All Broke Down (Rusk University #2) (11 page)

Brookes catches my gaze, and I turn away. Like I don’t feel like enough of a chump already.

“Any questions?”

Players and coaches alike shift, but no one says anything.

Then Torres opens his big mouth. “If we get in trouble a fourth time, do you run, sir?”

Nobody moves a freaking muscle. And I just know . . . we’re all gonna run for that one. But then Coach surprises me. He laughs and shakes his head, but when he speaks, he’s serious again. “Mateo, you don’t want it to get that far. It won’t be pretty.”

My new roommate never does know quite when to shut up, though.

“No, I imagine that wouldn’t look pretty at all, Coach.”

“Teo!” “Torres!” “Seriously?”

Every player surrounding him turns and lays into him. He covers his head with his hands and jumps back.

Coach blows his whistle, and we all snap back to attention. “It looks like you boys are beginning to understand what it means to be responsible for your teammates.” He stares at Torres for a long moment and then looks at the team. “We’ll let that one slide. Now, into your position groups. We’ll start by seeing what you’ve retained over the summer.”

A small whoop raises up from the crowd and as we disperse, Torres yells. “I love you, Coach! You’re the best!”

“We’ll see if you still feel that way when we’re through. You know we don’t do easy days here, not even first day back.”

Chapter 9

Silas

I
get my ass handed to me.

Multiple times.

By multiple people.

I’m focused. My head is in it, but my body just isn’t. Between my binge weekend and my punishment at the beginning of practice, my legs are too fucking slow and my arms too weak to hold the ball as tightly as I need to. I keep making stupid little mistakes, and odds are that I’m going to leave practice with a damaged eardrum from all the yelling.

Coach is on me because he’s still pissed about the fight with Levi. Coach Gallt, the running back coach, is all over me because he’s taking over offensive coordinator from Coach Cole now that the team is settled. The entire offense is his responsibility now, which means my failures come down on him. So, he’s coming down on me . . . hard. And some little asshat freshman (the same freaking one that passed out on my couch Friday night) is all keyed up trying to outdo me, soaking up every bit of praise like he’s just won the freaking Heisman.

All of the noise just keeps swarming around me, and I can hear myself fucking panting for breath, and I’m melting in this heat, and I’m so damned frustrated I could scream.

“Damn it, Moore!” Coach Gallt yells. “I’m sick of watching you screw up. Is this what this season is going to be like? Because if so, Williams is gonna take your place in no time.”

I don’t even know who Williams is, but when I get a good look at the cocky grin on the freshman’s face, I figure it out. His name is Keyon, or something like that. I don’t give a fuck.

I rip off my helmet. To do what . . . I don’t know. My head is about to explode, and I feel like I can’t breathe with it on. I’m about to mouth off to Gallt when Coach Cole cuts in. “Go get some water, Moore. Shake it off.”

I do what he says and head off to the sidelines. I gulp down a few mouthfuls of water and dump the rest over my head. It’s so dry and hot out that the water feels like heaven. Or as close as I’m likely to get to it anyway. I go to repeat the process when McClain sidles up to grab a drink of his own. Unlike me, he’s been killing it today. I had no fucking clue when Levi got kicked off the team that Carson would ever be able to replace him, let alone be better than him. But he did it . . . is doing it every day. Knowing him, he probably didn’t take a single day off all summer.

“You all right?” he asks.

I wipe some of the water and sweat from my forehead and say, “Fine, QB. Just an off day.”

“Yeah. Of course.” He nods, but I can tell choirboy has more he wants to say. He doesn’t wait long to get to it, either. “Listen, that lady who showed up at your party . . .”

Damn it. I knew this would come eventually.

“What about her?”

“Who is she?”

“Nobody,” I say. “She doesn’t matter.”

“It’s just . . . you seemed pretty freaked about it, and Stella thought she might be—”

I shove my helmet back on my head.

“I said she’s nobody. Leave it alone, McClain.”

“You took off so fast after she showed, and next thing I know you’re calling me to pick you up from a police station—”

“Listen. I’m grateful that you came to get my sorry ass Friday night. I am. But I’m not Ryan. We’re not gonna talk about my shit while we lift or whatever the hell it is you two do. You and I will just play ball, okay? That’s how this friendship works. All you need to know is . . . I’m fine. I’m good. Same as I always am.”

Or I will be. As soon as I get rid of this fucking hangover.

I spin to walk away, but not before adding, “And tell Stella to mind her own fucking business, too.”

The rest of practice doesn’t get any better. In fact, it just continues to get worse because now my head is as out of it as my body. When Coach blows the whistle calling it quits, all I want to do is hit the showers and get high again, but that would be the stupidest thing I could do.

Not that I’m above stupid. Stupid and I go way back.

And bad decisions are apparently what I do best. I sure as hell wasn’t at my best in anything else today.

I’m only thinking about getting to the shower and getting out of here when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

It’s the freshman. Keyon Williams. I might not have been sure of his name before today, but I know it now. He’s shorter than I am, and a little bit stockier. The guy’s got a pretty good sprint, but no real endurance. Not that I can really talk about endurance at the moment.

“What?” I bark.

“We didn’t really get introduced at the party Friday. Just wanted to say hey. Tell you good practice.”

I shrug his hand off. “Is that a fucking joke?”

He holds his hands up. “Nah, man. Didn’t mean anything by it. We all piss the bed some days.”

I lose it. Completely. I shove him up against the wall right outside the locker room and get in his face. “Listen, fish. You don’t know shit about me.” I said those same words to Levi, and now this asshat is fucking grinning, just like he did. It takes everything in me not to bash his teeth in. Carson steps into the doorway, and I catch his eye. I force out a breath and take my hands off the kid. Mouthy fucking freshman.

“Just stay out of my way.”

I turn and head for McClain when the dick opens his mouth again. “It’s you that’s in my way. But not for long. Not how you’re playing. I’m sure you’ll be heading Abrams’s way before long.”

I’m almost to the door, but those last words tug me back and his too white smile is all the extra motivation I need. I drop my helmet and ram him into the wall. He clips me on the healing bruise on my jaw, and my teeth rattle. But I hit him with a perfect uppercut, and blood starts pouring out of his mouth. He shoves me back and we both go tumbling to the ground. We struggle for control, rolling a few times, and just when I’ve got the upper hand and am about to lay into him, multiple sets of hands grip and pull me back.

I struggle for a couple of seconds, but there are at least three people holding me back. And now that I get a good look at the guy lying on the floor, blood all down the front of his shirt, I don’t really feel the need to get back at him.

In fact, I don’t feel much of anything except my stomach dropping to the ground.

Then the coaches are there. Gallt and Oz are down by Keyon, and Coach Cole slides into my vision. I’ve never seen him so livid. His face is purpling, and his eyes have that psycho look to them, like he might flay me alive. I brace for him to yell but he doesn’t.

Instead, in this quiet, intense, fucking terrifying voice, he says, “My office. Right now.”

I open my mouth to say something. An apology, maybe.

“
Now,
Moore.”

My teammates let me go, and I turn to face them. There’s McClain, Brookes, and Carter. I wouldn’t have expected Carter to jump in. He’s usually one of the instigators, but I give them all a nod that will have to do for a thanks.

I shouldn’t have let that dude get to me. I don’t know why he did. It’s not like I can’t handle a little talking shit. When I was a freshman, I was the biggest asshole of them all. I head through the locker room, where everyone is silent and still, paused in the middle of getting undressed for their showers. They stare as I walk through the room and toward the lounge area that opens up into the offices.

For the second time today I enter Coach Cole’s office, but this time I’m alone. The room is dark, and I don’t turn on the lights. I just take a seat and bury my head in my hands, and I listen to the silence. I listen to it like it’s going to tell me the answer, going to explain why I can’t keep my head on straight. After a little while it starts to sound like music. The muffled sounds from the locker room, the ticking of coach’s clock, the low whirring sound of his computer. There’s a hell of a lot of noise to be found in the silence, almost as much as there is in my head.

The door opens, and I keep my head down. I hear Coach pause by the door, and I know he’s looking at me. I think for a second that maybe he’ll leave the lights off. That he’ll let me get away with not looking at him during this. But then the moment passes, and he flips on the light.

He crosses the room and slams my helmet down onto the middle of his desk. He stands behind his chair and grips the back until his knuckles turn white.

“You better have a damn good explanation for what I just saw out there, Moore.”

I sit up straight in my chair and face him head-on. I owe him that much.

“I don’t, sir. I’m sorry.”

Coach presses his lips together like he wants to yell and curse, but is trying to stay calm. He runs a hand roughly through his hair.

“Damn it, Moore. McClain filled me in. Told me what Williams said. He’s a freshman. You know how this game goes. You’ve been there. You have thicker skin than this.”

I nod because I do. I did, anyway.

“You’ve got to give something here, son. Help me understand.”

How was I supposed to help him understand when I barely had my own head wrapped around it? All I knew was that something about Levi getting arrested had me all fucked-up. And Mom showing up had spun that tiny problem into a hurricane. There was my old life . . . living in the mobile home of whoever Mom was dating at the time, or in that rickety shack she left my brother Sean and me in when she split for good, always surrounded by people, never a moment of privacy, never having anything that was mine. There were my drunk uncles and cousins. People throwing punches over who did or didn’t get groceries. My barely there granny who couldn’t read or write, so I had to sign my own permission slips for football and school. There was Sean arrested for breaking into houses, leaving me alone with those people who thought of me as another brat running underfoot. That neighborhood was all about strength, about who was big and bad enough to fend everyone else off. I hated that neighborhood, hated what it did to my brother, but it was better than what came after. When Gram died, and my piece-of-shit uncle sold the house, and I had to beg people for a place to stay so I didn’t get trucked off with some relative and torn away from my team. I fucking
hated
begging.

I’d let myself forget about all of that. Let myself believe it was behind me because my life here was so much better. I was part of a team. I had my own bed, my own room even. I had friends who had no idea what kind of life I’d had, and they just assumed I’d grown up like them.

Maybe I started believing it, too.

Then Levi got arrested and it was like my two worlds collided, and I could see that old life waiting just a layer below this new one, and I can’t explain how that makes me feel.

There’s just this word that keeps popping into my head.

Inevitable.

It’s inevitable that I’ll end up back there. I forgot to keep running, and now it’s all caught up to me. That shit is in my blood, and there’s no rinsing it out or diluting it with scholarships and classes and all the other shit I’ve been kidding myself with. I don’t know how to be anything else but who I am, and who I am will never be good enough to make it in this place with these people.

I can’t explain that to Coach because not saying it out loud is the only thing keeping it from being completely real. And if that’s gone, I won’t be able to hold it together.

Coach finally has enough of my silence and sits down at his desk. He’s back to that scary quiet that isn’t the calm before the storm . . . it’s the storm that destroys you because you think it’s not a threat. “We’ve got enough battles to fight outside this locker room. I don’t need someone starting trouble inside the team, too.”

My stomach starts falling, and I wait for it to hit my feet, to drop through the floor. But it just keeps falling.

“I don’t tolerate violence on my team, Silas. No matter how good you are. As of now, you’re suspended. One week of practice, and the first two games of the season.”

Impact.

But it’s not just my stomach that’s fallen. It’s everything. My head. My heart. If it weren’t for the chair, I know I’d have fallen to my knees, too.

“Don’t you step back on my field until you’ve got your head screwed on tight. Because I’ve got to tell you, Silas . . . two games is a minimum. If I still think you’re not good for this team, I’ll cut you out like a cancer. It will hurt me to do it because I know what you’ve got in you. I know you can hack it, but I’m not willing to bet this team on you getting your act together. I’ve got too many other kids’ dreams in my hands. So you better shape up and bet on yourself and prove to me that you’re better than what I saw today.”

He scoots his chair back, and I know the conversation is over, but I can’t get up. My legs won’t work. I can’t piece together words.

If my present self is the top layer of skin and my past is the layer below that, football is every vital thing inside me that makes my body work. Muscles. Arteries. Veins. Organs.