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“Well?”
“I’m sorry,” Alex wheezes through his laughter. “It’s just fucking funny.”
“You think it’s funny that one of your teammates has dick problems?” Jeff’s face is practically red, like he’s actually angry about this on Christian’s behalf, which is highly unlikely. “Maybe your dick has a problem.”
“My dick’s just fine,” Alex cackles. “So is his.”
Across the room, Mike catches my eye. The hard set of his jaw mirrors my own. Ever since Alex’s mom was diagnosed with cancer earlier this fall, he’s been weird. He broke up with his girlfriend, started sleeping around, and calls the Lexus his parents gave him when he turned sixteen “guilt money.”
Mike mouths to me silently, “Shut it down.”
I cast him a confused glare. How the fuck am I supposed to do that? I might be captain of the JV squad, but none of these guys take me seriously unless I’ve got a football in my hands. No matter how much I’ve tried to talk to Alex about his behavior, he just brushes me off.
Before I can think of anything to say, Alex stands up and gestures at Christian. “She didn’t cry because your dick’s too small, man. She cried because you popped her cherry. It’s supposed to hurt.”
All the other sophomores except Mike and I nod, trying to maintain some semblance of unity.
Jeff isn’t having any of that. His main goal since day one of camp has been to divide and conquer.
“Falls!” He turns on me again. “Your players either think it’s supposed to hurt when they fuck a girl or that if she cries, their dicks are too small. What do you have to say to that?”
My eyes dart around the room for some back-up. I have no clue what to say to that. Evie certainly isn’t in any pain in my fantasies. She’s not crying anything other than my name. But fantasies are all I have to go on.
Jeff sighs like he’s quickly losing patience with me. “Let me make this simpler for you, QB. You wanna read the players on the field? Start with reading your own teammates. How many of these guys know what it’s like to pop a cherry?”
I’m not a mind reader; I’m a football player. Still, Jeff’s advice makes a little sense.
“Warriors, we are a team! That means we help each other out. So, here’s what we’re gonna do for our wannabe.”
I grit my teeth at his use of the nickname he bestowed on me last year. My numbers blow his out of the water. The only reason I’m not the starting quarterback for the varsity squad is because he’s a senior, and I’m only a sophomore. Dad told me early on to mind the pecking order, and wait for the right time to smash it. So, for now...I’m waiting.
Jeff stares down every player in the locker room, regardless of squad or age. “If you’ve fucked, raise your hand.”
Most of the older guys’ hands—and a few of the freshman’s—shoot straight up in the air, their chests puffing with presumed pride. My fellow sophomores glance around but then slowly raise their hands. There’s literally only three dudes in this room who don’t. And I’m one of them.
“Who’s lying?” The question isn’t addressed to the team at large.
Fuck, how am I supposed to know who’s lying?
Jeff gets right up in my personal space, shoving Alex away. His hot breath curdles my stomach when he whispers in my ear. “You gotta learn to read, Falls. On the field and off of it. Look at their eyes. Their posture. Who raised their hands too fast? Who looked around before joining in with the majority? Think about what you know about your teammates off the field. Who has a girlfriend? Who’s a player? Who’s religious?”
Is he...is he trying to help me?
The spotlight’s already on me, so I have no choice but to cave to Jeff’s demand. Using his suggestions, my gaze travels around the room and sure enough...there are some dead giveaways. Just like on the field.
Cade, our JV freshman running back, won’t meet anyone’s gaze even though his arm is stick-straight in the air.
Anthony, a junior cornerback, has a bead of sweat on his upper lip even though it’s always chilly in the locker room. His gaze is a little too hard, a little too direct. Not to mention—he’s a total asshole. I just can’t imagine any girl giving it up to him.
The rest of the team looks pretty even. There’s no way for me to tell by sight if they’re being untruthful. Still, I flip through my mental catalogues of social files. Sadly, there’s not much there. Keeping my nose to the grind and my eyes on the tile beneath my feet gets me by. Most of my brain consists of carefully organized Evie files, just in case I ever need them. And in all fairness, there are nearly a hundred players in this locker room. I don’t know them all personally.
“Wells, Falls? What’s the verdict?”
I can’t help but feel like Jeff’s setting me up. What happens when I call these guys out?
“Hand, Thiel, Barnes, Nolan, and Ketchum are lying.”
Their predicted denials collide in an echoing jumble of shouts that jar my pounding brain until Jeff brings everyone back under control with a loud whistle.
