Chapter Four
Roman
Sweat trickles down the side of my face and down my back. The blistering heat beats down on us as football practice continues. School just started last week, but we’ve been practicing three days a week for over a month. Around here, football is a way of life. You play to win. Come hell or high water, you win the damn game. You play sick. You play injured. You play.
Taking a huge gulp of my now-warm water, I spray my face. My pads are drenched in sweat as it is, and a cold shower is calling my name.
The piercing shriek of a whistle flies before Coach Harris hollers. “Let’s go! Back to the line!”
Closing the water bottle, I drop it to the ground, grab my helmet, and jog back to the field. We’ve been out here for an hour already and we’re tired, but our first game is next Friday, so we must be ready.
I wait for the line to set before I yell out my call and snap the ball.
“HUT!”
Everyone moves. The ball is in my hands and I’m taking a few steps back to look for an opening to throw. My receivers are on the move, but not yet clear. The defense is breaking through and I have to move. At the last second, Taylor opens, and I throw the ball in his direction. He runs to intercept the pass, jumping to grab it out of the air. It’s a beautiful catch! No one is between him and the end zone and he takes off, rushing for a touchdown!
He slams the ball to the ground and does his victory dance while the rest of us cheer him on.
My father has made sure I’m a football star, perfectly lined up to follow in his footsteps.
“Brighton! Derek! Where the hell were you? Why didn’t Taylor have any fucking coverage? If you can’t do your job, I’ll bench your asses!” Coach knows how to knock a guy down. “Run it again!”
We all trudge back to the line, no one daring to complain. We’ve been benched for less.
The line is set again, offense versus defense, waiting for the call to go full throttle.
I yell, “Hut!” and everyone jumps forward.
Derek and Brighton are there in front of Taylor, trying to hold him at the line, but he’s bigger than them and he forces his way through the hold. It slows him down and I know that pisses him off. We’ve been playing together since Pee Wees and he’s my best damn friend.
He rushes forward, then turns right, making eye contact with me, and the ball flies toward him. He jumps and snatches the ball out of the air. Both of us are immediately tackled to the ground. My ribs scream at the contact, squished between the defensive player and the ground. Dear old Dad did a number on my back a few weeks ago, and I have to assume he cracked a few ribs.
“Get the fuck off me!” I growl, my jaw tight enough for my teeth to ache.
The whistle sounds, calling the end of the play, and the heavy fucker on top of me moves, finally allowing me to take a deeper breath. I close my eyes and lie there for a minute.
Nine more months and I’m gone.
The player that tackled me offers me a hand and I take it, needing it to pull myself off the ground without looking like a cripple.
“Sorry, man. You a’ight?” he asks with a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m fine.”
“King!” Coach yells my name, and anxiety clenches my insides when I turn to look at him. “You have other receivers! Use them!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hit the showers.”
Everyone ambles toward the locker room, past the flock of fangirls lined up at the fence, with towels, helmets, and water bottles in hand. One girl has cold water bottles and is handing them out. I grab one and twist the cap off without so much as a thank you. If my gran could see me now, she’d tan my hide for being rude, but being the star quarterback in a small Kentucky town means everyone knows who I am, and I can do basically whatever I fucking want. It has its perks.
Someone is jogging up behind me and slaps my shoulder pads.
“Hey, you going to the party after the game next week?” Taylor, my best friend and teammate, asks.
“Yeah, I’ll be there. You know I can’t say no to beer and blow jobs.” I smirk and wiggle my eyebrows.
“Hell yeah,” Taylor gives me a shove as the locker room door opens and the humid, sweat-logged waves of air hits us.
Taylor turns to the left to pull off his gear in front of his locker while I continue two rows over to mine. The surrounding guys are fucking around, mostly talking shit about the team we play next week and showing off muscles.
I shove my shoulder pads in my bag and leave the rest of my gear on. I’ll change at home. I avoid the showers under all circumstances. One time my freshman year, I sprang a woody in the shower and there was no fucking reason for it. Since then, I won’t risk it. Some things are better left alone. As badly as I want to pull off the sweat-drenched t-shirt I wear under my pads, I can’t. I don’t know how bad the bruising is, and I can only blame so much on practice.
Picking up my bag, I make my way out of the locker room to my truck in the student parking lot. I swing my bag into the back with a thud and unlock the door with my key to climb in. The heat inside the cab of my Chevy seizes my lungs. It’s hot as fuck in the beginning of September in Kentucky.
With the key in the ignition, I get the windows rolled down and the a/c blasting. While I wait for the air to cool, I flip through my phone, reading through messages the team roadies send, all of them wanting a piece of me. I’ve worked my way through most of them, but every year, there’s a fresh crop to choose from.
Coming to a stop next to the red Mercedes in the driveway, I leave the key in the ignition and just sit for a minute. Everyone in this fucking town knows he drinks too much. They can all see the fear on my mother’s face. She’s basically a skeleton these days, but it doesn’t matter because her son is the best damn quarterback we’ve had in years.
One day, I will take a baseball bat to that fucking car. My lip raises as I turn the truck off and exit, grabbing my gear from the back and dragging my ass inside. My parents are nowhere to be seen, which is no surprise. I’m sure Dad is in the study, halfway in the bottle already, and Mom is waiting for him to tell her what to do.
My ribs ache as I trudge up the stairs to my room. Fuck. I force myself to keep going before one of my parents sees me and wants me to do something. The last thing I want right now is to get into another fight with my father.
I drop my gear in my bedroom on the way to my connected bathroom and strip my shirt off. In front of the mirror, I turn and see a purple bruise spreading across my back. Fucking great. My hands drop to the countertop and my head falls forward. How the fuck am I supposed to play like this? The hit today at practice probably re-fractured my fucking ribs, and if I get hit hard enough, who knows how much damage it can cause.
Turning on the shower, I adjust the temperature to cool me down from practice, but not enough to hurt. It’s too damn hot outside to take a hot shower, though I should do it anyway.
Stripping out of my uniform pants and pads, I step under the water and hiss when the water pressure hits my ribs.
Reaching for the body wash, I scrub my hands down my body, washing away the sweat and dirt from the field. My dick hardens as my thoughts travel to Mary and Jonah. She’s a pretty girl, innocent, easy to persuade to my way of thinking.