out for us.
We need to put some distance between the ball and our own end zone. Quick huddle and I call a quick count, hoping to catch Army’s defense off balance, but they have a killer linebacker and when I take the snap and drop back into the end zone, the LB comes at me. I scramble left, literally running for my life and looking for somewhere to throw the ball. Everyone’s covered, but George throws a block for me along the sideline, so I pull the ball into my chest, lower my shoulders, and run for it, barreling forward as far as I can before I see their inside LB running to cut off my angle, right ahead of the first down marker.
Decision time. As my mind runs through the options, as if the fraction of a second has slowed and I’m running in slow motion, I calculate my odds of making the first down marker on my current course. Less than ten percent. But if I pivot to the inside I can make it, slide to a stop before the D-end following the LB can catch me. Chances of succeeding without getting crushed? About twenty percent. Snap. I go for it.
As I pivot, leaning heavily into my left foot and ankle and pushing off in the opposite direction, I know Coach will give me hell, but the rest of the team will respect me. And most importantly, Army will respect my scrambling ability and that killer linebacker of theirs will quiet down and rethink his plan to rush me on every play.
The instant I land on my hip and slide to a stop as if the fifteen-yard-line is home plate, the roar of the crowd comes into focus and the ref blows the whistle. My teammates pull me to a stand and I brush the loose grass off my pants, shaking my left leg out. Only a slight bruising. I’ll live. Back to the huddle.
We repeat the process only I start throwing the ball or pass it off to George until we’re inside the ten-yard line when I toss it to Tristan in the end zone and we’re first to score.
Our defense holds them and we end up winning thirty-one to twenty.
After the postgame handshake with Army, we celebrate on the sidelines with a huddle. My staccato heartbeat still has me amped.
The fans go crazy, loud calls of the Wildbeast mascot horn sounding out all over. I look up to find Joni in the stands a few rows up around the forty-yard line. I catch her eye and wave her down. She shakes her head no, but I wave again and yell, “Joni!” Catching the interest of a few people, some my teammates, others in the crowd. The impulse to have her with me, to share the victory with someone I’m connected to at my roots, overrides good sense, or any sense at all.
I don’t bother checking what Coach is up to. He’s likely busy with the press as usual. My turn will come, but right now I’m busy waving my hands at her until I see her get up from her seat and say something to Dooley and Izzy. As she walks back to the door that’ll bring her down to the field, Izzy shoots me daggers and Dooley waves. I give them a fist pump and trot over to where Joni appears. I let the security guard know it’s okay for her to be down here and she comes to me. I meet her at the edge of the field, within eyeshot and earshot of the entire stadium.
She’s wearing an SPU Wildbeast shirt and though it’s not a team jersey with my number on it, I like it on her, the way it shows off her curves. And I like the retro blue jean cutoffs and the way they show off her long legs down to her tall sandals. No compromise about her, no hiding her natural beauty with high fashion.
“Thanks for coming down. You look smokin’.” Her smile shines at me. “I wanted to celebrate with you. Your B+ and my win.” It’s schmaltzy but true and I’m not afraid she’ll laugh at me. Even if she does it’s okay because it’s Joni. She already knows who I am. Mostly.
“You were awesome today, you know that?” she says, a grin turning into a laugh. She gives me a spontaneous hug.
Something about the moment, the way she feels like my ally, makes me want to capture it and hold onto it. I take her face in my hands and kiss her, a tender kiss, a real kiss like I don’t remember giving anyone before. Except I know it can’t be real because she’s the opposite of me.
Then I remember the cameras, the fans, the media are all watching. Well hell. The kiss’ll give them another reason to root for me. Another reason for the press to vote for me to win the Heisman.
The problem is that she responds as if the kiss is real, as if I have tender feelings for her—which I don’t. She sighs into my mouth, letting her real and genuine emotions sink into me, poison me with her unwanted and unneeded innocence, with the rawness of true feelings, stripped of purpose down to elemental form, from the soul.
The flashes erupt around us, the glare of cameras, the shouts of fans—and I don’t care. That’s my reality. I know my audience and I concentrate on playing for them, but I feel her hesitation. Letting go of her face, I wrap my arm around her to keep her at my side, to make sure there’s no mistaking the nature of the kiss, that it was purposeful.
“Jack,” she whispers, “people are watching.” She turns into me as if I’ll protect her.
“It’s okay. T
hey’re only going to assume you’re my girlfriend. No big deal.”
Her head shoots up and she stares at me almost eye to eye.
“That’s what you wanted isn’t it?” She tries to pull away, but I hang on and move us in the direction of a beckoning sportscaster with his camera ready. Someone I’m obligated to do a postgame interview with. From a national broadcast network. The team’s communication manager stands with him, nodding.
“There are worse things,” I say. “Be cool. I’ll take care of it.”
Though I’ve never done it before, I bring Joni, my presumed girlfriend with me. We walk out onto the field where the fans still in the stadium can see us. A wave of cheers goes up. Joni stiffens.
I whisper close to her ear, “It’s okay. I got you.”
We stand in front of several cameras with the sportscaster, some people from SPU and other press and players watching nearby.
“And here he is, Wildbeast fans, the player of the game—indeed one of the top contenders for the Heisman, Jack Hunter.” He pauses a beat for the cheers to rise up around us, then resumes. “And who have we here?” The sportscaster gives me a tight smile and I give him a happy grin back because I’m enjoying this, my rebellious streak getting the best of me.
“This is Joni Dowd, my girl. You caught us celebrating the win. She’s my biggest supporter—next to my mom. Hi, Mom.” I wave at the camera and smile, knowing she’s watching and knowing she’s spitting out her tequila at the sight of Joni Dowd on my arm. Only she and maybe Joni’s old man, Charles, would understand the defiant significance.
Oh, and Joni—she gets it too. Proving it, she pulls from my side, separating us. I know it’s horror that moves her, but the sportscaster and audience will take it as shyness.
“It’s okay, babe,” I half whisper, sounding tender, barely audible to the audience. But the thing is, when I meet her eyes, I discover I mean it and find my hand stroking her back, a gesture I don’t do. I don’t comfort people.
I don’t accept comfort.
The sportscaster interrupts my gaze into a new reality and I blink.
“The team looks strong this year. How do you rate your chances for another bowl game—maybe the national championship?”
“The stats are in our favor and numbers don’t lie. But what convinces me is the heart of this team, the diehard mentality to fight for each other every last minute of the game, like the way my offensive line protected me today. And the way Tristan Collins blocked for George Sylvester, the way the defensive line held out in spite of being banged up. Special shout-out to Hatch and Posen.” Adding that line was a risk, pointing to Hatch’s broken nose, the one that I broke. The media might have heard whispers and this is one way to find out. A risky way, but I’ll know in the next second if Coach Radz and Dean Lassiter are keeping their promise to keep it quiet. I know Hatch and Posen will keep their mouths shut from here on. I know they didn’t rat on me to Dean Lassiter. But it didn’t take much work for Lassiter to figure out who exchanged punches, given his nose and my eye.
The sportscaster considers my words for a flash of time and then his eyes crinkle up with his grin and he says, “And we know where the heart of this team comes from. It’s your leadership and the way you give everything you have on the field. In fact, I saw you throw a block in the second quarter when the score was still close.”
I have nothing to say about this and I can feel Joni’s tension growing, so I bow out of the interview.
“Doing what I need to do.”
“Good luck with the Heisman voting.” The sportscaster turns to the cameraman and slices a hand across his neck signaling the end. “I’ll see you next week, Jack.” He nods at me and flicks his eyes to Joni, hesitating. I raise one brow and he says, “And I’m sure we’ll be seeing you too, Miss Dowd.”
She pulls away as soon as the crew retreats.
“What the hell was that, Jack? I’m not your girl. Newsflash, I’m your worst enemy.”
I pull her toward the tunnel where the thinning crowd retreats, teammates and others slapping my shoulder as they walk by, eyeing Joni with interest, curiosity, appreciation and in the case of a few young ladies from the cheerleading team, hostility.
As we walk toward the locker room I calculate my chances of getting her to wait for me outside. Slim to none. But those are my usual odds, aren’t they?
I pull her close and whisper in her ear, “That’s not what your lips told me a few minutes ago.”
“Don’t mistake mild physical attraction for affection or any real feelings. It only means I’m human and you’re . . .” She can’t make herself admit the horror of me having any positive attributes, being the monster of her adolescence.
“You’re right, but it’s a start. And we both want the same thing.”
She yanks from my grip and I trap her loosely against the wall a few feet from the locker room door, bring my face to within a breath of hers. We’re almost eye to eye and the idea that she’s tall, almost as tall as I am in her heeled boots, turns me on. Inconveniently. Cups aren’t made to house an aroused dick, let alone the proportions I can feel growing as I breathe in that cherry-almond scent of her hair and the minty taste of her breath. She’s like my own private mint julep.
“We don’t want the same thing unless it’s for you to disappear from my life,” she says.
“Nope. We both want to rise from our pasts, to forget about them and get a new start in life. Only thing is, we have a shared past and we remind each other where we came from.”
“And once again, this is exactly why we need to—” I know she’s going to tell me we need to avoid each other, pretend we don’t exist to each other, and the idea has merit, it’s what I wanted at first. But the more powerful urge in me, the idea that we stick together, keep an eye on each other, force each other not to forget, makes me greedy and reckless.
“We need to watch out for each other, Joni. You know the old saying. Keep your friends close—which we most certainly are not—and keep your enemies closer. That’s us. We’ll be like conjoined twins, so close we can’t hurt the other without hurting ourselves.”
“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?”
“Tell me something I don’t know. See? You’re keeping me honest underneath all the bullshit.”
“And you’re not as tough as you talk either.” She licks her lips, her expression softening from the fierce detesting to something else. “You could have ratted out your teammate for bullying that guy at the reception, but you didn’t. You took your punishment even though it wasn’t fair. A week ago, I would have said it was because you’re protecting a fellow bully, but that’s not it. You stuck up for the victim and punched your teammate in the face for being a bully.”
“I punched him for punching me. Or did you forget the shiner I have under the black coal?”
She smiles then, effectively exposing my soft underbelly like I’m her puppy and she has me on my back. I simultaneously hate and can’t resist the feeling. It nauseates me and thrills me that she has my number so completely. No one else in the world ever knew me—not my mom—except Grandpa. And maybe Majik. I suspect Majik has eyes that cut through to my core.
But I know for certain that Joni knows the worst about me and it’s a relief that I have someone I don’t need to keep secrets from. All but one secret.
And I know all about her and her need to prove herself and why.
I also know the secret about her family, about her mother. And she doesn’t know I know. But her dad knows I know and I think he might hate me for it.
Chapter 10
Joni
“Besides, I’m your tutor. We’re obligated to stay together.”
“I can ask for a different tutor. You’re not the only calculus whiz at SPU.”
“If you did that, you’d get me in trouble.”
He sounds serious, but I wonder. “How much trouble could you possibly get into? They’re not going to bench you.” They can’t do anything to him, not real
ly.
“They could disqualify me from getting my scholarship.” His jaw muscle tics and I feel the tension coming off him, circling me, causing my muscles to tighten like I might need to flee. He’s serious. And I know money is his Achilles’ heel.
Do I hate him enough to make him pay? No. I don’t hate him at all and that’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m more than mildly attracted to him and I’m more than a little impressed with his soft side, a side I never knew existed. He’s fair and protective and patient.
At the same time, he’s callous to Izzy and relentlessly single-minded in his pursuit of the Heisman, his precious trophy, a shallow prize even if I have to acknowledge he does need money, needs to make a living. He could do it in a million ways with his exceptional mind.
Who am I to judge? Being a writer is hardly the equivalent of inventing penicillin.
I lean against the cold wall, trapped inside his circle and breathing in his scent. Sweat, strong and appealing, mingles with dirt and the faint scent of oak.
“Fine, but I’m your girl in name only, and only because you said so on national television and I don’t feel like explaining what a joke it is.”
“In name only?” He smirks like I can’t be serious. But I’m not fooling around. Literally.
“Girlfriend with no benefits,” I say, enjoying the surprise on his face before he covers it by doubling down on his smirk and laughing.
“Sure. Whatever you say. Wait for me.” He drops his hands from the wall on either side of me and leaves me, just like that. All the tension, the gritty scent, the heat and solidness of him is gone. It takes a moment for me to reorient, to look around for my friends. Am I going to wait for Jack? Just because he asked me to? Just because he announced to the world that I’m his girlfriend? My gut flips around thinking about it and I’m not sure how much of the anxiety is fear of what he might do, and how much is anticipation of what he might do.
Big Man on Campus: an Enemies to Lovers College Romance (Big Men on Campus Book 1) Page 12
