Of course I don't. It was one of the reasons I picked Western. I knew that Bainridge ran a program that produced League-level players nearly every year. He'd just had a dry spell, and there were whispers that maybe he'd lost his touch as a recruiter, that he was getting too old to keep up with the modern game. Not that I cared. I cared that Western got a minimum of nine games a year nationally televised. "You covered for the other guys."
"Of course I did. You're right. But I also demanded at least a modicum of professionalism from each of them. Which meant that I overlooked their poofty, underwater basket-weaving major schedules, the girlfriends that got stacked two and three deep at times, the parties, the drunken frat antics, all of it . . . IF they showed up and did their jobs for the team and produced on the field. Now, I will admit you've been a tougher nut to crack than most of the others. I could hold their scholarships over their heads. But I know what drives you, Duncan. I take away your ability to get fame, and you're stuck. So that's what I'm holding over you. You either get with the program, or some of the front offices in the League get anonymous but easily verified reports about your antics during the past four years."
Fucking asshole. But he has me over a rock. "What do you want?"
"I talked with Coach Taylor. He says you've been avoiding coming down for a rehab."
"Of course. That meathead can't tell me what to do." When I say meathead about Coach Dave Taylor, that is exactly what I mean too. The guy has a neck larger than his head and seems to think that the cure for everything is squats and deadlifts. If he got an AIDS diagnosis, he'd probably go do some power cleans to cure it.
Bainridge doesn't agree with my opinion. Nothing new there. "Actually, he can. In fact, he's got a PhD in kinesiology and rehabs more athletes in a year than some strength coaches and trainers rehab in a lifetime. So here's the deal. For your own damn good, I'm ordering you to go down to the weight room tomorrow as soon as your last class is finished. When is that?"
"Two," I grumble, knowing if I lied, Bainridge would just look it up anyway. He gets that information from the registrar's office every semester. "So three?"
"Two thirty," Bainridge counters. "Coach Taylor has an offseason lift with the volleyball team scheduled to start at three, and I won't let some prima donna player of mine screw with his schedule. So you get your ass down there by two thirty, and you talk with him. I don't care if he wants you to sleep in the weight room and do wind sprints before breakfast. You do them, and you do them exactly according to protocol. If he says walk, you walk. If he says run so hard you puke, you’d better bring a bucket."
"Why the fuck are you doing this?" I ask, and I know I'm pouting. Still, this sucks, and I can't do a fucking thing about it. "You just want to see how hard you can push me for a year? Getting your rocks off or something?"
"Actually, whether you believe it or not, I'm doing this because I think you actually do have the talent to be a good pro-ball player. In fact, you’re one of the most talented players I've seen on this team in the twenty years I've had at Western. But . . . you're lazy and undisciplined. You take those habits to the pros, and you're going to be broken in half. So I'm going to make you learn discipline and how to work hard and be a man instead of an overgrown boy. That it will just happen to benefit this football team is what is known as a win-win. Understand me?"
I nod, and I'm not happy, but at least it's not as bad as I thought. He has what my father calls leverage, and most people with that amount of leverage don't exactly give it up this easily. Still, I can’t be sure that this was all that Coach wants. "Okay, I'll be there. Now, is there anything else you want?"
Coach shakes his head and points at the door. "You should probably get going, Duncan. After all, you still have a doctor's appointment this afternoon to make sure you're medically cleared to start your rehab tomorrow."
I get up and resist the urge to kick the chair across the room. Instead, I grab my backpack and go to the door, pausing before I open it. "You know, Coach, I'm going to take this shit and shove it down your damn throat some day."
"Good. That means you'll be scoring touchdowns while doing it, too. Now get out."
I leave the Coach's office, and I'm determined not to act like anything is wrong as I head out. I'm Duncan Hart, and there's no way that I can be made to look like a punk ass bitch. I'm going to play it cool.
Unfortunately for me, I'm playing it so cool—especially when I see a couple of girl's volleyball players heading down the hall toward the gym they use for practice, with their tight, thick volleyball asses snug inside those ridiculously hot short shorts they wear—that I'm not really looking where I'm going.
"Hey, Linda," I say to the one I know. "Whatcha doing tonight?"
"Don't even try it, Touchdown," Linda replies with a little mix of hatred thrown in. Okay, so I'd slept with her twin sister. That didn't mean I had to be hated, did it? Besides, I noticed Linda checking me out even afterward, especially when I was wearing my football pants, which are nearly as tight as her shorts. She wants the Hart Attack. Her sister loved it, and I know they talk.