Blitzed(11)

It's the end of practice now, and Coach is pissed. My piss-poor play has led to even more issues, and he finally blows his whistle in the three long blasts that signify the end of practice at only five thirty, a good forty-five minutes before he normally calls practice early in the season. "I'm done. Maybe tomorrow we can get some work done, when you sorry sacks of shit figure out if you want to play or not."

Coach storms off, leaving all of us shocked, when some jokester speaks up. "Hey, you can get reprimanded for talking to us like that!"

Coach turns back, and I take a deep breath. Now I've got more issues on my plate, as now I need to ride herd on a smart mouth as well as get my own head right. I expect Coach to go on an epic rant, but he just shakes his head.

He walks off, his shoulders slumping, and Cory yanks his helmet off, looking around. "The f*ck is his problem? Just because Golden Boy here didn't perform, he gets pissy. He usually kisses his ass over everything."

"We all did terrible,” I say, taking off my helmet. I stand up and raise my voice. "Foxes! To me!"

As team captain, it’s my privilege to do this, and I gather the team. I want to go off on the rant that Coach should have. I want to blame them, but it doesn't come out of my mouth. Instead, Coach's lessons flash through my mind, and I decide to do something else. Time to own it.

"I f*cked up today," I start, looking around at my teammates and friends. "But dammit, that doesn't mean the rest of you get to f*ck off too! You know, I hear your complaining, and for three years I've heard it. I put up with it, and yeah, I'm a glory-hounding *, or as Cory here just said, Golden Boy. But you and I all know that we need eleven out there to play the game. What happens if I snap my leg in the first quarter Friday, and Roberts ends up having to lead the team this season? What, you're all going to roll over and let everyone ass f*ck you?"

"You should know about ass f*cking," someone gripes, and I understand why Coach just walked off. I sigh and run my hand through my hair. My anger evaporates, and instead, I feel something else.

"Guys, like I said, I'm sorry. I . . . I f*cked up today. Listen, let's just go in, get changed, and tomorrow . . . we do it right. Me included, okay?"

I’m surprised by the reaction of my teammates. I expected bitching and grumbling. Instead, Russ comes over and slaps me on the shoulder pads. "You're right. All right, let's get changed. Tomorrow though, scout team . . . I’m coming for your heads. You boys had better be ready."

A grumbling cheer greets Russ's words, and he and I watch as the rest of the Foxes go into the locker room. Russ turns to me and looks me in the eyes. "She ain't worth it, Holmes. Epic tits and ass or not, she ain't worth you f*cking up out here. You got your date tonight, right?"

"Yeah," I say, realizing Russ had been reading my mind all practice. "Seven thirty."

"Get your rocks off, and get her out of your head—I'll see you tomorrow." Russ turns and jogs inside, and I walk in, following him. Maybe that’s all I need, to get my rocks off. Maybe.



I walk into the house and shut the door. I'm early still, but all I plan on doing is taking a shower and leaving. The less I'm inside before my date, the better. If I'd had my damn head together, I could’ve taken care of everything this morning and gone straight from the locker room to pick up Whitney, but of course, I was halfway to school before I realized I didn't have any money on me. I'm good at cheap dates, but free firsties is pushing it, even for me.

"Where you been, boy?" a slurred voice calls from the living room, and I roll my eyes. A little f*cking early, isn't it?

"Coming home from practice. Where does it look like I've been?"

I go into the living room and see my father already half wasted on the couch, Fox News on the TV and Bill O'Reilly ranting about something with the sound off. Dad loves his Fox News. "Don't get smart with me, boy, or else I'm going to come off this couch and teach you some f*cking manners."

Dad belches, and I wave my hand in front of my face as the grain alcohol smell fills the room like a toxic cloud. "Jesus Christ, it's only six in the evening and you're already drinking hard. What is it this time, the Seagram's or the Popov?"

"You little bastard, it's my house and I can do whatever the f*ck I want!" Dad yells at me. "I pay the bills. I take care of you! You're nothing, Mr. Big Shot High School boy! Your mother left because of you!"

It's a longstanding line he uses, and even though it's about as correct as wearing your underpants on your head, it still stings. I hit back with what I know hurts most, the truth. "Mom left because you were a raggedy piece of shit that wouldn't stop drinking and beating her, you alcoholic *! You don't even have a job, just your welfare and unemployment in between those jobs you keep getting fired from! By the way, Dad, you’d better clean up enough to go down to Day Labor, because we're coming up on the end of your unemployment again, and my pay won't cover the rent this month."

He surges from the seat but drops back before he can get all the way up. He waves at me, disgusted. "You know what, you ungrateful shit? Get the f*ck out of my house. Go, get out!"

I turn to leave the living room and toss words back over my shoulder. "I'll be glad to. After I take a shower."