AllFreeNovel
Share Us
James
Idefinitely should not have drank from that flask. I think I’m still flammable. I was trying to be cool. Like the way Squints tricked that lifeguard, Wendy Peffercorn, into giving him mouth-to-mouth in the movieSandlot. Only there was no mouth-to-mouth for me. And I don’t even know what my goal was. To get her super drunk? That’s not like me. I think she makes me nervous, and my dad has my head filled with all of these rules about sticking to business—footballbeing that business for now.
And he’s right.
Really? If I want to get my ass into an elite university—which is pretty much essential if I hope to be a restaurant entrepreneur while my mom is still young enough to handle running a kitchen—it’s only the first step of many.
I’ll need to make connections, which being a winning quarterback at a place like Welles and then again at a school like Dartmouth or Brown can make happen. People are quick to lean into winners. And they’ll invest in winners with Ivy degrees.
“Slacker. Ass out of bed!” My dad’s heavy hand pounds on my door.
“Coming,” I shout. My own voice hurts more to hear than my dad’s did. This is going to be really hard. Why my dad insists on six a.m. lifting baffles me. He swears it builds character and preps those of us who want to go on and play in college for what’s to come. But isn’t getting enough sleep supposed to be critical for our development?
“If you went to bed earlier, you would not feel the pain in the morning!” he shouts from his own room.How does he read my mind?
I pull myself up to sit, my head pounding with every inch I rise. Last night was a bad idea. At least, the drinking part was. The Morgan part, that was impulsive. And maybe it was a bad idea too, but after staring at her social media the night before I got a little star-struck seeing her in person, I guess. It’s stupid. She’s not a movie star or anything. She’s a rich girl. A hot one. Who got popular on social media because she’s a hot, rich girl. I need to move past that and focus, like my dad says.
“I’m heading to the fieldhouse. If you aren’t the first athlete through those weight room doors, you’ll start your morning running bleachers.” My dad finishes his statement with a couple more pats on my door.
“Yes, sir,” I respond, my hands instantly moving to my temples. I rub slow circles in an attempt to stem the throbbing that reverberates throughout my skull. I can do this. I’ve partied and practiced before. Hell, my friends in southside threw series parties that would have knocked most of the Welles guys on their asses in an hour. It’s one workout. Then class. Then practice. Then . . .
My head falls forward and I catch my face in my palm, breathing out hard in an effort to psych myself up. One thing at a time. That’s how today is going to go. Thing number one? Cold shower and getting dressed.
I gather my clothes and drag my ass into the bathroom. I’m tempted to turn the water to warm, but I know better. If I do that, I won’t get out of this room for an hour.
It’s strange living in an apartment while the rest of my teammates bunk up in dorm rooms. Life is vastly different here, and while it’s nice having my own space, it also makes me feel like an outsider. I’m glad I met Theo, but I’m still not quite sure I can count him as a friend. Nothing feels solid yet—with anyone—but it’s early. I can lead this team. The buy-in will come. I have to believe that.
The cold water does enough to slap my face awake, but nothing is going to stop the pounding in my head. I throw on my workout clothes and chew three ibuprofens while grabbing the mango and spinach smoothie my mom left for me in the fridge on my way out the door. The sun isn’t up, and campus is empty. Despite the effect my hard steps have on my headache, I take them anyway, switching to a slow jog when I finish choking down my smoothie. What I need is water.
I fling open the fieldhouse doors and rush down the corridor toward the weight room, relieved to not hear the clanking of weights. I swing the door open and head toward the far corner to drop my gym bag and pull out my water bottle to refill at the station, but my dad’s telling cough slows my steps until I’m at a dead stop.
My head falls back, and I blink at the ceiling before swiveling to glance to my right where my father is standing with Mr. Sullivan and his son, Toby. There’s a fresh glint of sweat on Toby’s forehead, his hair damp with it. It’s five forty in the morning, and from the looks of it he’s already gotten in a run.
Fuck!
“Yes, sir,” I utter without pause. Spinning on my heels, I drop my bag by the entrance and suck down some water from the fountain instead of filling my bottle. I don’t make eye contact with anyone in that room, instead pushing back through the doors and retracing my path back outside and toward the football field.
The Welles bleachers are built into a hillside in two tiers. It’s bigger than most of the stands I’m used to, and I wonder if this place is full on game days. I feed off a crowd. I was a better quarterback at Public because of the fan base, and I hope I can find something similar here. I wonder if they will take to an outsider.
If you win them games, they will love you.
My dad’s advice cuts through my thoughts, and I suck in a deep breath at the base of the stands, clearing my head of everything else. After a short stretch, I begin my slow jog up the stands, every step increasing the blood flow through my body—and my head. I take half of my steps with my eyes closed, regretting every second of last night’s choices along the way. My dad didn’t have to give me direction. I know his rules. Ten sets for the first infraction, fifteen for the next. There won’t be a next for me, though. There’s never been a first before, and I’m livid that I let this happen. I’m also pretty sure Toby Sullivan is my new number-one enemy. No way he showed up here early on accident. This was orchestrated. Part of a bigger plan. And I’m going to out-pass the shit out of him this week.
By my eighth trip up the bleachers, my head pounding has calmed. Unfortunately, nausea has taken its place. Spitting every few steps, my mouth waters with the worst acidic bile that keeps reminding me of my poor decisions. I literally will my body back down the bleachers for my final set before falling palms first into the grass and heaving vomit in front of me.
My stomach instantly feels better, but the rest of my body pays the price. The headache comes roaring back, and my chest burns. I spit at the ground while panting, eventually mustering the strength to stand. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this, but I have to somehow pull off the performance of my life while feeling the self-inflicted effects of a life-threatening virus.
I’m pouring sweat, which is unusual for me, so I pull my shirt up, slipping my arms out and letting it hang around my neck while I cool down in wide circles with my hands folded on top of my head. I would do anything to get air into my lungs faster, but I’m pretty sure I’m pulling out all the stops with this. Once my pulse slows, I head toward the water station and flip the switch to turn on the pressure. I bend forward and douse my face, neck, and head, both wincing and rejoicing at the cold water.
I let out a growl to get myself amped, then march back into the fieldhouse. I twist my shirt around and slip my arms back through on my way into the weight room, which is now buzzing with music, the clanking of weights, and the voices of my teammates.
Grabbing my bag on my way in, I head toward the back corner to again fill my bottle with cold water. My body is both craving and refusing the idea of taking in more liquid, but I’m going to be super dehydrated if I don’t start chugging. I’m pretty sure I’m done throwing up. I’m also fairly certain I look like hell.
“Someone’s hungover,” Theo utters at my back. I’d laugh in response but nothing about how I feel is funny right now.
“How are you fine?” I glance over my shoulder and note his perfectly clear eyes, wide-awake expression, and the pink color in his cheeks.Asshole.
“I didn’t drink much. I didn’t see you all night, though. What, did you find a dark corner and drink alone like a bum?” He elbows my bicep.
