Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2)(18)

I reach back and try to massage some of the tension out of my neck. The tightness appeared midway through Coach Lowe’s lecture and hasn’t left me since. “We’re not scouts, Hammer. We play the game someone else has invented. We take the playbook, study our opponents, and then try to make them cry on Saturdays. That’s the full extent of what we’re supposed to do, right?”

“I guess?” he says cautiously. “I mean, we study film, so in a way we’re scouting the opponent.” He peers over my shoulder again to stare at the screen. The smell of souring vodka is too much, so I push away from the desk and start pacing.

Hammer begins cycling through the videos. After five minutes of total silence, he jerks to his feet. “Let’s get Darryl and Masters in here.”

“Masters isn’t on the team anymore,” I point out. Masters' early declaration for the draft makes him ineligible to play another down, so the lucky bastard doesn’t have to deal with this. Instead, he’s training like a demon so that he kills it at the combine in April.

“Yeah, but like you said, we aren’t talent scouts. Let’s get some other eyes on this.”

There’s no point in protesting because Hammer’s out the door by his last word, yelling for Masters and Darryl, our nose tackle, to come up.

Masters appears first. His new wife must be busy because usually they’re in Masters' upstairs apartment trying to break some kind of record for most sex in a twenty-four-hour period. Masters was a virgin before he and Ellie hooked up, and now he’s trying to make up for all those lost years. It’s a miracle Ellie can walk.

Masters claps his hands together. “Heard you were holed up in your bedroom for two nights running, so either your pipes are getting backed up or you have some girl stashed under the bed. And I have to tell you that the type of girl willing to live under your bed for days at a time is the type that will kill you in your sleep.”

“Is this from personal experience? If so, I want to be the first to tell you that it was nice knowing you and I hope you’re okay with me comforting Ellie after your unfortunate passing.”

Masters gives me a death glare. “I’m going to kill you right now, *. Right now.”

“Hold up,” Hammer says from the doorway. “No killing until after we watch these videos.”

“What’s up? We playing a game?” Darryl appears, eyes bloodshot and feet unsteady.

Yeah, it’s called Rip the heart out of your starting quarterback.

Masters points to each of us. “Seems to me if I lay waste to all of you, I can avoid watching game film and go upstairs to—”

“My wife,” we all chorus in unison.

He’s addicted to calling Ellie his wife. It’s mildly irritating, but Masters couldn’t give a f*ck. He’s always marched to the beat of his own drum.

“What’re we watching?”

“This.” I start playing the videos. The guys crowd around the monitor while I watch them. Their expressions turn from slight boredom to interest to this guy is the greatest thing since Joe Montana drank his chicken noodle soup at halftime and went out and scored three touchdowns. Video after video plays, each showcasing Mr. Texas’s perfect passes, his pocket sense, his rocket arm, and his ability to elude the defense.

“Was that an eighty-yard pass?” Hammer asks.

“Did he just get by five tacklers?” Masters wonders. “I know this is high school ball, but that Houdini act of his is ridiculous.”

“That run got me hard,” Darryl groans.

“Me too,” Hammer agrees.

“Dick’s in hand,” Masters confirms.

Finally, Hammer pushes away. “Someone shut that porn off. I can only get so erect.”

He collapses on the bed and looks at the ceiling. Darryl looks confused, but Masters catches on right away.

“Is Coach recruiting this kid?” He jerks a thumb at the computer screen.

“Has recruited. Has a commitment. Wants me to smooth his path.”

“What about Ace?” asks Darryl. He’s not the brightest crayon in the box, but he is one of the best run busters in the country.

Masters strokes his chin. “Recruit has a better arm than Ace. Makes decent decisions on the field. Ace’s primary skill is not making mistakes, keeping a cool head, and seeing the short option down the field.”

Last year, the few explosive, big-time passes came courtesy of our running back, Ahmed Strong, who averaged eleven yards after the catch—meaning he caught short passes and muscled his way down the field for a ton of extra yards.

“We wouldn’t have won the National title without Ace.” I feel the need to defend him. He is our quarterback, after all. “He’s smart and had only a few fumbles and a handful of interceptions.”

“But the strength of the Warrior team is in this room,” Masters points out. “And you lost two starting offensive linemen who are being replaced by sophomores and juniors.”

We all fall silent. Last year’s team had seven first team All-Americans, six of whom were on the defense. Ahmed was the only decorated offensive player. The new offensive line might be even worse than it was this year.

But we won last year because our defense didn’t allow people to score. We were big and mean and tough up front, so Ace didn’t need to be a superstar. We needed him to hold on to the ball, not turn it over too often, and make a few first downs. He did all that.