Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2)(93)

“How is that his problem? I mean, other than he can do a better job of projecting his ‘taken’ status.”

I shake my head. “It’s not his problem,” I admit. “It’s mine. I told him it was my problem.”

“So you didn’t break up with him because of anything he did. You broke up with him because you’re weaksauce.” Heather chops me down to my knees with a few matter-of-fact words.

But she’s not wrong. “Yes.”

She shrugs fatalistically. “So you’re weak. At least you admit it.”

It’s the ugliest description I’ve ever had applied to me, but I can’t dismiss it. It’s the truth. I didn’t believe in myself more than I didn’t believe in Matty.

“Your lack of confidence is why you can’t do a closing. You know that, right?” she prods.

“Yes, I know that.” I can’t do a closing because my throat shuts down. “It’s a version of stage fright.”

“Which you could overcome if you actually believed a little bit in yourself. Take it from me. If you don’t believe in yourself, no one will. Think I’m standing here because my dad’s a big supporter? Hell no. He wanted me to marry one of his junior partners.” My mouth drops open in shock. “Yeah, your hero, Paul Bell, is a real * misogynist. So if I did what my dad always wanted, I’d be married, with two kids, no education, wondering which strand of pearls I should choke myself with before my husband comes home smelling like his secretary. I believe I’m better than that. Better than most people, frankly.”

She reaches under the chair and pulls out my backpack. “You’d be a lot better in everything if you said, ‘Fuck what anyone else thinks of me,’ and just do whatever the hell you want.”

“I don’t operate that way.” The words sound like sanctimonious bullshit the minute they leave my mouth. “Fuck, okay.” I scrub two hands down my face, but the scorn on Heather’s expression doesn’t change. “I know I lack confidence and that’s why I don’t do closings. I stick to the stuff I am good at. That’s not being a coward.”

“So knowing you’re chickenshit is a good excuse? I’d rather suck at something and keep trying than just quit.”

I lose it. I jump to my feet and point an accusing finger at her. “I am not a quitter. I stuck with this team even after I crashed and burned. I have never quit on anyone.”

“Oh really? I bet Matty would disagree.” She throws the backpack into my chest.





34





Matty




I’m not real proud of how I handled myself with Luce, but what’s a guy supposed to do after he lays bare his heart and the girl stomps all over it with her sharp, pointy heels? She told me she didn’t want me, and I was tired of trying to convince her otherwise.

I’m not a masochist. I don’t do pain without reward—Christ, I’m starting to think like her.

In the past, whenever I’ve had stress in my life, I’ve coped with booze, weed, and chicks. During the season, it’s almost solely chicks because of the random drug testing, and because unlike Hammer and Ace, I can’t drink like a fool and still get up the next day and do fifty burpees without puking halfway through the set.

Learned that lesson freshman year.

So that’s what I do again. It seems like the perfect antidote after being told I’m not worth some neurotic girl’s time.

Hammer and I cruise the local town bars, staying away from the Gas Station, on the shaky premise that I’m tired of Western coeds. Hammer wisely says nothing as I pick out and discard woman after woman after woman.

I’ve ridden this amusement park attraction for three years and the thrill is entirely gone. It’s not just that my dick is dead in my pants but that I can’t even summon a smile for these pretty women.

“If you keep growling at these ladies, I can’t go out with you anymore,” Hammer declares. “You’re a shit wingman and your conversational skills are lacking. I’d have a better time with a potato.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter and throw back another shot.

Hammer eyes me with caution. “You may want to slow down there, brother. That’s the fourth shot you’ve had in less than two minutes.”

I roll the empty shot glass in my hand, wondering how my perfect life went to shit in under two months. “Worried I’m going to ralph all over your new shoes? Promise I’ll save it for the entire O-line tomorrow.”

“No, I’m worried for your liver. You’ve drank enough this past week to move past pickled and into mummification.” He gestures for the bartender, who hops right to. He’s a fan. So many fans in here. The one person I want to be a fan? Isn’t, of course. Because that’s how life apparently works for me now.

The team that I love is in shambles. We can’t work out at the same time now because half of us hates the other half.

The girl I thought I loved threw my declaration—something I’ve never said to any female other than my mom before—back in my face.

My streak of Academic All-American semesters might be in jeopardy because I can’t concentrate for shit. And because I’m too hungover to haul myself to class. In January, the profs were lenient. We had just won the National title. In March? Apparently they care if you show up thirty minutes late to a fifty-minute lecture.