“Nah, I mean, if you got a problem, brother, then I can meet up with this chick later.” He types something into his phone and looks up at me with bleary eyes.
Damn, he’s a good friend, and frankly, I need someone to share this shit with. As soon as this recruit signs his intent papers, it’s going to be all over the news anyway. But…I’d rather talk to a sober Hammer. It’s hard to tell with him. His capacity for alcohol is kind of shocking.
“How much of your stink is from your drinking and how much is just from you rolling around on the floor of the Tau Omega house?”
He throws up his size fifteens onto the desk, and I push them off. “I had four shots.”
Four shots is sober for Hammer. I wheel away from desk and turn around. “Come here.”
He leans over, one hand braced against the desk. “Please tell me we’re watching porn.”
“With you hovering over me like a mother on her first recruiting visit? I’m not even going to watch a cooking video with you this close.”
“Mmm. You know I love me some Giada De Laurentiis. That chick is a fucking goddess.”
“Swear to God, you touch your dick right now and I’m going to punch you in the nuts.” I click through my list of previously played videos and pick the one where Mr. Texas played the worst. He only passed for 240 yards that game, and his team only won by twenty-two points. Only.
Hammer makes a grunt of annoyance when the video starts playing. “Shit, son, are you so bored during the off-season that you’ve resorted to watching highlights of North Arlington High? This is what you’re blowing me off for? Jerking off to some high school player in Texas—” He stops talking when the quarterback slides out of the defender’s grip, steps up into the pocket and releases an arrow thirty yards downfield off his back foot. “Wait, what did I just see?”
I reach back and try to massage some of the tension out of my neck. The tightness appeared midway through Coach Lowe’s lecture and hasn’t left me since. “We’re not scouts, Hammer. We play the game someone else has invented. We take the playbook, study our opponents, and then try to make them cry on Saturdays. That’s the full extent of what we’re supposed to do, right?”
“I guess?” he says cautiously. “I mean, we study film, so in a way we’re scouting the opponent.” He peers over my shoulder again to stare at the screen. The smell of souring vodka is too much, so I push away from the desk and start pacing.
Hammer begins cycling through the videos. After five minutes of total silence, he jerks to his feet. “Let’s get Darryl and Masters in here.”
“Masters isn’t on the team anymore,” I point out. Masters' early declaration for the draft makes him ineligible to play another down, so the lucky bastard doesn’t have to deal with this. Instead, he’s training like a demon so that he kills it at the combine in April.
“Yeah, but like you said, we aren’t talent scouts. Let’s get some other eyes on this.”
There’s no point in protesting because Hammer’s out the door by his last word, yelling for Masters and Darryl, our nose tackle, to come up.
Masters appears first. His new wife must be busy because usually they’re in Masters' upstairs apartment trying to break some kind of record for most sex in a twenty-four-hour period. Masters was a virgin before he and Ellie hooked up, and now he’s trying to make up for all those lost years. It’s a miracle Ellie can walk.
Masters claps his hands together. “Heard you were holed up in your bedroom for two nights running, so either your pipes are getting backed up or you have some girl stashed under the bed. And I have to tell you that the type of girl willing to live under your bed for days at a time is the type that will kill you in your sleep.”
“Is this from personal experience? If so, I want to be the first to tell you that it was nice knowing you and I hope you’re okay with me comforting Ellie after your unfortunate passing.”
Masters gives me a death glare. “I’m going to kill you right now, asshole. Right now.”
“Hold up,” Hammer says from the doorway. “No killing until after we watch these videos.”
“What’s up? We playing a game?” Darryl appears, eyes bloodshot and feet unsteady.
Yeah, it’s called Rip the heart out of your starting quarterback.
Masters points to each of us. “Seems to me if I lay waste to all of you, I can avoid watching game film and go upstairs to—”
“My wife,” we all chorus in unison.
He’s addicted to calling Ellie his wife. It’s mildly irritating, but Masters couldn’t give a fuck. He’s always marched to the beat of his own drum.
“What’re we watching?”
“This.” I start playing the videos. The guys crowd around the monitor while I watch them. Their expressions turn from slight boredom to interest to this guy is the greatest thing since Joe Montana drank his chicken noodle soup at halftime and went out and scored three touchdowns. Video after video plays, each showcasing Mr. Texas’s perfect passes, his pocket sense, his rocket arm, and his ability to elude the defense.