“Varsity has a halftime dance, so we’re off the hook for the first half of the game. Which means I get to watch it with all you commoners.” The team scores a touchdown and she jumps up and screams with the rest of the crowd. I clap halfheartedly, still seated.
“Can you believe they’re doing this well? Even after Brett’s already blown two plays.”
I grin at her.
“You’re just loving that, aren’t you?” Her grin rivals mine. She has a pretty smile.
I shrug. “What can I say?”
“You going to the dance tomorrow? Because, well, you know you’re probably going to be crowned homecoming king, right? I mean . . .” She doesn’t have to say it. I know she means I’ll be getting the sympathy vote.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to go.”
“Really?” I might be crazy, but I think I hear disappointment in her voice. Is she trying to ask me to go with her or something? She’s Sheila’s friend. That would be very bad. For both of us. I don’t mind pissing Sheila off, but I don’t want Cara to suffer Sheila’s wrath because of me. But then again, she has a nice rack.
“You really think I should go? You know, with everything . . . ?”
“You mean Sheila and Marcus?”
I look at her, puzzled.
Her face goes pale. She looks like she wants to vomit. “Oh, shit. You don’t know.”
“What don’t I know?” My voice is much angrier than I mean for it to be.
She looks around for someone to throw her a rope.
“Just tell me,” I say through gritted teeth. I’m unable to look up from my hands, which are once again balled into fists.
She swallows so hard I can hear it, and then takes a deep breath. “They’re going to the dance togeth—”
I get up and push past her. I mean, I don’t give a shit about Marcus and Sheila. But I. Am. Pissed. I guess it’s because Marcus treated me like nothing was up when he could have just been a man and told me.
I’m at the door to the locker room before it even registers that I’ve walked there. I’m not sure what I plan to say to Marcus. I should just leave. It’s not worth it. What do I care if he and Sheila go to homecoming together?
The crowd noise merges into the sounds of halftime as the snare drums of the drum line begin their assault. I’m about to leave, when several players round the corner. I find myself searching for Marcus. If he just sees me like this, he’ll know that I know. I’m not exactly hiding my anger.
“Dude! I can’t thank you enough for quitting the team,” Brett says when he spots me. He struts over to my side, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “Really, I can’t thank you enough. I haven’t gotten so much *—”
His blond head jerks back and to the side and my hand aches. The look on his face is of complete and utter shock. I’m not sure if there are other people in the hallway. I can only see him. And I can only think about how good that punch felt and how I need to do it again.
So I do.
This time, he sort of half blocks it, but not well enough. My fist makes contact with his face, just not as hard. His shocked expression is replaced by rage.
He throws his fist into my ribs and I thrust my elbow into his face. I feel his teeth dig into my forearm. It stings enough to make me pause, and his fist lands hard against my lip and chin. A delicious gush of blood explodes in my mouth like I’ve bitten into a copper-flavored Starburst. I spit it at him. He winces as blood spatters across his face and his dirty white jersey.
I go to hit him again, but large arms are now pulling me backward.
“What the fuck, Tyler?” Marcus yells, spinning me around.
“Fuck you, Marcus!” I shove him into the wall and head back out to the field, passing Coach, who shouts something, but I don’t hear it. The inside of my lip is bleeding pretty badly where Brett’s fist forced it into my teeth. I spit the blood onto the sidewalk.
“What the hell are you doing fighting with my players during halftime?” Coach grabs the top of my arm and twists me so I’m facing him. His face is purple and the vein in his neck looks like it might explode. He’s right in my face. “I’ve tried, Tyler. To help you, to give you your space, to get you to talk. I kept thinking you’d come to your senses and come back to us. You’ve always been stubborn. But this— You start a fight with your replacement?” He pokes his finger into my shoulder each time he emphasizes a word. “You know what? I don’t care what you’re going through. You get the hell off this field. Don’t even think of coming to another game this season, you hear me? And good luck with Stanford.”
I shove him away from me. A few of the people nearby gasp. Fuck him. Fuck them all.
? ? ?
Dr. Dave stares at me, deep in thought.
My hand is pretty bruised and I have a small gash across my arm just under my elbow where my skin met Brett’s teeth. Otherwise, my face is bruise-free. There’s not even any swelling. Is it wrong that I’m kind of disappointed about that?