Know Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book One) (28 page)

We order beers and down them. Trev sticks
with the Egg Creams. “One’s enough for me.” He points at the
growing pile of PBRs in the center which Skate has taken to forming
a pyramid out of, stopping the waitress every time she tries to
take them away. Soon after we move onto draft beers.

Blaze
asks Skate what he does for a living and he explains that
he writes on walls. She’s too polite to prod and dig in and find
out what he actually does for
money
so Trev and I explain that Skate, unlike us two losers, was
actually born into money. “Whereas we have to actually work for our
food, this dude just sits back and lives off his inheritance,” I
say.

He shrugs, relaxed about it. “If I
don’t
need
to work,
why should I?” But I can see the playful anxiety in his eyes. The
conversation’s going where it always goes when we get onto Skate’s
access to Old Money. From the corner of his eyes, he catches my
grin. “Don’t!” he says at me.

I start laughing.

He looks up. “Deck, don’t!” Trev’s started
snickering as well. “Trev! I will fuck you up, man!” Trev’s
stifling laughter.

“
Blaze,” I say. “Guess what Skate’s real
name—”

“
Don’t you fucking dare, Deck!”

“—
is? This pale mofo with the Black Mamba
around his neck.”

He sits back, defeated. “Fuckin
assholes.”

Blaze
shrugs. Trev leans forward, and waits just a second, just
to make Skate sweat a little more. He flicks a thumb in Skate’s
direction: “This graffiti artist’s—”

“
Graffiti
writer
,” he corrects.

“
Whatever. This skinhead paleface who looks
like he just came out of a cardboard box, is actually called...
Now, wait for it...” In an exaggerated voice, he says,
slowly
,
“
Sebastian
Kade Darby
... But wait,
there’s more... Now, here it comes...here it comes...”—there’s
silence for a moment—“
THE SECOND
!”

Skate slaps Trev on the head. “Asshole,”
he grumbles. Trev puts him in a headlock and they’re quickly
rumbling like kids right here on the bench! But it’s too late,
because Blaze is guffawing, her eyes watering.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever
seen in my life.

Ever.

When the gag finally dies down,
Trev
wipes his eyes.
Blaze asks, “And...so...all this?” She waves at Skate’s rag-tag
sweater and just generally scruffed-up look.

He shrugs.
“It just wasn’t for me, you know. That kind of
life. Deciding which fork to use when you’re at dinner. I’d just as
fast use my hands.”

“
So he moved out at eighteen, and never
looked back, right Skate?” I explain.

“
It’s
Sebastian
Kade
the Second
to you. Only my
friends
can call me Skate.”

More laughter from us. We’ve really got
him by the balls here.

Blaze
, although still chuckling, notices his discomfort. “Well,
I think it’s
cool
that you
stuck it to them. I think it’s cool that you’re living your life
like you want to.”

Me:
“Whoa! Skate has an ally now!”

“
Two against two!” cries Trev.

Skate’s feeling cockier. Like Eminem, he
does a funky hip-hop
I’m Cool
hand gesture, and says, “Damn fuckin straight, homies! Me
and Blaze here will take
yooze
on!”

“
Truth is,” I say, “Skate here—”

“
Sebastian
to you!”

“—
is about as suited to living the high life
as a fish out of water. And we’re OK with Skate interloping in our
crew!” I toast my glass at him.

He pretends to be upset still (which he
never was in the first place) then raises his own glass.
“Assholes.” We tip glasses, all of us, and drink down. “Besides,
you know you wouldn’t get half the touchdowns you do without me
saving your ass.”

“
I’ll drink to that.”

“
Where do you guys play? I mean, isn’t
football only in colleges and then pro?”

Trev leans forward. “Blaze, what you’re
looking at here—these two yokels—is the most wasted potential in
all of the history of the NFL.”

I jump in.
“Er, hello? Is this
Trevor Perkins
talking? I mean,
the
Trevor Perkins? Five thousand two hundred yards last season
Trevor Perkins? Two times bowl champ—”

“
Yeah yeah yeah, Deck. I’ve heard all that.
But you know my stance—before anything else is education. You two,
now there’s a joke. You see, Blaze, it
is
possible to join the NFL without going to college.
And Trev and Skate here have more than a small chance of being able
to enter the draft—”

“
English, Trev.” I point at Blaze. “She
probably doesn’t know what the draft is.”

“
I don’t.”

“
See? It’s basically what you have to join
to get picked for the NFL.”

“
Like the army?”

We laugh. And I say, “
Exactly
like the army. Anyway, it’s complex. You
have to play at something called a combine, and then from
there
you get picked for the draft.
In short, there’s a whole scouting process—and they only look at
college—”

“
Bullshit!” Trev’s body is chilled, but his
voice is loud. “There
are
ways of entering, Blaze. And these dudes have been playing
ever since they left high school, so it’s even easier for
them.”

“
Anyway,” I say, “I don’t even know if we
qualify yet—”

“
Do the math,” Trev insists.

“
Huh?”

“
Do the math.”

“
Trev, it gets complicated when you don’t
go to college—”

He leans forward.
“Four seasons.”

“
What?”

“
If you don’t go to college, it’s four
seasons. Four seasons of the NFL must elapse for you to
automatically qualify.”

“
So that’s four years. We haven’t been out
of school—”

“
Damn it, you’re an obstinate
sonofabitch
.”

“
I was gonna say the same about
you.”

Trev turns to
Blaze. “I’m sorry, Blaze. It’s just that this
pinhead—this
supremely talented
pinhead—doesn’t even bother to
look
at his eligibility. He leaves school,
continues
to play ball, so he stays in
top shape—and the finest damned RB in the Major League—”

Blaze
frowns. “R-what?” She looks at me. “And you play in
the
Major
League? I
thought that’s what the NFL was.”

“
Trevor?” I gesture casually, like this
is
his
mess to
clean
.

“
You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Veering
off the subject?”

“
Very much.” I give him my best
grin.

“
RB is a Running Back. It’s a position.
Catches a lot. Runs a lot.”

“
Gets hit a lot,” I interject.

“
Ho ho ho! Not you, my man. You do all the
hitting.” Trev’s eyes are wild with excitement, no doubt thinking
back to the good ol’ days of us three playing together in High
School.

“
You were saying?” I gesture casually again
for Trev to continue.

“
Major League is not the same as the
NFL—the
National Football League
. That’s pro football. Then there are many
Semi Pro
leagues around. Deck and Skate
here play for one called the
Major League
—East Coast. Not very creative, but it is what it is. I
don’t know how many teams they have—”

Me:
“Nineteen. From New York, Connecticut, Jersey, and
Penn.”

“
Nineteen teams. So, Skate and Deck here
play for a local Brooklyn team. The
Bluebirds
. Top of their division.”

“
Wow—”

I stop Blaze right away.
“
Division
. Not
the league. A league is broken up into several divisions. So,
Divisions are smaller. League champions this year were the Jersey
Wolves. They’re miles better than us. The only team to have won the
championship three times. Our team, the
Bluebirds
, well, we do well locally, but not when it comes
to competing at conference— Sorry, that’s like
several
divisions
. The point is:
We’re big fish in a small tub.”

“
I’m so confused.”

“
Basically, league is the biggest,
conference is second, and division is third. In terms of
size.”

“
OK, with you on that one.”

“
And the
Major Leagues
is not baseball, it’s football?”

“
Actually, that’s true. For whatever
reason, they called our league—the one the
Bluebirds
play in—the
Major League
. But it has nothing to do with Baseball. Not in this case
at least.”

“
Cool. I sort of get it. Carry on, Trev.
This is entertaining.”

My smile widens.
“It is, isn’t it?”

Skate cuts in the way he usually does: A
casual comment when no one thinks he’s listening.
“Pity that Brad dude had to
leave. We could’ve taken the cup with him, I’m sure.”

Trev:
“Who?”

I say, “Dude named Brad. Lifted shit for a
living. Real old school Bushwick type, thick accent. Fell in love
with a babe—I mean, a
girl
”—Blaze gives me a naughty smile—“from Park Slope and moved
over to England where her friend’s gonna marry some gazillionaire
Software Consultant of some sort.”

Skate: “You in touch with him? I mean,
Brad from Bushwick, not the gazillionaire.”

“
A little. We email every now and then. But
promises of winning a small-time league that you don’t even get
paid for don’t do shit to convince him to return to Bushwick now
that he’s sporting a suit every day of his life and pulling in the
big dough up there in...I forget the name.”

Skate raises a despondent eyebrow. Brad
was truly a monster on the field. Played one season with us.
But that’s how it goes in the
Semi Pros (which isn’t pro at all, purely amateur.) They come, and
they go.

Trev:
“OK, sorry I asked. But back to the point.” He looks at me.
“So, now pay attention.” Trev holds four fingers up.
“
Four
seasons. Then you’re
qualified.”

I tease him.
“You’ve really been researching this, haven’t
you?”

“
Four
seasons. We left school three and a half years
ago. You do the math.”

“
Skate, help me out. We finished
school...?”

“
June. Well, practically
August.”

“
Three and a half years ago.” I’ve got my
fingers out like an old-time abacus now. “See? This is why Trev’s
the only one of us who goes to college. So, Football season’s in
September, finishes December/January. So, that’s one season the
year we left.” Index finger up. “Next year, another.” Second finger
up. “Two years ago, three seasons.” It dawns on me. “Hell, we’ve
been out of school for
four
football seasons? Damn. Where did the fucking time
go?”

Trev sits back like he’s just imparted the
word of the holy book to his followers.
Hands behind his head. “Four seasons, Deck. We
been out of high school three and a half years. That makes it four
NFL seasons that have passed. And that makes you punks instantly
eligible.”

“
And you not?” Blaze asks.

“
Technically, yes. But I’m on a sports
scholarship, and colleges generally don’t hand out four-year
scholarships. So if I don’t play football, I got no education. And
I can’t pay for college. I deferred for a year, so I’m in my junior
year. I got one more year to go and I’ll have my degree. They’re
waiting for January fifteenth to come and go before they confirm my
scholarship for my final year.”

“
MLK’s birthday?”

“
No. I mean, yes, but that’s not why. It’s
the date this year that the commissioner—that’s the dude at the top
of the NFL—has set for all potential players to announce if they’re
entering the draft or not.”

“
The draft—where players get selected for
teams,” she says, checking if she’s following so far.

“
Right. And if you’re in college and you
announce you’re entering the draft, you can’t play college football
anymore. And I’m pretty sure Penn State won’t be so happy to have
me leech off them without playing ball this next
season.”