Eastshore Tigers 01 - Strong Side (3 page)

I'm too shocked to speak. Hell, shocked doesn't even begin to cover it. Hawk doesn't know me. Even the completions I pulled off today don’t stack up against that massive fail.

But for some reason, he wants to help me.

"Jesus," I hear the other receiver grumble. "What did you do, rookie? Suck him off before practice?"

I'm still too stunned by Hawk's offer to react. I'm used to this kind of locker room talk; there's no way I could play any kind of sport without having a thick skin. But there's still a small part of me that wonders if he knows.

Right now, though, it's the least of my worries.

I never told Coach Garvey I was gay, but I think he knew, regardless. I'm glad he didn't encourage me to tell the other guys.

It would only bring out the worst in everybody involved. At least this time, I know Matthews is just saying it because he's an asshole. Not because he thinks it might be true.

"Thank you for volunteering to start your 40s right now, Matthews," Coach says.

For a second, it looks like Matthews is going to stand up to him. But even he's not that stupid, apparently. He tosses his helmet and jogs off toward where the other guys are running their drills.

"Hawkins, if you want to take on Griffin as your personal project, you have my blessing. You’re right. He is a good player."

He claps me on the shoulder, then goes back to observing the teams on the field, leaving me staring up at Hawk. I'm a tall guy, but he has a couple inches on me. I'd say he's 6’3’’ or 6’4’’ at the least. A wall of solid muscle standing in front of me, scrutinizing my reaction.

I still can't believe he'd stick his neck out for me, and I really don't know what to say.

"Thanks," I manage, even though I owe him a lot more than that.

"Don't worry about it. Meet me after practice. We'll figure out a plan."

Just like that, he heads off to do his drills. I bust ass for the rest of practice, knowing I have a lot to make up for. But the whole time, I can't help but watch my new mentor. Having one-on-one time with Jason Hawkins is either going to cure me of every mental hangup, or give me another one entirely:

Him.

CHAPTER FOUR

- Jason -

As the shower comes to life and the water hits my chest, I inhale a deep breath of steam and let it clear my head.

The warmth soothes my aching muscles, and I hold back a groan of pleasure. Not really the kind of thing I want to share with my teammates. This is my time. There's an unspoken code here, and every guy knows not to talk in the shower. Unlike in the locker room, I don't have to expect somebody to come up to me and interrupt my thoughts.

I’m fair game in the locker room. Guys interrupt me mid-thought there. But here, I can play back the day in my mind and pick apart every detail.

Coach Garvey says I obsess over every tiny thing. I always figured a college coach would like that, but maybe I am a little intense about it. I can’t really help it. This is all I know. It's the only thing I know how to do, and the only thing I'm good at.

If I don't put my all into improving, then I'm not working hard enough.

At least, that's what my dad always says. From the time he coached my peewee team, through my high school career, and now even in college, he's informed a lot of my views and behaviors when it comes football. I know what the outside observer would say: he's just a washed up old athlete who's pressuring his son to finish what he started.

But football is the only thing that really brings us together. So if he’s pushing me to accomplish something he couldn't, I guess I feel like I have to give it all I've got.

For the first practice of the season, today wasn't too bad. A lot of the guys are sluggish, but right now, I’m focused on my own performance. Coach Garvey made it pretty clear my freshman year that if I tried to do his job for him, he’d throw me on the bench faster than I could blink. And after years of getting agitated by the guys who don't take it seriously—the guys who would rather get fucked up every night—I'm over it.

There are definitely a few things I'd change from today. I might have thrown poorly to Griffin on purpose, but there were a few plays where I could've set up better. A few situations where I could've made something out of nothing. I run them back in my head and try to think of the outcomes if I would've carried the ball instead of passing it. Or if I would've put a little more spin on it, or tried for a higher arc.

I'm still thinking about it as I head to my locker and grab my gym bag. I pull out my change of clothes and start ranking my performance for the day. It's something my dad always does, and I guess it just sort of carried over to me. Today, I give myself maybe a 4/5 for endurance, a 3.5/5 for accuracy, a 4/5 for speed, and a 3/5 for consistency.

It bugs me that I don't have an even spread across the board, but I don't have much of a chance to work out a plan before I'm interrupted.

"Looking good out there, Hawk. Guess you didn't take the summer off like the rest of us." Dante Mills and I have been friends since freshman year, when we roomed together in the Thompson Building. He knows how to push my buttons.

"Have to keep on top of it. We can’t all be naturally gifted like you."

Mills grins, leaning against the locker beside mine. "True. You mortals have to work for a godlike body like this," he says, patting his stomach.

Dante is a big guy. He was probably 6 feet tall and at least 300 pounds in the seventh grade. It's all solid muscle, though, and as much as I'd kill for the kind of strength he has, I'm pretty thankful for my lean frame. Quarterbacks aren't built to be trucks. But offensive tackles are.

And Mills is the one lineman who's always had my back. Last year, he completely steamrolled a guy who took a sack after I'd already gotten rid of the ball. Both of them were ejected, but Mills was slapped with a three-game probation, too. After the game, he just gave me one of his trademark shit-eating grins, shrugged, and said it was worth it.

"Hey, I heard about your little pet project." He lowers his voice, and I turn to him with one brow raised.

"That supposed to be some kind of secret?"

"I guess not if you don't want it to be." He shrugs. "Just haven't seen you take on anybody but a QB before. You trying to get in good with Garvey for that captain’s patch?"

In football, team captains don't mean as much as they do in other sports. It's still a badge of honor, though. Something I can put on a resume, and something the NFL will definitely notice.

"Figure it can't hurt. And if we’re going to take it all the way this year, then every guy out there has to be at the top of his game."

"You really think he can start? Shit, with the way Matthews was looking at him earlier, I wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up in traction."

I search the locker room, finding Matthews easily. He's still wearing a scowl, and pulling his clothes on like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum. Fucking A. Part of me wants to let Coach know there could be trouble, but I don't want to be
that guy
.

"Yeah, I think he's got a shot. He's as good as any of the starters from last year." Or better. But saying that in the middle of the locker room is just begging for trouble. "He caught every shit pass I threw him."

"Yeah, until he didn't. You can't count on a receiver who's pissing his pants every time somebody gets near him."

Mills leans back against the locker, folding his arms over his chest. He puts on his best analytical face, and in between pulling on my shirt and then my boxers, I watch him scan the room.

"Just don't hit it too hard, okay?"

The little edge of humor that always accompanies his words is gone. He’s staring at me, and for once his expression looks gravely serious. "Okay…?"

"I mean it. I know how you get, Hawk. You spend enough time on yourself. Just make sure you aren’t putting too much into this guy. For his sake and yours."

I guess I should take it as a compliment. I never do things halfway. But he's right. There's already a really good chance I won’t graduate this year. I've almost guaranteed it, taking the absolute minimum class load to make sure I have enough time to dedicate to football. Taking on another project pretty much ensures I'm going to need to cut some corners as far as school is concerned.

I don’t feel great about it, but I didn't come to Eastshore for the education. I came to play football.

"Don't worry about it. I'll figure it out."

I tug on my jeans and grab my bag before closing my locker. Mills meets my gaze one last time, shrugs, then wanders back to his own spot. I find Griffin in the crowd and head toward him, slinging my bag over one shoulder.

"Meet me in the parking lot when you're ready."

"Just give me a sec and I'll be right out."

He's half-dressed when he says it, wearing jeans but no shirt. He's a lot more cut than I would've expected for a receiver. Most of them are built for speed, lean and able to run as soon as they have the ball. But it's clear Griffin has put a lot of work into his body. His arms are built up, especially, and I feel a weird sort of flush pass through me as I look at him.

Damn, I've been here too long. I loaded up on carbs during breakfast, but after the intense workout, I'm starving again. That must be what it is.

Putting that weird sensation behind me, I head out into the parking lot near the stadium. During the off-season, it's easy for players to get a spot nearby. My blue Accord is parked between a beat up old Volvo and a hatchback that's missing two hubcaps. Not that my ride is in much better shape. I take care of her, but she's nothing fancy. Mostly just a way to get from point A to point B.

As I survey some of the other cars in the lot—especially the ones that look brand-new, waxed and just begging for rain—I wonder if my teammates just come from loaded families, or if they’re blatantly breaking the NCAA's rule to not accept handouts from recruiters. I guess it's none of my business either way.

It only takes a few minutes for Griffin to get out here, and he jogs until he spots me. A tiny smile tugs up the corner of my lips. It's nice to see somebody with so much enthusiasm. I know the freshmen and new walk-ons sometimes grate on the veteran players, but to me, the rookies are the guys I usually connect with most. They know they have to make a name for themselves, so they’re completely focused and committed.

"Got a car?"

"Nah, I took the bus."

I hit the button on the key fob and hear the click of the lock as it slides out of place on all four doors. "Come on. I'll give you a ride. You can put your stuff in the back."

I slide into the driver's seat and turn the key in the ignition. A Kansas song blares over the radio, and I reach for the volume button to turn it down.

"So," he says as he ducks into the seat beside me. "Should I call somebody and give them your description? Just in case they find the body later."

I can hear the nervous edge to his voice, and when I look over at him, he's smiling. I just laugh. "Don't bother. I'm a professional. They’ll never find the body."

"Good to know. Where you kidnapping me to, then?"

"There's a sports bar downtown that a lot of the guys hit up after games. I figure we can work out a plan there. You're old enough to drink, right?"

"Kidnapping me
and
trying to get me drunk?"

I grin, hooking my arm around his chair so I can see behind the car. "I don't half-ass anything."

The ride is quiet, with both of us just listening to the music. When I look over at Griffin, he's watching the scenery pass by. As somebody who grew up in the Midwest, where it’s winter three quarters of the year, I can appreciate the view. Eastshore is, predictably, right on the east shore, a little south of Jacksonville. It's a pretty small town with a lot of history. At least it was before the college blew up. The athletics department really put it on the map, and now it's a certified college town in its own right.

And that means plenty of bars.

The Tigers’ Den is the requisite college-themed sports bar on the downtown strip. Surrounded by ancient buildings made out of coquina, the Den definitely stands out. It's got the same sort of rustic finish, but the inside is all neon and typical bar atmosphere. There's at least a terrace to make the place look respectable, but none of the Eastshore guys actually use it.

The door’s propped open, and as Griffin and I pull up I can hear my teammates inside. Right now, the college is still between semesters, so it's just us here, working our asses off. I lead Griffin in, greet the guys I'm used to seeing here, and find us a booth. Everybody seems pretty happy with their own tables, and to my surprise, nobody invites themselves to sit at ours.

It's a good thing, considering the fact that I need Griffin to be real with me.

"Nice place. I think part of my shoe is permanently stuck to the floor."

I laugh, lifting my own shoe off of the tacky floor. "Yeah, college bar. What are you gonna do?"

"Hey, I get it. My dorm floor is usually the same way."

"What building are you in?"

"Masterson."