Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2)(6)
“If that’s what the team wants from me, that’s what I want to give the team.”
Coach Lowe gives no indication my lack of enthusiasm bothers him. “With Masters gone, someone needs to keep the defense in check. I don’t want to see more of this.” He gestures toward the pictures I have awkwardly collected in my lap.
“Not a problem.”
“If it does become a problem…” His threat hangs unspoken in the air. I didn’t even sniff the field my first year behind a first team All-American linebacker who was drafted in the third round by the Niners. He’s not in the league anymore, but when I walked onto campus, he was one of the big men and I was his understudy.
Since my sophomore year, I’ve held that inside linebacker position against all challengers and I’m not giving it up now no matter how many blue chip recruits and backups are chomping at the bit to take my place.
“It won’t.”
“Good.” He leans back into his chair and swivels so he’s looking out the window onto the practice field. “I think you would be a good captain, Matthew. Your teammates like you and more importantly they listen to you.” The dry note in his voice says that right now they’re listening to all the wrong things. “But taking your direction in this”—he brushes a palm across the clippings—“is an easy path. You need to prove to me you can lead them in something else.”
“Absolutely.” I straighten in my chair. I’ve always gotten good grades, and I have no problem cutting down on the booze and chicks. The guys on the defense don’t mind having someone else in charge. Between Hammer and me, we’ll have it covered. “What do you need?”
“No more pictures with girls. No more excessive partying.” He ticks a finger with each order. “And convince Anderson that he’d be better off at safety.”
I nod. No chicks. No booze. Get Ace—
“What?” My screech is high enough to be mistaken for a teenage girl, and I think my hearing short-circuited. JR “Ace” Anderson is our quarterback. The one we won the National Championship with. Coach knows all of this, so I must have misheard him. The only thing I can think of to say is, “I’m on defense.”
Coach Lowe doesn’t even spare me a glance. “I’ve got a commitment from Remington Barr out of Texas. He’ll come if he can start. That kid won four straight Texas State High School Championships. I want him. He’s going to be the key to my future here. Ace is athletic, but we both know he’s not good enough to play at the next level. So you convince Ace to move to safety and the C is yours.” He shoves a patch toward me.
The circular patch in gold and blue, with a big old “C” in the middle, is sewn onto a captain’s jersey. It’s an honor to wear the patch, but in order to own this letter I’ve got to tell my quarterback, the one who just helped us win us a national title, that his time at the vaunted QB position is over?
I swallow hard. Not only do I play on the opposite side of the ball as Ace, but my time spent with him generally consists of running by him during practice since he’s considered off-limits even when we’re wearing pads. We aren’t best buds even though we do play on the same team.
“I...I’m on defense.” I sound like a broken record. “I mean that I don’t have any classes with Ace. We don’t hang out. I’ve never had a meaningful conversation with the guy beyond encouraging him to play well. I think my influence over Ace is about the same as I’d have over a herd of cats.”
There. That sounds reasoned and sane unlike Coach’s bizarre request.
“I haven’t asked you to ride herd over cats. Besides, you don’t have to convince Ace directly. You’re free to talk to the rest of the team. If he doesn’t have the support of the team, he’ll move on his own.”
Is there any way to tell your coach that he sounds like he’s taken one too many drags off the pipe? That he’s talking out his ass? Because this shit seems off to me. Shouldn’t he be talking to Ace and addressing the team? Why me? I try another tack. “I have no problem playing monk for the rest of my tenure here—”
“Son?” Coach Lowe interrupts, tone mild as if he hasn’t just released napalm in his office.
“Yeah, Coach?”
“You’re dismissed.”
Okay then. I heave myself out of the chair and walk toward the door. Maybe if I turn around and come back in, the conversation will be completely different.
“Mr. Iverson,” he calls. I turn back just in time to see the patch sailing across the room. I catch it reflexively. “You forgot something.”
3
Lucy
When I get home, I find my two roommates installed in front of the television eating ice cream and watching Say Yes to the Dress. While none of us is even dating, we seem curiously addicted to the show. I think it’s because we have shitty relationships with our moms and this show is all about the momma and daughter drama.
“Tell me there’s a half gallon left of that.” I don’t wait for an answer but throw my backpack on the chair and start rummaging in the freezer. If there was ever a night for real cream, sugar, butter and eggs, tonight was it. I need some relief after talking with Matt Iverson. His number has implanted itself in my head followed by the words call me.