Nikki looks up from her notes with a strain of her eyes to pay attention. Our eyes meet and she looks away quickly. There’s no smile on her face. I need to see it, be the one to put it there.
Trying to make light and ease the tension in the air, I respond to Keller but look at Nikki, “I might just have to come back to the team. Poor Nikki shouldn’t have to watch you try and play quarterback at homecoming. It wouldn’t be fair to our new classmate.”
Nikki turns toward me, a smile lighting her face. And there it is again— that feeling of being alive.
The next forty minutes of English fly by while I examine Nikki from behind. Not the kind of from behind most guys want to examine. Instead I watch her hair sway across her shoulders as she moves back and forth in her seat. She seems almost restless, barely able to sit still.
I think about saying something to her directly as we exit class, but Keller intercepts the opportunity, his large frame blocking my way. Still waiting for a real answer from me, he won’t relent.
“I’ll take it easy on you at practice. Don’t want to hurt you, being that you’re so out of shape and all,” Keller baits me.
“Take it easy on me? You’re the one who’s out of shape, buddy.” As we walk down the hallway, I knock him gently into the lockers alongside him.
Keller recovers and returns the shove, grinning. “That pretty boy face is going to wind up bruised if you try that again.” It’s a threat, but there’s nothing but pleasure in this voice.
A few other members of the team catch up to the two of us. All week, the halls have been brimming with talk of homecoming and the big game, and today is no different. Football player egos crowd the halls just as I veer off toward my next class.
“See you at practice,” Keller yells after me with conviction, as I disappear into chemistry.
He just might.
Chapter 20
Zack
Dirt cakes the legs of my once white practice pants, I’ve been knocked on my ass more in the last hour than I have been in the last two seasons. What the fuck?
Keller extends a large hand down to help me up for what is probably the tenth time. “Dude, get your head out of your ass or Coach is going to bench you.”
“Screw you,” I spit back.
He smirks, always the wise ass, “You’re pretty, but not my type. I like bigger titties.” He holds his cupped hands to his chest, making the universal guy sign for large breasts.
“You’re an idiot.” He is, but I say it in jest, the anger of being knocked on my ass, repeatedly, disappearing easier than it should. I’m physically present, but something is missing.
“I’m not the one who can’t figure out how to throw the ball or move out of the way of the two-hundred-pound guy charging at me. Your feet turn to lead or something? Maybe you need to take some ballet lessons to limber up…you know, with the other girls?”
“Fuck you,” I grunt with a smile he can’t see under my helmet, yet I’m sure he knows it’s there.
“Speaking of fucking…” Keller trails off as we line up into T formation, his head nods in the direction of a few of the girls from track running a relay race. I look without interest. Until I see her.
Keller, my center that had filled in as quarterback in my absence, snaps the ball into my hands. I’m completely unprepared, my eyes still on Nikki’s long lean legs, as the opposing players pummel me yet again.
“Hey, quarterback, you gonna join us anytime soon?” Coach Callihan yells impatiently at me.
Picking myself up off the ground yet again, I spit dirt— mixed with a little blood from my rapidly swelling lip— before I respond, “Maybe if I could get a little help from the offensive line, I might be able to stand long enough to stretch out my arm to throw the ball.” I know my putting blame on someone else won’t sit well with Coach, but I don’t give a shit.
“That just bought you eight laps with equipment on. Everyone else, hit the showers. We’re going to have to start extra early tomorrow. 6.AM. You can all thank Mr. Martin for the pre-dawn Saturday morning practice.”
The team groans, a few even mumble something about me being an asshole under their breath, but no one complains to Coach. No one is stupid enough. Ripping my helmet from my head, I toss it on the ground, readying myself for my eight-lap, big-mouth punishment.
“Hang on a minute, Martin.” Coach Callihan strides toward me. “Son.” He puts a hand on my padded shoulder. “I know you’ve had a tough year. But this isn’t a sport you can do without your head in the game. You’re liable to get hurt.” He looks me in the eye, waiting for something— perhaps it’s my response he expects— but I just stare back blankly. After a minute, his face changes. It’s clear something’s dawned on him. He lowers his voice from stern to almost fatherly. “You don’t care if you get hurt, do you?”
***
By lap seven, my legs start to burn. Between getting knocked around at practice and running with an extra ten pounds of equipment on me, I feel pain in every stride. The track team ended practice fifteen minutes ago, leaving me nothing to take my mind off my aching body anymore.
As I cross the start line to begin my last lap, I feel the pounding of footsteps from behind me before I even see her. Falling into sync with my slow pace, Nikki says, “Race a lap, slowpoke?”
My faltering gait comes to life. “Races have winners. Winners get a prize. What are we betting?” I throw her a devilish grin, trying to cover up how winded I really am.