Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2)(62)

The whole room is staring back at me. Fuck me. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Can’t this team just carry on like it did last year? What difference did it make who was sticking his hands under Fozzy’s ass? It is the damned defense that carries this f*cking team. I take a deep breath before I spew all my shit out onto the weight room floor. Voicing these sentiments might win me favor with the defense, but the stuff I told Foz was true. We rise and fall as one.

“I’m standing for the team,” I tell Foz. I tell them all. “The Warriors stand together. They fight together. Or we lose…together. It’s not about one player. It’s about all of us.”

“Then you don’t stand for Ace. Well, f*ck you then.” Foz spits at my shoes.

Hammer has had enough. He lunges for Foz. I can’t get up from the bench fast enough to stop the clash. Foz swings at Hammer. Hammer goes low and knocks him backward. Darryl throws himself into the mix and soon, it’s defense against offense. There’s pushing and shoving and fists are flying.

Bishop runs from across the room and launches himself, Iron Man-style, onto Fozzy’s back. Fozzy starts swinging the smaller man around like a cape. Visions of weight benches and racks tipping over causing serious injury flash before my eyes like some kind of nightmare on Elm Street, gym version.

I wade in and start throwing guys to the side.

I finally make some headway through the mass of bodies when someone’s fist glances off my chin, and I have to take an extra moment to prevent myself from introducing my fist into someone else’s face. In the space of that moment, it all goes to hell again until Coach walks in.

He blows the whistle long and hard, and like the trained animals we are, we snap to attention.

“What in tarnation is going on in here?”

I heave Roberson off my chest and stagger to my feet.

No one answers the coach. He eyes Ace, whose hair is mussed but other than that looks like he wasn’t touched. I don’t know whether to be impressed that the O-line did its job protecting him even in the weight room or pissed off that his pretty-boy face doesn’t have a scratch on it.

“Anderson, care to tell me why in the blue hell half your line is on the floor looking like they’re about to host a goddamned Greek orgy?”

Ace folds his arms across his chest.

Coach turns to me. “How about you, Iverson? Got anything to say for yourself?”

Nothing you’d like to hear. I swipe a hand across my mouth. It comes away bloody.

He spits on the floor in disgust. “You two are clowns.” He swings around and eyes every player in the room. “Maybe I should replace the whole lot of you. None of you have guaranteed scholarships. You boys better whip yourself into shape real quick or you’ll be paying for the rest of your college career instead of enjoying the free ride that Western so kindly provides.”

What bullshit. Western gets millions of dollars from us. Our bowl games fund academic scholarships and music shit and art shit that is totally unrelated to football. And Coach? He wouldn’t enjoy his three million a year if it weren’t for us and our backbreaking efforts. My throat aches from swallowing all those thoughts down.

Still no one stands up to him because he’s Coach.

“Ace, you’re the hotshot quarterback. Rein in your boys. And Iverson.” He turns back to me.

“Yeah?” I know whatever he’s going to say I’m not going to like.

“You got a lot to prove this year, and so far you look like your pants are around your ankles. Maybe the defense was good because Knox Masters was the leader in the locker room. I guess we’ll see this year, won’t we?”

I haven’t been embarrassed in a long time. Not like this. Now my cheeks burn with the way he’s dressed me down, implying I was only good because of Masters. What about my average of thirteen tackles per year? Or the sixteen in the championship game along with the sack at the end? Those count for shit, huh?

I’m going to need to see a dentist from all the grinding of my teeth that I’m doing right now.

Coach isn’t even done. “It’s f*cking embarrassing to walk in on this shit. What if I had a recruit with me? You two start working together or you’ll both be holding clipboards come this fall. And that goes for the rest of you yahoos. Get lifting. This isn’t some retreat, motherf*ckers. This is the home of the goddamned Western State Warriors. You start acting like the repeat champions or get the f*ck out.”

He storms out, slamming the door behind him. The room is dead silent. I hadn’t even noticed before but someone turned the music off halfway through Coach’s rant.

It takes a moment to shove his boot out of our collective asses, but one by one we go back to our tasks. I sneak a glance at Ace who’s glowering in my direction as if I’m to blame for all this.

Hammer nudges me. “Dude, you gotta fix this. You’re the only one who can.”

And by me, he means Lucy.

Fuck me, but I think he’s right.





23





Lucy




After years of never seeing him, Matty has been everywhere. He hung out at the apartment, watching our shows without complaint. He sat in the Brew House, drinking hot cider and studying. Sometimes, his friend Hammer came with, but more often than not, Matty was alone. He said the smell of coffee was growing on him. Hammer whispered loudly that coffee wasn’t the only thing growing on Matty.