Okay, maybe there is one girl who isn’t interested, but for the most part, I’m sitting on top of the mountain of life. Other people are struggling. Other people are sighing their asses off in the coffee place. Me? Anything I want is mine for the asking. I could walk into any bar in the city and people would be trampling each other to buy me a drink. At the Gas Station, there are coeds who would suck me off under the table while I watch SportsCenter highlights.
Life is good. So good that I don’t even care I just got shot down. So what if some uptight girl—who’s spending a Wednesday two weeks into the semester studying so hard that it makes her head ache—turned me down for a date? Just gives me more time to enjoy my off-season, what little of it that I’m allotted. Spring ball will be here soon enough, and I’ll have to fend off hungry freshmen and sophomores who think they should be ahead of me on the depth chart.
Until then, I’m planning on coasting through classes during the day, napping long into afternoon, and enjoying late, wonderful nights.
Well, and apparently random evening summons from Coach.
On it. I type back.
* * *
“You wanted to see me, Coach?” I stick my head around the corner into Coach Lowe’s office. He is on the phone but gestures for me to enter. I suppose he’s recruiting. The official signing day starts in about four weeks.
No one likes coming into the coach’s office. Meetings on the field, inside the locker room, during film—you know what those are all about. When you’re summoned to his office, you’re literally being called on the carpet.
I step inside gingerly and make my way across the thick pile—dyed Western State Warrior blue—and over the helmeted head of our mascot woven in rich gold, black, and white, to stand by one of the heavy leather chairs situated in front of a massive dark wood desk.
“Sit down, Matthew.” He gestures to a chair in front of him. Coach Lowe doesn’t look like a football coach. He’s small, under six feet, and wiry. He never even played college ball, but it hasn’t hurt him. He’s got two national championships under his belt in less than ten years. That’s enough for the whispers of “dynasty” to start.
Coach Lowe steeples his fingers together and leans forward, his wrists resting on some cut sheets. Reading his own good press? I’d do that, too, if I were him.
I position my hands the same way and wait patiently. Mirroring is a good technique to set someone at ease per the sociology class I'm taking on human interaction this semester.
Coach Lowe examines something on his desk before turning his attention to me. “You enjoying your off-season, son?”
Not the question I was expecting.
“It’s going okay.” It’s been pretty fricking awesome, thank you.
“I’d like to win another National Championship next year. How about you?”
“Yessir. I want that, too.” My interest perks up. I’ve been wanting to discuss draft placements, combine invitations, and scouting visits, but figured that wouldn’t take place until spring ball or the summer camps. This is probably what I’ve been antsy about today, why I didn’t want to go to the Gas Station to get laid, why the rejection from Lucy at the coffee shop hung with me longer than it should have, why the sight of my friend Masters and his wife, Ellie, made me feel like I was missing out.
What I really want to hear is that the scouts are drooling over me and that Coach Lowe is telling them I need to go high in the draft.
“You still hungry to win? Because some kids win once and they take their foot off the pedal. They stop training as hard. They let the outside world become a distraction. They lose focus and then they lose games.” He glances down at the photos under his wrists.
My good mood evaporates. From what little I can see, those pictures contain nothing good. If I’m here to talk to Coach about those, I better brace myself for a tongue lashing—and not the sexy kind I got a couple of days ago from a cute red-headed Delta Gamma in the bathroom at the Gas Station.
“I want to win,” I repeat slowly. “Nothing’s going to be more important come fall than making sure the BCS trophy stays here at Western State.”
“Hhmmph,” Coach grunts.
Err. Not the answer he was looking for?
“This is my worry. Without Masters pushing you every second, is the defensive squad going to be as sharp or tough? Physically and mentally, are you going to be a National Championship team?” He reaches for the photos and tosses them toward me.
I look at the colored papers and inwardly cringe. After the championship game, it’s safe to say we went a little crazy. People treated us like gods and there was a never-ending funnel of booze that night. And the women. Holy shit. They were everywhere, and they came in pairs and more. They were all tens. Maybe elevens.