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Or maybe that’s emotion. I don’t know.
A whistle blows. Back to practice we go.
“We’re not finished with this conversation,” Tony says, once I grab my helmet and we’re jogging back out onto the field. “Let’s go grab a beer somewhere after practice. Or dinner. We can talk some more.”
“Fine,” I mutter under my breath.
Blah blah blah. He’ll want to talk about our feelings—excuse me, my feelings. Tony shouldn’t get a business degree. He should become a damn therapist. This guy is always trying to fix everyone.
Maybe that’s why I’ve kept my distance from him. I don’t dislike Tony. He’s a stand-up guy. Great football player. Solid friend, though he’s right. We’ve never been particularly close. Out on the field and with the team, he’s got my back and I’ve got his. But those probing dark eyes of his sort of freak me out, and I’m not looking for a confessional.
I can deal with my own fucking problems, thank you very much.
The rest of practice goes by in a blur. I continue to play terribly. To the point Coach pulls me off the field and puts in the second string. “Just to see what he’s got,” Coach tells me, his tone reassuring.
Marshall Hatfield has a tremendous arm, and he shows it off like any second string would when offered the chance to step up. The guy throws an eighty-yard pass on his first play. Everyone claps and whistles.
I sit on the bench like a pouty baby, scowling as I kick my helmet. Hating the world.
Tony just shakes his head every time he glances in my direction. Diego and Caleb steadily ignore me. I think I scared them.
Good. They’re supposed to be my friends. And friends aren’t supposed to make you feel shitty.
By the time we’re long finished with practice and we’re done
showering, Tony approaches me, his damp hair hanging across his forehead and practically covering those all-knowing eyes of his.
“You ready?”
I shut my locker door before turning to face him. “Where are we going?”
“Pizza? Doghouse? I don’t care.” Tony shrugs. “I’ll drive if you want.”
“How about I follow you.”
We decide on pizza—Doghouse Grill will just bring us unwanted attention since so many Fresno State students go there, especially on me. And I’m not saying that to brag. Everyone knows my face in this area, if not the whole damn town, and people will approach me. Ask questions about the team, the season, my future prospects. It’s happened before, and usually I revel in it.
I’d rather be anonymous tonight. And I think Tony senses that.
Once we arrive at the restaurant, we walk in together and I’m glad to see it’s mostly empty. We give our order, splitting a pitcher of beer, and once Tony pays—what a guy—we make our way over to a table in the farthest, darkest corner of the place. Tony sets the pitcher carefully onto the table while I plunk down the glasses.
“Hatfield looked pretty amazing out there,” Tony says, after we sit down and he starts pouring me a glass of beer.
Great way to start the conversation. Like rubbing salt in an open wound.
“He’ll do great next season,” I say as casually as I can.
“It’s okay to have an off-day.” Tony pushes the full mug of beer toward me. “You’re allowed one every once in a while.”
“I can’t afford them.” I take a drink of beer and slurp up nothing but foam, grimacing.
“You put too much pressure on yourself.”
He’s just preaching to the choir.
“Everyone’s looking at me right now. Just waiting for me to fuck up. Then they can point their fingers and say, ‘See, I told you so. He’s a fluke.’” I shake my head. “I know how the so-called fans think.”
“You are so bitter today,” Tony marvels. “I prefer egotistical Eli to everyone hates me, I want to die Eli.”
