"Break!"
I settle in, reading the lineup of the scout team. As I half-squat, getting ready, my mind suddenly goes into left fucking field again, and all I can see in my mind is Whitney's legs in those jeans this morning, and I'm caught off guard again as the scout team snaps the ball.
I'm a half-step slow and I know it, so I just say fuck it, running straight in to jam the line for a running play. Too late, I see that it's a pass, and in fact, I just blew my assignment, as the scout team tight end catches the little dump pass over the middle, right where I was supposed to cover if I'd stuck to the cover three I was supposed to. I should have lit that kid up like a damn firework. Instead, he catches and gets an eight-yard gain, just what I'm supposed to not let happen.
Coach Jackson blows his whistle, shooting me a dirty look. "All right, let's try again."
It's the end of practice now, and Coach is pissed. My piss-poor play has led to even more issues, and he finally blows his whistle in the three long blasts that signify the end of practice at only five thirty, a good forty-five minutes before he normally calls practice early in the season. "I'm done. Maybe tomorrow we can get some work done, when you sorry sacks of shit figure out if you want to play or not."
Coach storms off, leaving all of us shocked, when some jokester speaks up. "Hey, you can get reprimanded for talking to us like that!"
Coach turns back, and I take a deep breath. Now I've got more issues on my plate, as now I need to ride herd on a smart mouth as well as get my own head right. I expect Coach to go on an epic rant, but he just shakes his head.
He walks off, his shoulders slumping, and Cory yanks his helmet off, looking around. "The fuck is his problem? Just because Golden Boy here didn't perform, he gets pissy. He usually kisses his ass over everything."
"We all did terrible,” I say, taking off my helmet. I stand up and raise my voice. "Foxes! To me!"
As team captain, it’s my privilege to do this, and I gather the team. I want to go off on the rant that Coach should have. I want to blame them, but it doesn't come out of my mouth. Instead, Coach's lessons flash through my mind, and I decide to do something else. Time to own it.
"I fucked up today," I start, looking around at my teammates and friends. "But dammit, that doesn't mean the rest of you get to fuck off too! You know, I hear your complaining, and for three years I've heard it. I put up with it, and yeah, I'm a glory-hounding asshole, or as Cory here just said, Golden Boy. But you and I all know that we need eleven out there to play the game. What happens if I snap my leg in the first quarter Friday, and Roberts ends up having to lead the team this season? What, you're all going to roll over and let everyone ass fuck you?"
"You should know about ass fucking," someone gripes, and I understand why Coach just walked off. I sigh and run my hand through my hair. My anger evaporates, and instead, I feel something else.
"Guys, like I said, I'm sorry. I . . . I fucked up today. Listen, let's just go in, get changed, and tomorrow . . . we do it right. Me included, okay?"
I’m surprised by the reaction of my teammates. I expected bitching and grumbling. Instead, Russ comes over and slaps me on the shoulder pads. "You're right. All right, let's get changed. Tomorrow though, scout team . . . I’m coming for your heads. You boys had better be ready."
A grumbling cheer greets Russ's words, and he and I watch as the rest of the Foxes go into the locker room. Russ turns to me and looks me in the eyes. "She ain't worth it, Holmes. Epic tits and ass or not, she ain't worth you fucking up out here. You got your date tonight, right?"
"Yeah," I say, realizing Russ had been reading my mind all practice. "Seven thirty."
"Get your rocks off, and get her out of your head—I'll see you tomorrow." Russ turns and jogs inside, and I walk in, following him. Maybe that’s all I need, to get my rocks off. Maybe.
I walk into the house and shut the door. I'm early still, but all I plan on doing is taking a shower and leaving. The less I'm inside before my date, the better. If I'd had my damn head together, I could’ve taken care of everything this morning and gone straight from the locker room to pick up Whitney, but of course, I was halfway to school before I realized I didn't have any money on me. I'm good at cheap dates, but free firsties is pushing it, even for me.
"Where you been, boy?" a slurred voice calls from the living room, and I roll my eyes. A little fucking early, isn't it?
"Coming home from practice. Where does it look like I've been?"