Jockblocked (Gridiron Book 2) Read online

  “Fozzy, we’re one team. We’re not offense or defense. We’re one team, and we win and lose based on the team effort.” I reach for patience, wondering how in the hell we’ve come to this point. Not once during last year, even during games the offense managed only a couple scores, did our D grumble about the offense. We all worked hard and that’s what mattered. What happened to measuring that? I wave toward Jack. “Hell, Jack’s almost part of the defense what with his sister and Masters getting married. One team, Foz.” I stand up and punch him in the shoulder. Not as hard as I want, but hard enough for him to know I didn’t appreciate my surprise bath. “Save the water for your gut next time.”

  “If we’re really one team, why aren’t you standing up for our boy Ace?” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. Ace is now leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring back at me.

  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 fucking 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, fuck 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 fucking 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, motherfuckers. This is the home of the goddamned Western State Warriors. You start acting like the repeat champions or get the fuck 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.

  I presume he meant me and not some terrible fungal infection.

  Matty often waited until I was done with my shift and left at the same time. He held the door for me and asked how my day was, whether I’ve eaten, and how I was feeling.

  I mumbled some kind of response under my breath, but hurried away like the coward I professed I wasn’t. But I’m afraid to talk to him, afraid that if I look into his blue eyes, I’ll lose all my self-control. Because every time I close my eyes, I see him.

  Every night I feel him moving inside of me, over me, under me. The imprint of his hands on my skin, his mouth against my lips, haunts me. One night? I don’t know how any woman can be okay with having a single night with Matthew Iverson.

  For the last three days, I’ve brooded. But I’m done with that. I’m going to jump off the cliff and hope he catches me because he’s in my blood now. It may be foolish and reckless, but I know exactly what kind of reward is at the bottom of the canyon.

  “Lucinda!”

  My head snaps up to see the faces of half my mock trial team frowning at me. It takes me a moment to collect myself because I’ve spent the last ten minutes staring out the window daydreaming about Matty.

  “I didn’t catch that.” I pretend like I was paying attention the whole time.

  “I’d like to reserve any remaining time for rebuttal. Is that right?” Heather asks.

  “Yeah, that’s the right language.

  Randall, acting as judge again, nods his head regally. Heather turns to the chairs we’ve set up as our mock jury. Tonight our practice group consists of just Heather, Randall, and me—we’re practicing cross-examinations and arguments. Randall already gave a really amazing opening statement, but Heather’s been struggling.

  This is the third time she’s run thr
ough it and each successive attempt is more boring and more pedantic than the last. When she’s done after only using five minutes of her allotted eight, Randall’s head is lying on the desk and he’s mock snoring. No wonder I drifted off. I shift anxiously in my chair. I can’t wait to get out of here to tell Matt that I’m ready. Hopefully, the offer is still open.

  “What’s wrong now?” Heather exclaims. “You told me the closing has to include me listing off all the evidence.”

  “We don’t have time for you to list all the evidence, just the important points. But more importantly, this is argument,” I stress, trying to hurry Heather along. “You need to be convincing and persuasive.”

  “Why don’t you do you do it if it’s so easy!” Heather stomps past the counsel table and throws herself into a desk chair.

  “Heather, come back. I’m sorry if I was too critical.” How about you grow a thicker skin? I want to say, but I bite my tongue. She appears on the verge of tears, and the last thing I want to do is destroy her confidence.

  “Why don’t you show her?” Randall suggests. “Just do a quick closing.”

  “I don’t do closings,” I remind him.

  “But you’re okay with criticizing the hell out of mine,” Heather shouts.

  I shut my eyes and count to ten so I don’t leap out of my chair and throttle her. I can do a closing if that’s what she needs. I do them in my sleep. I just can’t do them in a competition.

  “Come on,” Randall cajoles.

  “Fine.” I stand up and take Heather’s abandoned spot in front of the chairs. If I do this, we can all leave.

  “May it please the Court.” I gesture toward Randall. “Opposing counsel.” I pretend Heather is the attorney for the other side, which is easy because I feel we’re oceans apart on the concept of an effective closing. “Members of the jury.” I face the chairs. “We have asked you to sacrifice a day out of your life, and your sacrifice does not go unappreciated. One of the greatest strengths of our legal system is that we are allowed to bring our disputes before a jury of our peers. No matter how thin our wallets are, no matter our position in society, under the eyes of Lady Justice, we are all the same. We thank you for what you have done today and what you will do on behalf of our client, Emily Hartog.”

  “Do I really have to go through all of that?” Heather interrupts. “Because I could thank everyone in one sentence. Yo, peeps, thanks for your attention. Here’s why you should find in our favor.”

  I grit my teeth. “No, Heather. You do not have to go through all of that. Do it your own way. Make it your own, but sell the jury on the fact that you are truly grateful for their presence here. We don’t want them pissed off.”

  “Fine.” She imperiously waves her wand. “Go ahead.”

  Randall bangs his pencil against the desk. “Proceed, counsel.”

  “Thanks.” I scowl at both of them. I take a deep breath, gather my thoughts and pick up where I left off. “In the Old Testament, the Jewish people were required to sacrifice a lamb for their sins on a yearly basis. But the lamb that was chosen was special. It had to be a lamb with the nicest wool, the best-looking hooves, the clearest eyes, and the strongest gait. It was, after all, a stand-in for the Lord and therefore must be as perfect as a human-raised lamb could be.”

  Randall and Heather are watching my every move now, hanging on every word. I hide a smile of confidence. This story gets people every time.

  “The leaders were charged with picking out the lamb, and once chosen, the tribe would cast their sins upon the back of that lamb, that perfect creature. They would confess their cheating, their envy, their blasphemies, and then the leaders would drive that blameless lamb out into the wilderness. It is from that practice we derive the word ‘scapegoat.’”

  Heather sucks in a breath, and I give her a nod of acknowledgment. This is how you do it. A movement in the back of the room catches my attention. My eyes widen at the sight of Matty. With a tip of his head, he silently asks if it’s okay that he’s here. Is it? I ask myself. Why not? It’s not like he’s judging me.

  I turn back to the fake jury, but my attention is still on the back of the room. I can feel his eyes on me as I spread my hands and once again argue for my client. “Ms. Hartog is the scapegoat for IMC. They designed, produced, and assembled a faulty ice resurfacing machine. Instead of accepting responsibility for this, they want to place the blame on Ms. Hartog, citing operator failure, but the evidence clearly shows that even if Ms. Hartog operated the machine perfectly, the brakes still would have malfunctioned, she still would have been injured, and we would still be here today asking for the same thing—for IMC to be brought to justice. At the beginning of the trial, my co-counsel told you we would prove these three things.” I lift the demonstrative aid identifying the elements of our charge. “And we did. Allow me to revisit a few of the highlights.”

  I tick off each element, reminding the fake jury of the key bits of testimony and documentary evidence such as the co-worker who described the previous problems with the machine, the company paperwork that revealed internal concerns about the braking mechanism. Randall starts giving me the wind-up motion. Shoot, eight minutes goes by so fast when you’re having fun.

  “Emily Hartog came to you in pieces. She broke her leg, lost her job, her house. Her car was repossessed. You can’t make her completely well again. She’ll always have that limp. But by finding in her favor, you can give her new wings. Thank you.”

  Loud, slow clapping booms from the rear of the room. I duck my head in slight embarrassment, but I am proud of what I did. It felt good too.

  I stop by my table and address Heather. “So, something like that. Start with a catchy opening, recite the elements of the law. Hit the key points of our case and close with an emotional appeal.”

  “Gotcha,” Heather replies with wide eyes.

  I busy myself with the papers on the table to hide how pleased I am that she’s finally looking at me as if I’m not the weakest link in this group, that I can actually contribute.

  “I think we’re done.” Randall’s voice is gentle, but filled with affection. He knows how much this means to me.

  Gratefully, I gather up my stuff and fly to Matty.

  “The jury finds the defendant not guilty,” he says instantly.

  I grin stupidly. “It’s not that kind of trial, but thank you.”

  He hugs me and leans down to give me a soft kiss on the lips. “How about we celebrate the verdict with some food?”

  How about we celebrate with some you? I swallow back the naughty words. Instead I say, “That sounds wonderful.”

  24

  Matty

  After watching Lucy make the closing argument, I’m convinced of two things. First, there’s no one better than her to convince Ace to move to safety. And second, why in the hell is she pawning this task off on Heather? The other guy had it right. That Heather girl’s good at curing insomnia but not much else.

  “Jesus, that was good. I think you could sell baseballs to a football equipment manager. Here, these round balls are much faster than those oblong pigskins you’re using.” I hold out my hand, pretending to present a ball.

  “Plus, no pesky deflation problems,” Luce grins.

  I snort. “Why aren’t you doing this for your team? I mean, if that was practice, just off-the-cuff argument, you must be mind-blowing in competition.”

  Her grin immediately falls off, and her shoulders hunch up. “It’s actually the reverse. I’m good in practice, good when it doesn’t matter, but during competition? When something is actually on the line? I suck hard.”

  “I can’t see it. After watching you back there”—I jerk my head behind us to the practice room—“I just can’t envision you being anything but awesome.”

  Hammer’s right. Luce is my best option.

  “Thanks, but it’s true.” She takes a deep breath. “The summer before I came to college, I prepped for weeks for the mock trial tryouts. I wanted to be a lawyer. I’d s
pent four years in high school mock trial. Had a pre-law track all set out in front of me. I killed my tryout.”

  “I’m guessing the story doesn’t end happily?” I take her hand and tuck it into my jacket pocket as we walk out of the room.

  “Not once in the fifteen-year history of mock trial club here at Western had it fielded a winning team. We’ve never made it out of Regionals, let alone to a national tournament. After my tryout, everyone was convinced that I was the closer they’d been looking for. So we were at Regionals and we were slaying it. Randall delivered an awesome opening, and I nailed their expert on cross. Caught him making up facts that weren’t in the packet. I was so excited for the closing. So excited.”

  Her eyes are gleaming in remembrance, but I know it’s not going to end well, so I brace myself. From what she’s revealed before, it’s not hard to guess what happens next.

  “When I stand up to give the closing, I can’t remember a thing. I open my mouth and nothing comes out. It’s eight minutes of total silence. Do you know what that sounds like? What it feels like? It sounds like death and feels worse.” She looks pale, as if her mind—and her confidence—are back in that mock courtroom, suffocating under the weight of silence. “Closings aren’t for me,” she says in a shaky voice.

  And neither are risks. I get it now, better than I ever did before. Being with Luce these past couple of weeks has showed me how rigidly she has to monitor herself. What she eats, what she drinks. I don’t blame her for being cautious. The one time she took a step outside her comfort zone, she was humiliated. It’s burned into her psyche.

  Success in sports is almost entirely mental. The best quarterbacks have terrible short-term memory. You have to forget your mistakes or be paralyzed by them. Luce hasn’t moved on from that. Still…it says a lot about her that she didn’t quit on the team entirely.