Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2)(46)

“Seriously, man. Sleeping with her? That’s low, buddy.” Hammer follows me into the kitchen.

“I’m not. Or I did sleep with her, but that’s all we did. Sleep.” The refrigerator is alarmingly empty. During the season, we almost always grab food at the athletic center. Dinners are on campus. But we’re in that weird period of no practice and no games. There’s only the morning weight training that we’re unofficially required to attend daily, and so we’re eating more at home. So much so that we only have a half gallon of orange juice, a case of beer, and what looks like a brick of moldy cheese. Hammer must have used the last of our food to make breakfast.

“Brother, you can tell me. I’ll only judge you for today.”

“I’m not lying to you. Shit, I can’t believe I’m trying to convince you I didn’t sleep with a chick.” I throw up my hands. “Why don’t we have any food?”

“Because going to the grocery store is more painful than an enema?” Hammer suggests. “Look, I believe you. But how’d that happen? She just trip and fall into your bed? She pass out on the way to class and you carried her home?”

“How about her apartment was being fumigated, she was supposed to crash in Ace’s room, he brought home a jersey chaser, and she was stuck sleeping on a couch in their living room?”

Hammer’s mouth drops open. “You’re f*cking me.”

“Nope.”

“Duuuude.”

“I know.” I head for my room and start dressing. We need food and probably some basic supplies. I check the toothpaste in my bathroom. Yup. Almost gone.

“What is wrong with that guy?” Hammer asks. He has three sisters and ever since his away-game hijinks with his ex, he’s turned over a new leaf. He’s been pushing his sisters at his teammates because he loves us and knows—despite our occasional propensity to be dogs—that we’re decent human beings and would make good partners…eventually. Actually, if there’s a guy who should be giving advice in a women’s magazine, it probably is Hammer. He claims he’s a reformed man.

“This stuff is f*cking with Ace’s head.”

“I don’t know, man. You don’t treat a friend like that,” Hammer says dubiously.

“Don’t make me defend him anymore. He told me yesterday he’s not moving.”

“The D guys are already watching the boy on YouTube. The backfield was talking about him over at Bish’s place and they were more excited than they would be if a whole busload of prostitutes were dumped off.”

Bishop Green is charge of the backfield—the captain over the safeties, corners, and defensive backs.

“Terrific,” I say in a tone that conveys it’s anything but terrific. After shoving my feet into some boots, I grab my keys. “Come on. We need some food. Once we have something to eat, we’ll be able to think more clearly.”

I think of Luce and her diabetes. I wonder which kind she has. No wonder she made sugar-free cookies. She probably has to watch every bite that enters her mouth. What a drag. “And I need to call my mom.”

“What for? You sick?”

“No. I’ve got a med question for her.” I motion for him to go get socks and shoes on. “I’ll meet you downstairs in ten.”

Hammer gives me a suspicious look but leaves without argument.

Mom answers on the second ring.

“Hello, Matthew,” she says in her brisk manner. A stranger might assume she’s cold. They’d be wrong. Although she’s a pediatrician with a busy practice, she’s always made time for me and has come to a surprising number of games. “What can I do for you?”

“What kind of food can I buy for a diabetic?”

“Vegetables,” she answers immediately. “Stay away from corn. There’s a high sugar content in that. Essentially green things. Fruit is okay but not great because, again, sugar. Apples are good because they are high in fiber. Fish is low in saturated fats. Speaking of fats, fatty foods aren’t necessarily bad. You should take her out for sushi,” Mom suggests. “This is about a girl, correct?”

It is, although why I’m considering Lucy’s dietary needs in my grocery planning, I’m not sure. Or, at least, it’s not something I’m ready to examine very closely. The kiss the other night rocked my world in an unexpected way. “A friend of mine has it. I just want to be careful.”

“I can send you a list. You could buy her some sugar-free items as a treat. Only in moderation, of course.” I roll my eyes, which, if I did that in person, would earn me a slap on the ear. “Sugar alcohols like sorbitol are fine. Does she have type 1 or type 2?”

“I have no idea.” Just like I have no idea what sorbitol is. “Is that important?”

“Not for you, dear. I have to go now.”

I caught her in between patients, I realize. “Okay, thanks.”

“Love you, dear.”

She hangs up before I can respond in kind.

Hammer’s at the front door, punching something into his phone. He slips the device into his pocket when he sees me. Guilt is all over his face. “Who’re you texting?”

“No one,” he says innocently. At my steady glare, he caves. “Okay, Bish. It was Bish, all right? He had a good idea.”