Sacked (Gridiron #1)

by Jen Frederick

  “Um, no?”

  “Exactly.” I flip the picture off. “Fuck.”

  “Why’s this so bad?” she asks from the safety of her doorway. She’s afraid of me. She probably should be. I’m a destroyer of things. “It’s one loss. I understand they’d be upset that they aren’t perfect, but is it that bad?”

  “In college football, yes, one loss can devastate you. Only four teams get to play in the BCS title game. It’s a four team playoff for the national title. They call it the BCS National Championship or Bowl Championship Series,” I explain at her puzzled look. “With Auburn and Oregon having perfect records, a bunch of one loss teams will have to battle it out for those last two slots.”

  “But there are four more games,” she points out.

  “Right, four more times they can lose. Then the conference championship. Plus, it’s a late in the season loss. The team they lost to was ranked, but lower than them. It could mean that they dropped out of contention for the national title.” I throw myself onto the sofa. “It will depend on the polls Tuesday. If they fall too far…” I can’t even bring myself to contemplate what that will mean.

  “Tuesday, when?”

  “8:15 p.m. EST. They are announced on ESPN.”

  “Okay, I’ll prepare the Xanax cocktail for 8:16 p.m. then.”

  “Thanks,” I say sourly. I stomp to my bedroom and crawl under the covers, wishing I could go to sleep and wake up with a redo of this day. Of this whole week.

  Jack calls me a couple hours later. His voice sounds so heavy and sad that it’s hard for me to keep from breaking down.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Shitty,” he admits. “I hate that I wasn’t out there.” He’d gotten his results back on Friday, but his professors didn’t get notified soon enough, so he’s out at least another week. His weary inhale goes so long and loud, I can feel the wind sucking through the phone. “The team is demoralized. Half of them have gone out to drink themselves into a stupor and the other half is trying to castrate themselves in their rooms.”

  I don’t need to guess which half Knox falls in. The loss no doubt kills him. He probably thinks it’s all his fault and is mentally going over every play, examining where he could have played better and how he let his team down.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Coach reamed us a new one. We’re not going to be able to sit down for a few days. Said he saw pee wee football squads execute better than us.” Jack cracks his neck to relieve tension. The awful sound makes me wince. “We have to win next week and hope everyone ahead of us slaughter each other.”

  “Is…Knox doing okay?”

  “Haven’t seen him. After the game he disappeared. I don’t know where he is.” I try to keep it in, but a small moan of pain escapes me. Jack tries to reassure me. “It’s not your fault. Masters needs to learn to compartmentalize better, but everyone's emotions are riding high.”

  “Which means they blame me, or will once they find out.”

  He hesitates. “No.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” My voice comes out shrill and shaky.

  “Okay. Okay,” he quickly concedes. “Some of them will blame you, but it’s not your fault. If this is the worst that Masters ever experienced, then he’s lived a pretty fucking charmed life. He’s got to strap on his balls and man up. Everyone has shit in their life they have to shut out. Girlfriends. Home life. Bad grades. Or maybe coming home and hearing your dad tell your sister that she’s a worthless cunt. That can fuck with your mind. And you have to keep reminding yourself that you aren't your dad.”

  I cover my mouth to hold in a gasp. “I didn't know you heard that.”

  Usually when Dad yelled at me, Jack wasn’t around.

  Jack gives a humorless laugh. “I came home early because I'd tweaked my knee. Coach let me go without argument. I think I knew I was finished with the team at that time. I should have transferred to another high school, but I didn’t. Other people's dickhead actions aren't your responsibility. So you broke up with him. It’s still his responsibility to get his head together on the field. If he was in his right mind, he’d be the first to tell you that shit.”

  Jack’s tone will tolerate no argument. The matter is done for him. I’m his sister. He’ll always side with me. I guess that’s the difference between true love and infatuation. True love takes up for you—no matter what. It always sees your side of the story. It listens for the truths.

  I take a few deep breaths and gather my composure. “It’s only one loss.” I tell him, offering him my own sort of support. “Last year no teams in the playoff were undefeated. The most you’ll drop is to three, maybe four tops.”

  Jack makes a sound. It could be interpreted as agreement or disgust. A bit of both I decide.

  “Try to put it out of your head, Ellie,” he says wearily.

  A beeping interrupts us. I look at the phone and see it’s my mom. “Hey, Jack. It’s Mom. No doubt she wonders why you stood on the sidelines.”

  “Don’t take it.”

  “I have to. If I don’t she’ll keep calling me.”

  “Don’t let her push you around then.” He pauses. “I know she made you do this. I know she’s probably blackmailing you. That’s her style. Don’t want anyone to think her kids are flawed or her old man cheats on her like it’s an Olympic event.”

  The phone beeps again.

  “I could have stopped.”

  “You did,” he points up. “You stood up to me. Now it’s time to stand up to her.”

  He hangs up.

  My right knee aches around the scar. I rub it, but the pain doesn’t go away. I don’t think it ever will. The agony I felt when that kid—whose face I can’t even conjure—slammed into my knee is nothing like what I’m feeling now. There’s a chill in my blood and a pain in my bones that I’ll have to live with each day.

  During the last week, I still held on to some hope that I’d be able to go to Knox and apologize and convince him to take me back after this semester ended. Foolishly I kept this stupid little dream that Jack would successfully pass all his classes by himself, and next semester, after they’d won, I’d go to Knox and apologize. But I know after the loss, there’s no hope left.

  I’ve lost him.

  33

  Ellie

  My mom’s ring tone starts up again. On the scale of one to negative one thousand, the desire to answer the phone lies somewhere below hell. I brace myself. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Eliot, is it such an onerous task for you to answer your phone when I call you?”

  Actually, yes, your calls are some of the least desirable experiences in my life.

  “Sorry, I was in the bathroom.”

  “I’m your mother,” she continues, “and I pay for this phone. And your apartment. And your tuition. And likely the clothes you’re wearing and the food you eat, so perhaps you can muster a tad more enthusiasm when my identification appears on your phone.

  I pull out a pad and paper. Under “find a job,” I write, “get disposable cell phone.”

  Chastened, I mumble, “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, I didn’t call to argue with you.” Her impatience is evident. She’s probably sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea, and drafting comments on all the websites about how the commenters are ignoramuses for blaming the loss on Jack. “I’m very concerned about Jack. We watched the game today, and as you can imagine your father is beside himself that Jack wasn’t playing.”

  That’s code for he spent the entire game shouting curses at the team, Jack specifically. I bet Jack could hear those screams and rants inside his helmet. Dad is in Jack’s head.

  “Jack’s not feeling good about that either.” The one good thing about talking on the phone is that I can make all the faces I can’t when we’re in the same room. Right now I’m making a screw you face.

  Doesn’t matter because Mom continues as if I didn’t even say a word. I’m not sure why she hates voicemail messages so much, because our entire conver
sation consists of her talking at me. No response but agreement required. “Your father and I wonder why Jack isn’t on the field. I called Coach Lowe and he instructed me to talk to my son. Since Jack isn’t answering his phone, you will tell me.”

  A direct command. I might as well tell her.

  “Jack’s on probation until it can be determined that he needs special accommodations for his classes.”

  “Special?” She says that word as if it contains a disease, and by passing by her lips, she’s exposed herself to a terminal illness.

  “I told him what I’ve been doing and he wanted to stop. Immediately.”

  On the other end of the line, there’s a swift intake of breath. “You what?”

  I could have said I killed children and animals, and she would have responded with less horror. I drop my head into my hand. “Jack has a learning disability. You and I both know it. He needs real help, not me fixing his answers and writing his papers. He needs to learn how to do this on his own, and Western has great programs designed to help students with learning disabilities.”

  “There is absolutely nothing wrong with Jack.” Her tone comes sharp and angry.

  I take a page out of her playbook and power forward as if I’m the one in charge. “Of course not. He’s very smart, but he struggles with reading and writing, and that will adversely affect him for the rest of his life unless at some point we stop enabling him. I won’t continue to hurt him.”

  “Are you an education major now? I thought I paid for an English literature degree.” Disdain drips from her words.

  I try again. “If Jack is tested, the school would have to make certain accommodations for him. Instead of writing papers, he could do an oral exam. He would be allowed more time to finish a final or he might be allowed to take it home.”

  “Eliot, my dear, if you’re tired of helping your brother, I can certainly see if there’s someone else interested in taking your place.” Her voice is anything but loving. The term of endearment sounds like arsenic on her tongue. “But of course, that means I will no longer provide for you in the way that we currently have. Since you’re no longer doing your job.”

  I grip the phone tighter in my hand hoping that the clamminess will prevent me from dropping it. “He needs our help.”

  My words are met with stony silence. When she speaks, her tone is ice cold. “You should be glad that tuition is nonrefundable. If I could, I would cancel the check and you would forfeit this semester. Don’t expect another cent from your father or myself. Your father never wanted to pay for your college anyway. I had to do it out of my own funds. I sacrificed for you.”

  My eyes sting. When I rub my cheek, I’m almost surprised there’s moisture there. I would’ve thought by now I had grown immune to this. After all, I knew it would come. Knowing, though, doesn’t seem to prevent pain.

  I’ll get over this pain. It’s the loss of Knox—someone who genuinely cared about me and thought I was special—that I won’t ever get past. The words flung about by Mom? Those are surface arrows. They hurt, but they heal over.

  Knox is a soul deep wound. A self-inflicted ruination of my heart. I pushed my heart through a cheese grater and now I have to deal with the fact that all I have left are tiny fragments.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper but those words aren’t for my mother. They’re for Knox.

  “You are an ungrateful child. You have always been ungrateful. Spoiled and rebellious.”

  I laugh at that charge. I’ve always toed the line for her. After all it had been her who told a twelve-year-old to cheat for her brother. But there’s no point. I don’t need her acceptance anymore. I’m done.

  “Did you hear me?” she demands. “You’ll not get another cent from me. In fact, when I get off the phone, I’m cancelling your cell phone and removing your name from the charge account.”

  “You do that, Mom. You do that.” I hang up the phone then. There’s nothing more to be said between the two of us.

  At my desk, I reach inside the second drawer and push aside the tape dispenser, brightly colored paper note flags, and pull out the Sports Illustrated magazine. Knox’s brother—wearing Knox’s blue and gold uniform—stands at the forefront flanked by two college players on either side. Knox is one of those players. He’s wearing a silly grin and the red and white of his brother’s team.

  I trace my finger around his large frame. Out of all the girls he could have chosen, he waited for me. He’d said I was special. He treated me like I mattered. He cared about me. He…loved me. And I threw that back in his face.

  I did it to protect him. I believed at the time, and still do, that staying as far away from him as possible until Jack completes this semester successfully—without my help—is the best course of action. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like the motherfucking devil.

  I hug my arms to my sides. My skin feels clammy and goose pimples dot every exposed surface. Idly, I wonder if I’m in shock. I could use that Xanax cocktail right now.

  34

  Knox

  Week 10: Warriors 7-1

  Looking at myself in the mirror had never been a problem before. I had pretty simple goals—play hard enough to win games and influence scouts. I cared about my family and my team, and we were almost always on the same page.

  This morning, I have a hard time meeting my own gaze in the bathroom mirror.

  I don’t like what I see.

  It’s not just the sour taste of losing, but the way I had lost. I should have cleared this thing with Ellie before the game. It’s my own damn guilt weighing on my head.

  I splash cold water on my face as the door to my apartment opens and closes.

  It’s not Ty. I drove him to the airport at four in the morning so he could make his six o’clock flight. “It’s only one loss,” Ty told me before he exited the car.

  “It was a bad loss to a bad team.” I replied curtly.

  “Then you need to dominate in your last four games. Don’t let all this other bullshit affect you.” He gave me a hard squeeze.

  Easy to say; less easy to do. But Ty’s right. I have to put this game behind me. One thing that separates the greats from the wannabes is the ability to shake off a loss. To forget how bad you played and show up in the next game like you’re the motherfucking champion.

  I waited twenty-one years to have sex because I had this ideal in my head, but I’d waited as long for a title. Ty and I had never won one in high school. Ironically, our high school team suffered much of the same problems the Warriors had—a weak offense. Ty chose to go to a school that featured a premiere quarterback. I came to Western. Ty’s fancy pants quarterback suffered a career ending injury last year, and his chances for a title went out the window.

  This year looked like my year. Ace threw the ball well enough to provide a decent cushion on the scoreboard. The defense clicked like one machine with one brain and one heart.

  And Ellie showed up. Long legs, hot body, loved football, sarcastic sense of humor, and fucking knew the difference between my brother and me in every picture I showed her.

  It was my year…until it wasn’t. And the minute things didn’t go my way, I folded like a cheap lawn chair.

  I don’t like that. I’ve got to make things right with my team and with Ellie. She’s scared about something. Last night I replayed every conversation I had with her and the one we’d had right before the dinner with Ty struck me as weird. All that talk about affecting my draft status? It didn’t add up for me.

  I wipe a hand down my jaw and go out to see what the commotion is.

  I find Matty in the kitchen. “Who was that at the door?”

  “Jack,” he says. “He brought this over.”

  He tosses my away jersey over the back of a chair. So that’s how it’ll be? She doesn’t even want to talk to me?

  I don’t like that. Not a bit. I stomp back into the bedroom and pull the phone away from the charging cord. I pull up Ellie’s number and stab the call button.

  A me
chanical voice answers telling me Ellie’s number has been disconnected. I check the number and dial again, like the recording instructs. Same thing.

  Disconnected.

  The hell? She sends Jack over with my jersey. Disconnects her phone so I can’t fucking call her?

  I squeeze the phone tightly in my hand.

  “Why don’t you let me take the jersey to the trainers? I’ll get it cleaned up before the game next week,” Matty offers.

  “Good idea, bro,” I pick up the jersey and almost throw it to Matty until I catch a whiff of it. It smells like Ellie. Smells like citrus and girl, and fuck if my fist doesn’t clench around the material and refuse to let go. “On second thought, I’ll send it over with the rest of my shit tomorrow.”

  I have no idea if that’s a lie. I just know that right now I’m not ready to get rid of it.

  Matty’s eyes show a measure of concern that I’ll need to address. I force my fingers to loosen around the polyester and toss it over the back of the sofa.

  Apparently I’m not ready to eliminate Ellie from my life even though it’s easy for her to erase me from hers. What I can do is go about repairing my relationship with my team—starting with Matty.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday’s game. My head wasn’t all there for the first couple quarters and that’s not right.”

  Matty gives me a half smile and small shake of his head. “Masters, you played like a demon and I’ll always be proud that you were my teammate.” He slaps me on the back. “I’m making pancakes downstairs with the rest of the team. Let’s go down before it’s all gone.”

  I make my way down to the first floor where most of the defensive starters have gathered around Hammer’s table eating breakfast. I stop near the foot of the table where an empty place waits for me.

  “You okay, man?” Hammer asks.

  “Other than the fact that I feel like shit for letting you guys down on the field yesterday, I’m okay.” The look of relief that passes across each and every one of their faces tells me I’m doing the right thing. I wait for Matty to come tromping down the stairs. He joins us at the table.