Chapter 20

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.

Nikki’s mouth twists as she ponders, unsure of how to respond. “How about, loser buys the winner’s lunch Monday at school?”

“Lunch? Nah. That’s not a big enough prize.” My heart beats a little faster. “Dinner.”

“Okay, but I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.” Nikki takes off like a bat out of hell. The girl runs like the wind— she’s a half dozen steps ahead of me before I even realize we’ve started.

Forcing one leg in front of the other, I try my damnedest to catch up to her, but I just don’t have it in me after seven long laps. Halfway through, it dawns on me…why am I even trying? I lose, I get to buy her dinner. I jog the last half of the track, enjoying the view from the rear.

Winded from her lightning speed sprint, Nikki bends over, hands on her hips. “Did you even try to win?”

“Nope,” I respond unapologetically, reaching down for my water bottle. I spray half into my mouth and the rest over my sweaty head. The padding and uniform, mixed with the unusually high temperature, leaves me feeling like I just ran two miles in a heated blanket.

“I won the bet fair and square, even if you decided not to try to win.”

“I’m not a welcher. Dinner’s on me.”

Nikki’s aunt is waiting for her across the parking lot, so we say goodbye and I head for the locker room. Most of the team is gone by the time I hit the shower, except Keller, who waited, knowing I’d drive him home.

“You and Nikki?” he questions as I dry off.

I know what he’s asking, but I make him spell it out anyway. “Me and Nikki what?”

“Together?”

“No.” My response is curt.

“She’s fucking hot. Did you see her ass in those tight little running shorts?” Keller asks with a dirty grin on his face. One I get the urge to smack off immediately.

“You’re a dick. You know that?”

“Yeah, and you know it too. Big deal.” He shrugs, not the slightest bit put off by being called a dick. In fact, I think he wears the title like a badge of honor. “So, you don’t care if I ask her to the dance then?”

My blood instantly boils. A possessiveness I’m not entitled to have grips me. “Whatever.” I slam my locker door.

“Cool.” Keller walks away whistling, enjoying he’s gotten under my skin.

I don’t say more than two words on the drive home. I hate myself for wanting it to be me to ask her to the dance.