“Then you’re probably feeling like a piece of shit because of your nerves.”
Heather agrees with Randall. “You need to do this.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to.” She grabs my clammy hand. “You know this case better than anyone. You wrote all our examinations. No one is better suited to this than you. Just stand up there and own the courtroom. Believe you’re better and what happened to you freshman year won’t happen again.”
“Is this some Tinker Bell shit? Believe?” I scoff.
“Hey, that bitch is earning billions in royalties what, a hundred years after her creation? You should dial back on your critiques of her. She might be basic, but she knows what’s what.”
Randall and I stare at each for a moment and then burst into laughter. Only Heather would call a fairy who can make people fly basic. We laugh until we can’t stand, leaning against each other until we end up on the floor on our asses.
And that’s where Matty and what looks like the entire football team finds us—on the dusty floor of the high school that is hosting the competition—laughing like a couple of loons while Heather stands over us, tapping her expensively shod toe near our heads.
“Matty, what are you doing here?” Wordlessly, he hands me my insulin case. “Did you drive out of your way to bring me this?”
“Of course he did,” Heather interjects with exasperation. “How else would he get here?”
“That basic bitch Tinker Bell?” Randall suggests and I start cracking up again because this situation seems utterly absurd.
Matty reaches down and hauls me to my feet. Over his shoulder, he says, “I think she’s loopy.”
Hammer nods. “Better test her.”
Matty takes the case out of my lax hands and efficiently runs the test before I can issue a protest. The monitor beeps and the read out says I’m perfectly normal.
“What’s the verdict,” Randall asks slowly, as if dreading the response but I’m the one who’s filled with dread.
“It’s normal.”
Heather smirks. “The show must go on.”
“Good thing you’re sick or I might have to punch you in the face.”
Heather flaps her wings and Matty drags me away as if he thinks I’m serious.
“I think I need to retake the test,” I whine when he sets me down a short distance from the crowd.
“Sure,” he says far too agreeably. We both know the second test will show the same results.
I’m feeling awful because my nerves are about to overtake me, the same ones I suggested that Heather suffered from yesterday. Oh, the hubris.
“You’re going to do fine,” he says, rubbing my arms.
“Do not give me a half-time inspirational speech,” I order. The last thing I need is some rah-rah-rah about being my best.
“Sure. We can go to the bathroom and fuck away your nervousness.”
I mock punch him, but I can’t say the idea doesn’t have appeal. Maybe we’d spend too much time in there and then Heather will be forced to go on with Randall. The judges will feel sorry for us because Heather’s so obviously impaired and—
“I was actually just kidding.” Matty brings my runaway-train thought process to a halt.
“What if I open my mouth and I can’t remember anything? Again.”
He shrugs. “So what? You already went through that. You survived. If it happens again, then you know you’re not cut out for this sort of thing. But if you don’t try, then you’ll always wonder. That sort of wistful regret isn’t something you want hanging around.”
The matter-of-fact delivery of his risk assessment helps calm my nerves. And frankly, it’s not like I have a choice because Randall can’t do this on his own, and Heather’s clearly too ill to go forward. I can either try or sit out here in the hall and hate myself forever for being a coward.
Yesterday, when I was hiding in the closet, there were a dozen different outcomes that kept cycling through my head, from Matty literally tossing me out into the hall to him joining me in that small space. The last one is ridiculous because not only is he too big to fit in that closet, but because why would we have sex in a closet when the bed was five feet away? But being stuck in a closed space for a half hour gives one plenty of time to come up with silly scenarios.
Despite the harrowing moment in the beginning when he wouldn’t smile at me, the rest of the night was one blissful reward. I grab onto that for courage.
Matty bends his knees until he’s eye-to-eye with me. “What are you thinking?”
“That last night’s risk was worth the reward.”
“That’s my girl.” He dips toward me and gives me another reward—a long, hot wet one.
* * *
Matty
“How’s this work?” Hammer whispers in my ear.
“I don’t really know.” I’ve only picked up bits and pieces from watching Luce. “There’s lawyers and there’s witnesses and something called oral arguments.”
“Oral.” Hammer snickers into his hand. Darryl nudges him and wants to know what’s so danged funny. Hammer whispers something behind his hand and pretty soon the entire side is sniggering.
Luce turns around from the table and glares at me. I hold up my hands to show her I’m innocent but Christ, we’re a bunch of guys. The word oral kind of sets us off. I slice my hand in front of my throat, and the guys try to compose themselves.
“All rise, the honorable Cristal Cain is presiding.”
Three people stream in from a side door and take a seat at the front of the room behind a barricade. Like the mock trial team is going to rush them or something? I guess it looks official. Like a smaller, lower rent version of Judge Judy’s courtroom.
Fortunately for all of us, we’re told we can be seated. I take a moment to ogle Luce’s ass as she brushes her hands down the back of her skirt when she takes a seat.
Then I notice Hammer staring at it, too. I give him a hard elbow to his side.
He returns a helpless look that says she’s hot and it’s there.
My return look says keep eyeing her ass and my fist will be the next thing you see.
He merely shrugs.
“Quite the audience we have today,” Judge Cain mentions.
“You think she’s a real judge?”
“Nah,” I whisper back. “She’s not wearing the black robes.”
“But would they for a competition?”
Good question. “No idea.”
A paper drops at my feet. I lean down to pick it up. I unfold it.
SHUT UP!
I show it to Hammer. He hands it to Darryl and the note makes a trip around the back of the room.
Judge Cain runs down how the competition plays out. The plaintiff, that’s Luce’s side, goes first with their three witnesses. There’ll be a short break and then the defendants, archrivals from Central, a college with a shit football team, goes next. The two parties will then have closing arguments.
“I thought you said it was oral argument,” Hammer whispers.
“I guess I mixed it up,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth. I swear she used that word once or twice.
“Will the team from Western introduce yourselves?”
Randall, the dark-haired dude, rises and says, “Yes, your Honor. I’m Randall James.” He holds his hand toward Luce, who’s sitting in the middle between him and the girl Luce can’t stand—Heather. Even though she can’t speak, she’s going to sit at the table and take notes and some shit like that. “And I along with my co-counsel Lucy Watson and Heather—”
We all start cheering and whistling. In the back of the room, someone starts chanting. Lucy. Lucy. Lucy. Must be Ahmed? Jack, maybe?
Judge Cain bangs her gavel on the desk. “Order! Order!”
“Order!” Hammer crows. “Shit, this is just like television.” He shifts in his chair to get more comfortable. And like on television, it looks like we’re getting a talking to.
The judge leans forward,
and not entirely unkindly, but definitely with a certain amount of sternness, says, “This is not a sporting event and we don’t allow cheering. At least not until the event is over. If anyone believes they will have difficulty abiding by that, please feel free to use the exit doors at the back.”
There’s a few random coughs along with some murmurs. I stand up and find myself staring at Ace, who is on his feet, too. He looks at the offense and I stare down the defense until there’s utter silence.
Then we both sit down.
“All right. Thank you, gentlemen. You may proceed.”
Randall introduces Heather again and then his client and sits down. The other team does the same.
Afterwards, Randall is instructed to come forward and give opening argument. Hammer opens his mouth again, but I shake my head real slow until he shuts it.
The case Randy presents is fairly simple. Their client, Emily, manages a local ice rink. They have an ice resurfacer or Zamboni, although theirs was manufactured by ICE and not the Zamboni company. Who knew Zamboni was a brand name? I learned something and I’m not even in class.
Emily was working, and one of her underlings—Randy calls him an employee—was driving the resurfacer when it stalled. Emily came over to check things out and the resurfacer took off on her. She tried to stop it by hanging on to the machine. She was able to steer it into a barricade but ended up breaking her leg. ICE had documents that showed the machine’s clutch had a tendency to slip from neutral into drive and the machine would move even when the brake was on.
An “ooooh” rose up from the football team at the mention of these documents. A wave of the gavel had us all zipping our mouths closed.
Randall tells the room how Emily’s life went to shit and she wants some money so she can replace all that she lost.
Which sucks. Hard. What if she’d been an athlete working a part-time job? I want ICE to write out a check by the time Randall sits down.
The other side gets up and explains that the broken leg was sad and unfortunate but that jurors are supposed to decide things on facts and not emotion. Good luck on that. People are driven by emotion. It’s why we have locker room quotes up on the wall. To motivate us into crushing weak opponents.
The attorneys for ICE tell us that Emily caused her own accident by using the machine that she knew was faulty. Plus, she was irresponsible with her money, buying a house, a new car, and not saving anything. That’s a good point.
By the time ICE’s attorney is done speaking, I’m not sure how I feel. And by the way Hammer and the rest of the guys are leaning forward, they’re just as conflicted.
Both sides put on evidence. Both sides are pretty damned good. As we near the end, I can see Luce letting the tension get to her. She’s gripping her pen so tightly her knuckles are turning white and I’m starting to worry she’s actually going to snap her spine if she stiffens any more.
The last piece of evidence gets offered and the defense “rests,” which I guess means they’re done because the judge starts telling everyone there will be a five-minute recess before closing arguments start.
Many of the guys take this opportunity to piss. I sit behind Luce as she remains at her table, head bent, absorbing the words she’s going to get up and say.
I wish I could help her. She reminds me of a kicker lining up to make a last second field goal kick from the fifty-yard-line to win the game. No one talks to the kickers before these stress-filled moments, and I won’t bug her now.
I do the same thing, though, as I do with those kickers. I send her all the waves of positivity I can. Hammer nudges me and makes a tiny kicking motion with his finger. Yeah, we’re all on the same page here.
“You may proceed, counsel,” Judge Cain orders when we’re all situated in our places.
Luce takes a deep breath and then rises. She walks calmly to the middle of the room, thanks everyone and then turns to the jury. There’s a long moment of silence. A long one. An uncomfortable one. One that makes me wonder if I should jump the railing, pick her up, and carry her away from here.
You can do it, Goldie. I know you can.
She takes a deep breath. And then another. And then, “There’s an old Jewish tradition…”
A collective whoosh fills the room as all of us in the back and maybe some at the counsel table release their breaths. Luce’s voice, quiet at first, grows in volume with each word. We’re all spellbound and after she’s done, I can’t help but release a whistle.
Which was stupid because everyone starts cheering then. Luce ducks her head into her chin and scurries to her chair. Judge Cain bangs her gavel several times until we stop rioting in the back.
“Your honor, we need a sidebar,” says one of the guys clad in blue suits on the other team.
A sidebar is apparently when the lawyers gather by the judge and whisper things. The acoustics in the room are such that we can hear them pretty well.
“That display is completely inappropriate, Judge Cain,” hisses the suit. “Western should be penalized.”
Luce objects immediately. “I have no control over that. It would be completely unfair to penalize us for something the audience did.”
I share a shamefaced look with Hammer. Shit, it never occurred to me that cheering would result in Luce losing this match. I feel kinda sick.
“I’m not penalizing Western for the crowd’s antics because the jury doesn’t decide who wins this case, we do.” Judge Cain points to the two people sitting beside her. “And I’m sure you don’t believe we’ll be influenced by any clapping, do you?” Disdain drips from her voice. She’s unimpressed by the dude’s complaining.
“No, ma’am.” Blue Suit looks at his shoes.
“Then let’s finish closing arguments, shall we?”
I hold out my hand and Hammer slaps it as we celebrate our girl not getting penalized. Our happiness is short-lived when Judge Cain addresses the room. “As I stated before, there is no clapping or cheering that is permitted during the match. Another outburst will result in a two-minute penalty to Western.”
Luce walks back to the counsel table, glaring at us.
I don’t even dare make the zipped-lip gesture. Pissy Blue Suit stands up and makes a very passionate argument about personal responsibility that seems to have the judges’ attention. They’re nodding. Hell, even the jury is nodding. I think he sounds like a cat in heat, with his high-pitched demands for the jury to make Luce’s client accept responsibility for her own poor decisions. At the end, he pounds on the railing separating the jury and him, telling them he knows they’ll make the right decision.
One of the jurors makes a few clapping noises until she catches wind of Judge Cain’s frown. Heather and Randall exchange a worried glance while Luce is scribbling something furiously on her notepad.
“Do you have rebuttal, counsel,” Judge Cain intones.
This time there’s no hesitation. Luce jumps up. “Yes, your honor.” She strides confidently up to the middle of the room, turns to face the jury and says in a chilly tone, “When you have the facts on your side, you pound on the facts. When you have the law on your side, you pound on the law. When you have neither….” She pauses dramatically. Everyone looks at the opposing side, who’s glaring so hard at Luce right now it makes me want to laugh. Everyone but Luce looks at him, that is. She’s still staring at the jury. Softly, because she doesn’t need volume when every person in the room is hanging on her words, she repeats, “And when you have neither, you pound on the bench.”
Luce dips her head, turns around, then walks right back to the table and sits down.
It kills not being able to clap at that. Fucking kills.
* * *
Judge Cain let us clap after they announced Luce’s team the winner.
“You were amazing,” I crow when she finally breaks free from everyone who wants to hug and congratulate her. Even Ace came forward. They gave each other an awkward hug, and I didn’t even feel like bashing Ace’s teeth in for touching her. I feel
so evolved.
“Thank you!” She hugs me tight, her face pressed into the side of my chest. “I was pretty good, wasn’t I?”
Her uncharacteristic boasting pulls a startled laugh out of me. That’s my girl. “Best ever,” I agree.
“Come on.” She lets go of my waist but grabs my hand.
I follow willingly. While we both know I’d follow her anywhere, I ask, “Where we going?”
“I need a victory kiss.”
My steps quicken. So do hers. “Oh, yeah? Any particular place you want that kiss?”
“We have to be quick, so on the lips, but I expect my other parts to get action from your other parts.”
Now I’m pretty much running. There was a bathroom down here that I spotted when I arrived. From the direction of Luce’s feet, we’re headed to the same place.
I slam the door open with the flat of my hand and spin her around so her back is against the door. It’s the best way to keep anyone from barging in on us.
I’m on her before she can take another breath. I don’t know how long we have, but as I hold her jaw in place with my hand, I fuck her mouth as savagely as she’ll allow. She greets me with a furious, wild kiss in return. Sucking and tonguing me like the champion she is.
Soon, it’s not enough to kiss her. My entire body is shaking with the need to be in her, part of her. I wrench up her skinny business-like skirt and jam a big thigh between her legs.
“Tell me that we’re doing more than kissing,” I whisper hoarsely as I scatter kisses along her delicate cheek, her strong jaw, and the tender skin of her neck.
“We’re doing more than kissing,” she confirms. Her busy hands unfasten my jeans. Another second later, my pants are down around my thighs and my heavy, aching dick is in her hands.
“Fuck, yeah.” I push her skirt farther up and pull her panties down, shoving them to the floor with the toe of my boot. Neither of us pause, even as we hear those panties rip or the shuffling of feet outside the door.
We’re too eager for each other, too hungry to care about torn panties, undressing, or outsiders.
Jockblocked (Gridiron Book 2) Page 31
