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Griff pressed the football between his strong fingers, studied the laces, avoided looking at Coach.
“Griff.”
He dropped the football. Sighed. “Lancelot weighs what? A hundred twenty-five, maybe? He’s a nerd, a geek. A pest, you know? People cheat off him during chemistry tests, but otherwise…” He looked over at Coach, who nodded understanding.
“I had finished my workout with weights and went into the locker room. I heard this commotion back by the showers. Those five guys had Robbie backed into a corner. They had his underwear. He was standing there without anything on, and they were making him…you know. Work it. Saying stuff like ‘Are you really, Lance a lot?’ ‘Let’s see this big lance of yours.’ ‘Too bad your lance isn’t as big as your brain.’ Stuff like that.”
He glanced at Coach, then away. “He was crying. Snot was running out his nose. His dick was…he was yanking on it something fierce, but it wasn’t…doing anything.”
“Okay.”
“These guys were giving him hell. So I plowed through them and pulled him away from the wall, walked him to his locker, told him to get his clothes on, wipe his nose for God’s sake, and get the hell out of there.”
“And then went back and beat the crap out of his tormentors.”
“Tried anyhow,” Griff mumbled.
Coach watched him for a long moment, then stood up, replaced the chair beneath the desk, and went to the door. “Ellie says dinner’s in half an hour. You’d better wash up.”
“Coach?” He turned back. “Don’t tell anybody, okay? I’ve only got one more day of suspension, and…and I promised Lancelot.”
“I won’t tell anybody, Griff.”
“Thanks.”
To this day Griff remembered the expression on Coach’s face as he left his room that evening. He was never able to define it, but he knew that something important had happened, that some sort of understanding had passed between them. As far as he knew, Coach had never betrayed his confidence about the incident.
By now he’d made the neighborhood block and for the second time approached the house with the white flowers on either side of the front door and the backyard pool with the slide. He’d wasted enough time. It was do or die.
The two kids with the football were still throwing passes to each other when Griff parked at the curb and got out.
CHAPTER
8
THE BOYS STOPPED THEIR PLAY, WATCHING AS HE WALKED TOWARD them. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” They said it in unison, cautiously.
“Is this Bolly Rich’s house?”
“He’s inside,” replied the taller of the two. “He’s my dad.”
“What’s your name?” Griff asked.
“Jason.”
“You play ball?”
Jason nodded.
“What position?”
“Quarterback.”
“Yeah?”
“Second string,” Jason confessed self-consciously.
