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Chapter 7
Eric, 14 years old
San Diego, California
“And the Wolverines win 35 to 28!” the DJ screamed over the speakerphone as my teammates and I stared in silence at the disappointed fans in the bleachers.
Seven thousand people had come out to cheer us on tonight, namely my parents, who sat in a reserved area decked out in letterman jackets. That we were beaten in front of everyone on our turf was not something to be proud of.
What I didn’t understand was how we lost the game in the first place. The entire team had been on point. We were tight and doing fine until Kobe fumbled the ball.
“Well, at least one person is happy,” our running back muttered before he was hushed by another player.
“Who’s going to speak with Winthrop?”
“Moose?”
“Nope,” I immediately answered.
My team had been giving me non-subtle looks for the past ten minutes. They wanted me to defuse the time bomb standing two feet away from us, and I ignored them cause I enjoyed breathing.
I tried telling the asshat a joke earlier to lighten the mood, and he almost bit my head off. So, no thank you.
Sadly, the choice was taken out of my hands when someone nudged me toward the angry quarterback.
I flipped my teammates the bird before putting on my big boy pants and joining my best friend in his brooding.
Gabriel Winthrop made quite a sight with all his gear on. His hands were perched on his waist while he radiated anger like a nuclear weapon.
Even I had to admit I’d be fawning myself right about now if I were Kobe or a teenage girl. Thankfully, I wasn’t the boy he was cursing to Hell and back.
Was I disappointed we lost? Sure. Was it going to change my life in any way? Nope.
But that’s Winthrop for you. The fool could practice for hours to get the perfect pass, and don’t get me started on his conditioning training. It was on another level of intense, and I should know, I was the idiot lifting those weights next to him.
But come on, it’s a football game! What was the point in doing something if you couldn’t have fun doing it?
“Gabe, my man,” I said and slapped his back as an opening. The strength behind the slap would have sent anyone else two feet forward, but not this boy. He didn’t even flinch. Nor did he respond in any way.
“It’s just a game,” I sighed.
“It wasn’t just a game, and you know it.”
Yeah, I did. Football was Winthrop’s way out. His light at the end of the tunnel.
To me, it was a cross I had to bear.
“Come on bruh, let up. It’s one game. We’ll kick their ass the next time we play them.”
“Yes, we will, and it’s going to be without Kobe.” I groaned at his answer. “What? You really want to play with a guy who can’t catch a goddamn ball?”
“Well, no. But kicking him to the curb? That’s cold, man.”
“Do I need to remind you what’s waiting for you in exactly five minutes?”
“Fucker. I really hate you sometimes.”
“Yeah, yeah, I love you too, Lucy.”
