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THIRTY-THREE

cameron

We’re halfway through football practice when I realize something’s up with Mason.

He’s on the sidelines with a few other backups, watching me out on the field. We’re working on a new play, and Reeve throws a great ball that I proceed to drop. Mason’s got the perfect opportunity to pull out one of his recycled insults, but nothing comes.

I steal a glance at him. I can tell he’s trying not to look at me.

Now that I think about it, he hasn’t said a word to me since the game on Saturday, and that doesn’t sit well. One show-stopping play doesn’t erase the ugly memory of my mistakes. If Mason told me I played like shit for 90 percent of the game, I couldn’t argue. I almost wish I hadn’t returned that kick for the game-winning touchdown.

Okay, that’s a lie. Thank god I did. Thank god I gave those scouts at least one reason not to forget my name. But I don’t deserve the praise I’ve been getting since Saturday, and everyone who knows football knows that. That A-plus ethics essay is my future, not this game.

Coach yells at us to do it over. We run the play again, and this time, I snatch it with one hand. I look at Mason. He gives me a quick nod like we’re old buddies or some shit. Who is he kidding?

Fuck you , I mouth because I know he can’t resist. But Mason looks away, pretending not to notice.

That’s it. Something’s up.

All I can think of is the Sasha photo. If that’s what Lenni was talking about, it means Mason—or one of his slimy friends—let that photo get beyond the locker room. He knows how easily I could pin it on him. He’s trying to fly under the radar and not piss me off.

Meanwhile, I’m still hoping to hell that the rumor Lenni heard has nothing to do with Sasha or Mason or anyone I know.

Our offensive coordinator blows the whistle, and we head to the sidelines to let a few other guys take the field. I take up position next to Mason, who doesn’t look at me.

“Question for you,” I say, quiet enough that no one else can hear us. “Where’s the picture of Sasha?”

“I deleted it.”

“After you sent it to how many people?”

He scowls. “I did what you told me. It’s gone.”

“You realize if it gets out, she’ll know exactly who to blame, right?”

“Who said I took it?”

I stare at him. I’d be an idiot to believe anything this kid says, but how dumb was I to assume that picture was proof he slept with Sasha? They acted like strangers the other day after the football meeting. I should have known it then.

I spit on the ground. “You never fucked her, did you?”

He still refuses to look at me, but he keeps blinking, and that drop of sweat slipping down his face definitely wasn’t earned on the field.

The whistle blows. “Connery!” Coach yells. “On the ball!”

“Fucking dirtbag,” I mutter as Mason takes off toward the field.

So the picture probably didn’t start with Mason. Which means Lenni’s right about athletes passing around photos. My athletes. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

After practice, Coach Haskins orders me into his office. I sit across from him, and he looks at me, his crooked fingers tented under his chin. His face is serious, contemplating me. I look back, keeping my face carefully impassive like my high school coach taught me to, but now I’m worrying about that stupid picture and whether I’m about to be interrogated.

“Saturday wasn’t your best game, was it, Forrester?”

“No, sir.”

“But you showed up when we had to have it—made the biggest play in the biggest moment. That’s the mark of a special player.”

“Thanks, Coach. I guess I caught a lucky break.”

“No, that’s just it, it wasn’t luck. You laid your talents out there and those scouts saw it. No one else grabbed their attention like you did on Saturday.” He leans forward and hammers his fist on the desk. “You proved you’ve got the talent to make winning plays. That separates you from the field.”

Pride pumps through me hearing the excitement in his voice. Coach has his ups and downs with other players, but he’s always been pretty even-keeled with me; a little praise, a little criticism, but never much excitement either way. Seeing him animated about my performance feels like a wake-up call. I can make things happen. If I want to play pro badly enough, I’m the only one stopping me.

“But you’ve got to be more consistent, Forrester. All the talent in the world isn’t worth jack if it can’t be counted on when we go to you on that last drive.”

I nod. “I don’t know what happened to me.”

“You were asleep, that’s what happened, and I don’t really care why. You got something on your mind? Get rid of it. Personal problems? Nobody cares. You’re an intelligent kid, son, but you need to learn when to turn off the thinking and just perform.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stares at me, eyebrows raised like he expects a more impressive answer. “I mean now. Today! Before you blow the opportunity being handed to you.”

“I hear you, Coach. I won’t be bringing any bullshit onto the field.”

He nods. “What I like about you, son, is as long as you put on a great show on the field, I don’t have to do a damn thing else to make you look good. When those scouts come through and want to interview the staff about you and what sort of character you have, I know they’re gonna walk out thinking they’ve found someone rare.”

After he releases me, I linger in the locker room. So Coach thinks I have character. Funny. What would someone with actual character do in my situation? Tattle on Mason and open the entire team up to scandal? Or do nothing and pray no one ever sees that photo again?

I could go to Coach Haskins, or maybe my offensive coordinator—he’s easier to talk to—and tell them what I know. Maybe that’s the right thing. But what do I actually know? Nothing. Zero facts to go on. Which leaves me to do what...launch an amateur investigation?

I head out to the parking lot, wrestling with the unfamiliar feeling of wishing I wasn’t seeing Lenni tonight. When I think of her, all my uncertainty solidifies into a weight that drops straight into my stomach.

I wait all day for the nights and all week for the weekends when I can touch Lenni and wake up next to her and breathe her in. When I’m with her, all the bullshit that swirls in my head is just problems to be dealt with, nothing more. When I’m near her, everything is okay. When I see myself in her eyes, I like what I see.

But tonight I feel like I’m dragging Mason and his mistakes home to her, and I can’t think of anything worse than the two best and worst people in my life converging into a shitstorm.