The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(92)
“And the dreams of horny chicks all over the sporting world are dashed,” Johnson pipes in from the other side of me.
“Guess they’ll just have to settle for you, big guy.” I give his belly a light slap and it jiggles, earning me an irate look from Johnson as he covers his gut with one hand.
“Married?” Marshall parrots from behind us. “Man, I can’t believe it. You’re the last dude I’d expect to fall for that trap, Grayson.” He shakes his big head. “Next thing you know, one of you will confess to being gay.”
I don’t even have to be looking Rolondo’s way to know he’s gone stiff. I worry for him, wondering just how much shit he’ll get if he ever comes out, and how hard it is for him to keep his life secret. But for now, I keep my eyes on Marshall. “Careful, man, your * is showing.”
“What?” Marshall whips around, craning his neck to look at his ass.
And the guys laugh.
“He was being figurative,” Diaz deadpans. “As in you’re being an *.”
Marshall scowls, his beefy face turning red. “You know what you can kiss, D?”
But Diaz just grins and continues tying up his cleats.
We finish dressing, and Coach walks in with the staff. “Take a knee, gentlemen.”
It’s time for the pre-game talk. Now, some coaches shout and yell to rev up their team. Not our coach. He’s always calm, almost meditative. He likes philosophy, visualizing a victory, thinking in terms of mental toughness. And not one of us has ever complained. Because his methods work. He speaks, and we listen to every word.
We all drop to one knee, forming a circle around him. Coach stands in the middle, his body loose and relaxed, his voice steady and low. “So, here we are. The playoffs. It’s what we’ve worked for. What we knew we could achieve.” He looks around.
“I know each and every one of you. I know your strengths. I know your weaknesses. And if those boys have done their homework, they’ll know them too. Strengths and weaknesses. Everyone’s afraid of weakness. Don’t be. Use it to your advantage. They think you’ve got an ego to exploit? Let them think it. Twitchy on the snap if taunted? Make them believe it. Turn that weakness into your strength. Confuse them. Do the unexpected.” Coach points to his temple. “This game is as much up here as it is on that field.”
We’re silent, watching as he strolls before us. “Lot of knuckleheads in this game. Guys who think they’ll play the hero and do it all alone. But on that field…” He points toward the doors. “We play as a team, and we win as a team. Teamwork. We’re the team they all want to beat. They want our blood.” His gaze wanders over us. “Because we’re the best damn team in the nation.”
“Red Dogs!” we all shout as one.
“‘Victorious warriors win first and then go to war, while defeated warriors go to war first and then seek to win.’ Sun Tzu.” Coach’s voice rises. “Men, we’ve already won. Now go out there and get the job done.”
“Yes, Coach!” It’s a roar.
Coach’s eyes flick to mine, and he gives a small nod. Every team has their traditions, little rituals that they do before games. Ours is no different. The university tradition is to get into a mass huddle and bump our helmets together before running out on the field. Here, in the locker room, we have another one for just after Coach’s speech.
It started when I was a redshirt freshman, and I’d plugged my phone into a set of speakers, making the guys listen to music before a game. We’d crushed it that day, and, being superstitious bastards, we’d decided that we had to listen to the same song before each game.
I complete the ritual now, pulling up Radioactive by Imagine Dragons and hitting play.
Some guys close their eyes, let the pulsing music roll over them. Others kind of sway, start getting worked up, their blood pumping.
“Visualize,” Coach says over the music. “See the win. It’s there. Yours. Already.”
It happens slowly, heads bobbing to the heavy beat. It draws us together, makes us form a huddle. Then we’re jumping, one mass of bodies feeling the same rhythm, same beat, same mind. We are one. When the refrain hits, a bunch of them shout it out, “Woah-oh.”
Energy flows through us, vibrating with the bass. The power of eighty guys jumping in unison shakes the floor. The music fades, and it’s just us, revving up. My heart pounds, my body pulled tight with anticipation. That tension within us reaches its peak, and as if we’d planned it we roar as one, “Go, Red Dogs!”
* * *
Ivy
“God, I’m nervous,” Anna says at my side. “And Drew isn’t even playing. I don’t know how you deal with this.”
Third quarter and the score is 35-30, and our team is the one down.
Fi shrugs. “I deal by people watching and hitting the buffet.” She nods toward the impressive buffet spread at the back of the luxury box we’re sitting in.
Anna laughs. “I used to cater that buffet spread. Well, not that one, but you know what I mean.”
I’m trying not to notice the buffet because my stomach is rolling. Is it nerves or morning sickness? I don’t know. Aside from slight fatigue and breast tenderness, I haven’t had any pregnancy symptoms. It’s early, so I’m guessing they’ll develop. My fingers are cold too, so maybe it is nerves. I take a bracing breath. “They’ll win.”