Sacked (Gridiron #1) Page 4

  I roll my eyes. These guys haven’t spent a night without company since they stepped foot on campus.

  “Don’t forget the line of girls who want to be the one to convince Masters to give it up,” Matty chirps.

  “Yeah, man, it poisons the well. Don’t do it.” Hammer makes a gun with his fingers and points it at Jack, who appears dumbfounded by this information. Newbies. What can you do?

  Laughing, I leave to take a shower while Campbell deals with the truth laid on him by the team.

  When I get out, the reason for the new towel rule is standing in the hallway with her eyes pinned to the floor—Stella, one of the team managers, who happens to be the coach’s daughter.

  “Coach wants you and Ace in his office now.”

  “What for?” Ace comes up.

  “Don’t know.” She doesn’t look at Ace and he pretends he’s not eating her up with his eyes. The whole situation between the two is pretty damn amusing, and as long as it doesn’t fuck up the season, that’s how it will remain.

  I throw on a pair of cargo shorts and a Warriors T-shirt and shove my feet into a pair of flips. Ace leads the way into Coach’s office.

  “Shut the door and sit down,” Coach orders.

  As soon as our asses hit the hard plastic, he hands us each a sheet of paper.

  “Here’s the list of the new guys. Twenty-six of them. Andersen, you’re in charge of the offense. Masters, the defense list is yours.”

  I have ten guys on my list. These are mini leadership tests from Coach. He likes to see what we’re made of off the field. We’re set on defense, having lost only two senior starters last year.

  Ace has the bigger task. Some of his guys, like Campbell, are expected to start and make an immediate impact. However, since they haven’t played together before, things like timing and chemistry, knowing what the other player is thinking about before he opens his mouth, will take work.

  But they don’t have time. In college, we have very little room for error. One loss and we could be out of the national championship hunt before the season is even underway. Last year we lost in the first round of the playoffs because we couldn’t score. Ace needs to turn that around, like yesterday.

  “Any issues we should know about?” I ask, tucking the list away. I already know my guys. I met them at spring camp and again when they arrived for summer term in June. For the most part they were good guys—young, eager, and hiding their homesickness under a thin sheen of bravado.

  “Maurice Kim, Kaleb Shannon, and Jack Campbell all have academic issues. Make sure Campbell stays academically eligible. The other two we are redshirting, so spend less time on them. Andre Getty is already making noise about quitting. He could be a solid backup. If we can keep him, that’d be good for the team.”

  “There are sixteen players on my list and a quarter of them are already problems?” Ace frowns and shakes his list a little.

  Before Coach can tell him to nut up, I snatch a marker off the desk and rip Ace’s sheet from his hand. “I’ll take this one.”

  I draw a heavy line through Campbell’s name and toss the marker on the table. “We done here?”

  Coach nods. “Make sure they know to stay away from my daughter.”

  “Of course.” Ace grabs his list of players and shoves it into his back pocket.

  That’s when I know Ace is going to be all right during the season, because he doesn’t even flinch. If he can stay stone-faced and in control in front of Coach while secretly nailing the most off-limits girl on a campus of twenty-five thousand, then he’ll do fine as a starter.

  I don’t really care who Ace is fucking. There are only a few important things in my life right now, and they start and end with winning the national championship. Ace could fuck a goat if he was into that, so long as he took care of the ball and showed some leadership on the offense.

  “What do you think about Campbell?” Ace asks me as we walk toward the Playground, where Ace and I live with the other starters. As one of the team captains, I have a third floor apartment all to myself. Granted, the place is noisy as shit because eight other guys live in the two floors below me, but for the most part, it’s decent. When I need to get away, I put on my headphones and zone out. If I need company, I go downstairs and play a couple rounds of Madden or Call of Duty. It could be worse.

  “Good guy. Hard worker. Has good hands. His routes could be shaper. Timing isn’t great with you, but it’s early. All you got to do is score three times.” I slap Ace on the back.

  “That’s my objective? Three touchdowns?” he asks in disbelief.

  “If we can’t hold every team to a couple of touchdowns this year, we don’t deserve to be in the playoffs, let alone hoist the trophy.” Last year we got lit up by a West Coast team. They scored on us at will and it felt fucking humiliating. I can still feel the sting of that loss today. At the end of that game, I vowed we’d never be caught with our pants down like that again.

  “Noted. So what’s your interest in Campbell?”

  I shrug. “Figured you had your hands full.”

  He raises his chin slightly in disbelief, but doesn’t challenge me. We part ways at the Playground—him to his house and me to mine.

  I’m not ready to show my cards yet. The team has a general rule: no sisters because it makes for a messy locker room. Ace screwing Coach’s daughter already meant bad news. But if push comes to shove, I’d lay my claim. There are some things you are born knowing: Treat your mother with respect. Family comes first. Bringing down a quarterback is as close to a religious experience as a boy can get. When you meet the girl who’ll be sitting on the front porch holding your hand when you’re eighty, you don’t let a thing like cool dismissive looks, big brothers, or fucking rules stand in your way.

  4

  Ellie

  The Agrippa Learning Center is painted this awful yellow color. Maybe it looked bright when first applied in the prehistoric era, but right now, it’s faded, ugly yellow.

  The director, Susan Shearer, reminds me of Riley. She’s small but full of energy. Her dark hair is cut close to her scalp and patches of it stick straight up as if she’s suffered one too many harrowing events.

  “Thank you so much for coming back tonight. I’m sorry I wasn’t here yesterday when you came. Things are always chaotic here, but the school calendar moved up a week this year, and even though we knew about it we weren’t quite prepared.”

  She motions me to follow her into an office that looks like a paper mill explode in it. There are reports, drawings, catalogs, and brochures on every surface. “As you can see, we seriously need help, but donors don’t like paying salaries. They’ll buy supplies or donate equipment, but not for admin staff. So we need a grant.”

  “I’m just a junior, ma’am. I’ve never written a grant before.” I feel like it’s necessary to point this out so she doesn’t get her hopes up. I wanted to get experience writing a grant and get an A. “I’m here to write a draft for you as part of my grant writing class at Western.”

  “I know. Isn’t it great?” She points to a stack of papers about five inches thick. “I had Christie, that’s our receptionist slash secretary you met out front, print out the last five years of budgets, along with our mission statement, program directives, and statistics of usage. The grant we’d like to apply for is an operational one.” She motions for me to sit, and when I do she drops down behind her desk. I have to lean to the side so I can see her. “Tell me what you know about Agrippa.”

  “It’s a not-for-profit agency designed to provide assistive learning to students between the ages of four and fourteen. For a nominal fee, students get extracurricular help in math, science, and language.” I recite the information I gathered from my internet search.

  “Yes, we charge a small fee because that makes sure the student and parent,” she bobs her head a little, “or guardian, as the case may be, has skin in the game. They’ve paid money and they want to get their money’s worth—even if the fee doesn’t begi
n to cover the costs.” She leans forward, her shoulder brushing an unsteady pile of papers. I reach out to steady it. I don’t think she even notices. “Tell me why you chose Agrippa,” Susan asks.

  “I have a friend from high school who I believe has a learning disability, but she never got tested.”

  Susan makes a sympathetic noise. “That’s terrible. Talk about hamstringing that child for the rest of her life. Early detection and testing really helps kids overcome and manage their learning disability. There are so many ways we can help them these days.”

  I hope this meeting will be over soon. Susan’s words make me feel even guiltier than when I talked on the phone with Mom, particularly when I spent all of my morning adding two classes for the express purpose of further “hamstringing” my brother.

  “Well, a personal connection is good. It makes you more empathetic. You want to have passion when you write a grant proposal, and a personal appeal makes you really want to get after it.” She makes a rocking motion with her fist.

  “Is there any chance for adults?”

  “Of course. We don’t specialize in that, but—” She holds up a finger and digs through a pile of papers on the bookcase near her desk. “Here. This is a great organization for helping adult literacy challenges.”

  “Thanks. If I see her at break, I’ll give it to her.” I take the brochure and tuck it into my bag.

  “You might want to be careful when you approach her,” Susan cautions. “Most people, regardless of age, are quite sensitive about having reading or writing challenges. Adults tend to deny it, particularly if they are functioning well in most other areas.”

  “I hear you.” She’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. I broached the subject with Jack only once before. We took an SAT prep course as juniors. He’d gotten very frustrated and I suggested extra tutoring. He looked at me with a look of utter betrayal and asked me if I thought he should be riding the short bus. I told him that was offensive. We got in a big fight and didn’t talk for about three days. We made up but I never brought it up again. I don’t even know if I can now.

  “Good,” she says briskly. “If you don’t need anything further, then we’re done. I’ll want to see a rough draft by your midterm.” She looks down at a sheet of paper. “Is that in October?”

  “Yes. I could get it to you by October 1. How’s that?”

  “Perfect. Rough draft by October 1, and then the final version on December 1.” Susan shakes my hand, piles me with paper, and sends me on my way. The brochure burns a hole in my pocket.

  •••

  Jack shows up the next afternoon to check out my apartment and, I suppose, Riley.

  “Nice place,” he says. “I call dibs on the chair.”

  He points to a round velvet chair in deep red Riley said she found at a thrift store. It’s as comfortable as Jack imagines and I plan to spend a lot of time there in front of the television on Saturdays, watching Jack’s games. Despite what I told Masters, I don’t sit at the top of the stadium or with the other students. It’s too damn stressful.

  “You can’t call dibs,” Riley protests. “This isn’t your apartment.”

  “It’s Ellie’s, which means it’s mine, too.” Jack winks at her but Riley is having none of it.

  She scowls and shakes a scolding finger at Jack. “You make a mess and you have to clean it up.”

  “No problem.” He smiles again and this time it’s deep enough that his dimples appear. Uh oh. I had better separate the two before Riley falls under the spell of Jack’s charms.

  “Come on.” I grab his arm. “I need your help unpacking stuff.”

  He snaps to immediately and follows me to my room. “What do you need?”

  I point to the stack of empty cardboard boxes. “I’ve unpacked most everything, but I need help getting rid of these boxes.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t here to help you carry this shit up here.” Jack makes quick work of the first box, tearing off the tape and punching it flat. “I still can’t believe those shitheads didn’t drive down with you.”

  He tosses the now flat box into the hallway and proceeds to efficiently destroy the five other boxes.

  “It’s fine. The manager had a four-wheel dolly and he helped me bring most of it up.”

  “Riley wasn’t even here?” The nerve in Jack’s jaw starts ticking with annoyance. It’s not directed at me or Riley. It’s directed at our parents. I reach over and pull the laundry basket away from him before he crushes it.

  “Her family is in town. Look, I didn’t want to stay home any longer and I missed you.”

  “So what’s your roommate like? She seems nice.”

  “No dating her.”

  “I wouldn’t date her,” he protests a shade too vigorously.

  “I think she’s nice and normal, so you have to stay away.”

  “Do you see something wrong with this picture?”

  Not wanting him to date my roommate, dump her, and make her not want to live with me? No, I didn’t see anything wrong with preventing that outcome. “It sounds exactly right to me.”

  He throws himself onto my bed. “What you’re essentially saying is that if your roommate is a great chick, fun to hang out with, totally normal, then she’s off limits. If she’s burn-the-bunny crazy, though, she’s all mine.”

  I push his feet off. “That’s right. Good job on putting together two and two.”

  “Shouldn’t you be encouraging me to date nice girls?”

  “First, you don’t date anyone. You sleep with girls for anywhere between one night and a month. Maybe two tops. Then I’m left with either the constant crier or the I’m cutting off your brother’s dick the next time I see him roommate.” I had both in junior college.

  “You’re a killjoy, El.” He reaches to my desk pushed against the foot of the bed and grabs the miniature Nerf football sitting between my pen cup and Kleenex box. “Besides, I can’t help it if the girls you room with turned into bunny boilers.”

  “Guess what! You don't have to sleep any of them. Here’s an idea; how about you not sleep with the girls who have a tendency to go rabid after you dump them.” I grab the football from him and throw it at his face. He snatches it out of the air before it can come within two feet of him. Damn reflexes!

  “Next thing you’ll say I should stop having sex like Knox Masters.”

  I stumble on a non-existent fold in my rug and have to steady myself on the edge of the desk. “Knox Masters is celibate?”

  Jack rolls over on his side and tosses the football at me. I don’t bother to catch it. The ball strikes the back wall and bounces onto the desk, knocking papers onto the floor.

  “Not just celibate, but a virgin.” Jack bends down and gathers up the papers on the floor. I’m still too stunned to help him.

  “No. I don’t believe it,” I answer flatly. Knox is gorgeous. His abs are so defined that a girl might cut her tongue on his ridged perfection, and based on this morning’s interaction, he’s got a little charm. Okay, a lot of fucking charm. “Do you really believe he’s a virgin? Maybe he tells people he’s a virgin and then the girls fight each other to show him the ropes—to be the first.”

  “Hard to say. I’ve seen him hook up with girls. One night we went to a club downtown and a girl ate his face off.”

  Yeah, so not a virgin.

  “Still, I mean, he could be a virgin.” Jack rifles through the papers. Fuck, where is my class schedule? I surreptitiously look around my desk for it. “What’s this?” he demands.

  I look over at the sheet of paper he’s thrust out. Is it…? No, thank God. I grab the intramural informational sheet from his hands and drop it on my desk. The other paper he has is the literacy brochure.

  My schedule with his classes rests innocently inside a notebook. I stack my papers together and shove them all in the drawer.

  “It’s the Western intramural schedule.”

  “What are you playing?” he says with suspicion.

  �
��Softball. Is that okay?”

  “Maybe. What position? Not catcher, I hope. Not with your knee.”

  “This is intramural softball, Jack.” I emphasize the word in hopes he catches on that I don’t want him interfering or riding me about playing. I need to have a life outside of him and football. “And I don’t know what position I’m playing. I’m meeting with the team Sunday night.”

  “You should play left field.” He studies the pamphlet in his hands for a second. “What is this? Are you doing some teaching internship? I thought you planned to major in English.”

  “No, I took a grant writing class this semester and my coursework involves writing a proposed grant for the literacy center.” I watch him closely to see if he has any interest at all.

  “Glad someone in the family likes writing.” He tosses the paper on the desk.

  I watch it as it floats down and summon my courage. “Susan, the director of the learning center, gave me this for research. There’s a lot of adult learning resources out there. I didn’t realize how many, in fact.”

  Hint. Hint.

  Jack’s silent and his head dips down. For a moment, I think he’s seriously considering my words, but then he kneels on the floor. “Shit, Ellie, I think I got glitter on my shoes. Look.”

  I look down, and sure enough, there are sparkles on his running shoes. During the move, glitter I used for some high school craft project must have risen to the surface.

  “So?”

  “So, I’ll get hazed over this.” He shakes his foot.

  “You told me once that glitter was a stripper’s calling card. Tell your friends you went to a strip club,” I say impatiently. Obviously, he has no interest in learning disabilities and I’m too chicken to brazenly ask him about it. Jack has always been my best friend, and I’m afraid of saying something that would push him away.

  Other people might have resented how their parents focused too much on one kid, but Jack hated that attention and has always gone out of his way to make me feel important and necessary. I repaid him by doing these things, only I’m not sure it’s the right way any longer.