He heaves a sigh. “I guess I deserve that.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on? First, you’re a total ass on Tuesday. If you didn’t want me to stay at your place, you should have told me.” I count off his sins on each finger. “Second, you send me lame ‘what’s up’ texts when you know you should be apologizing. If you don’t start talking, I’m calling your mom.”
“You got any more soup?” he asks, ignoring my question.
“Third, you’re ignoring me even though you’re about to eat my food, which is so rude there’s probably a picture of you next to the word in the dictionary right this minute.”
He waves his hands in surrender. “Yes. Fine, I’ll answer whatever you want, just…I need some food.”
The microwave beeps, and I carry the soup over to him. “Start talking.”
He stirs the beef stew around a few times, as if he can find the answer to his problem when the potatoes and carrots are positioned exactly right.
“Is it that your coach wants to replace you with a new player?”
His head jerks up. “Christ, is it already out?”
My heart squeezes at the pain in his voice “No. No, it isn’t. I guessed based on what you said the other night.” He gulps, and the look on his face reminds me of the time he showed up on my doorstep when we were ten to tell me his daddy was moving out. I say as gently as possible, “Eat your soup, Ace.”
I turn and busy myself with the routine of lunch. All the noises of meal prep—opening the can of soup, dumping it into the bowl, opening the microwave—sound overloud when there’s complete silence behind me.
When Ace does speak, his voice is tight and hard. “The Warriors are signing a five-star recruit, ranked number three in the country. He’s a quarterback.”
“So?” I carry my heated soup over to the table. “You won the National Championship. He can start after you graduate.”
“Coach says that I can either move to safety or play backup.” His mouth twists into a bitter line. He shuts his eyes, likely wanting this to be a bad dream he wakes from.
I reach over and squeeze his hand. “What do you want to do?”
His eyelids flip open. “I’m the quarterback. I want to stay the quarterback.”
“But if you don’t move, then you’ll be benched, is that right?”
He releases a harsh laugh. “You know what’s so ironic? In football, the bench is for starters. You have to earn that place on the bench. No backup, no clipboard Jesus, dares to sit there. Don’t know why they call it benched in football.”
I let him vent. If he’s come here for advice, I don’t know what to tell him, what to say. The only thing I can offer is a sympathetic ear. “What’s the rest of your team say?”
“Like Iverson?” he asks snidely.
I carefully set my spoon by my bowl and remind myself that Ace is like a wolf with his foot in a trap—hurt and angry. “Like Iverson. Like Jack. Like Ahmed. Like all of them, Ace. You’re a team. It’s not golf. You can’t go off on your own, score a bunch of points, and then be hailed as a winner. You have to play with twenty-one other people in order to prevail.”
“Whose side are you on?” His hands fist on the table. He’s not hearing anything I’m saying.
“Yours, of course.”
“Really?” He stares at me as if he somehow can divine all the dirty thoughts I have about Matty in my head. He leans forward, and there’s a look, an expression, that I don’t like.
“Ace—” I say warningly.
He ignores me. The angry part of the wounded animal is taking over. “I’m sure that you think you’re qualified to give me advice about sacrifice and the greater good because you’re too piss-ass scared to step outside your careful little box you’ve constructed for yourself, but I want something bigger for myself.”
I strive for calm. Ace is lashing out, saying something he’ll regret and apologize for tomorrow. This is nothing.
“I know you’re hurting, JR, but—”
“Fuck.” He rises from the table so fast the chair tips over and soup splashes over the rims of the bowls. “I don’t know why I came here. You don’t understand. You’ll never understand.”
He slams the door so hard my jacket falls off the hook.
Sutton pokes her head out as soon as the apartment door slams shut.
“What was that all about?”
“Ace is having a difficult time,” I hedge. At the sink, I grab a sponge and start mopping up the mess. “He and the coach are having a disagreement.”
“Didn’t Ace just win them a championship?” Sutton pitches in without asking. I throw her a grateful look as she holds up the bowls so I can clean underneath them.
“That’s what I said, but I guess the coach is thinking about a new direction. Already. And Ace isn’t taking it well.”
“I bet he’s mad about the Matty Iverson thing, too.”
“I didn’t even get into that,” I admit. “Ace was too angry, and he stomped out of here before I could even bring it up.”