The next morning, we’re greeted with some unwelcome news. Because of our inability to get along, according to Coach Lowe, we’re shipping off for a “retreat.” We’re sent home to pack our bags, which means I can’t go over to Luce’s place like I need to. Like I want to.
I debate texting her, but that’s a low-class move and one that doesn’t have much chance of success anyway. Over the phone, via text, it’s easy for her to ignore me.
If I’m going to apologize, I need to do it in person.
Tensions in the locker room are high as we gather our shit. Players are chirping at each other and not in a fun, friendly, busting your balls way. Fozzy tells Darryl that he’s slower than molasses off the block and snidely wonders whether Carter Hunt, the incoming freshman center, is going to replace him. The two get into a shoving match right in front of Ace, who leans back and watches the interaction as if it’s a goddamned sitcom.
The team is falling apart.
Yeah, it is. And Ace isn’t going to save it. Masters isn’t here anymore. So it’s me or nobody. Hammer gives me a whatchu doing about this mess look. I make a face because once I stand up, that pretty much means I can’t pummel Ace into the small ball of dust he should be reduced to.
Responsibility kind of sucks donkey balls, which is why I probably avoided it for so long.
Shooting one last annoyed glare in Hammer’s direction—who gives me an irritating two thumbs up—I rise to my feet and stride over to where Fuzzy and Darryl have their arms interlocked like two combatants in a WWE match. We just need Bish to come flying in with a chair.
“You two think this is a dance class?” I bark out. Darryl’s head jerks around because he’s not used to this from me. Fozzy tries to take advantage of Darryl’s inattention but I’m able to shove them apart.
“I’m sick and tired of you all fighting about this. We are a goddamned team. Let’s act like it.” I turn to Ace. “Bro, I’m sorry. What’s going on with you sucks balls. But you’re wrong. I have never once said to Coach that I think you should be anything but our QB. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what I say. What I do.” I wonder how many people know I’m talking about more than football.
“Coach has moved on. We can either fight with each other or fight for each other. The first option means we lay eggs on the field. We lose and we lose and we lose. I’m not going to like that much, and I don’t think any of you will either.
“The second means putting aside our feelings about what’s going on with Ace and moving forward. We don’t have any idea what Remington Barr’s going to be like. Maybe he sucks. We all know of high school stars who wash out in college because everyone they meet on the field was a high school star. Maybe he’s awesome. I don’t know.
“For about twenty of us, next season is our last. We can look back at it as a lost season, embarrassed by how we went out, or we can look back on it with…” I search for the right word.
“Joy,” Hammer offers.
“Yeah, joy. Thanks, man.” We bump fists.
He winks and gives me a thumbs-up.
I walk over to Ace. None of these guys know how he wronged me, but there’s a strange kinship between us, created by the fact that Luce broke both our hearts.
“I forgive you, brother.” Ace’s eyes grow wide with shock as he stares at my outstretched hand. I extend it even further. “For the sake of this team, I forgive you.”
Ace’s hand rises slowly, as if he doesn’t really want to shake my hand but something deep and decent within him—whatever it was that called Luce “friend” for all those years—pulls it up, inch by motherfucking inch, until his palm is against mine. Our handshake is brief. We will never be friends, but the sad truth is that Luce was right.
No one forced all those shots down my throat. I didn’t have to get so messy drunk. I didn’t have to stand so close I could feel the line of the girl’s underwear press against my jeans-clad leg.
If I’d seen Luce kissing some guy, her eyes glassy with booze, and his arms around her body, I’d have been enraged. And maybe if I’d had the same past as hers, the same fears, I would’ve been done, too.
So I forgive Ace for burning the cord tying Luce and me together because I lit the match.
I leave Ace then and turn to Fozzy and present my hand to him. He knocks it away and lifts me in his arms.
“I love you, brother,” he shouts. My ears ring for hours. There’s a round of handshakes and bone-breaking backslaps and even a few more hugs before we get back to the basics of football—strength and conditioning.
On the ride up to the hotel in some Podunk town in Illinois, about an hour west of Chicago, Hammer peppers me with questions about Luce. He says it’s because he’s concerned. Privately, I think he’s doing research on another article.
“How’re you going to approach this? Like, are you going to say sorry first or are you going to make her say it?”
“What do you think I should do?” I parry because I have no fucking clue what to do. I’ve never been in this situation before—chasing after a girl who’s rejected me more times than she’s said yes.
“What does she want?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“Then you’re not winning her back.”