Chapter 15
Zach
How the hell can I have this much homework already? It’s the second damn week of the semester, and my shit is overflowing. I throw my History and Foreign Language textbooks in my bookbag.
Looking around the dorm room I share with Tuck, I find myself smiling at our messy little slice of life. It’s small, it’s a disaster, and it smells like an old jock half the time, but it’s ours. No Lieutenant Colonel to order me around. No random spot checks. No hospital corners. Just pure fucking chaos, and I love it.
I nod to the librarian, Claire, as I pass her to head to the table that I’ve unofficially claimed over the last two weeks. Sitting at the large circular table, I spread out my texts, notebooks, and pens. Ready to tackle some of these assignments.
An hour later, only one assignment has been completed and I’m a blank canvas. All the scholarly knowledge I may possess ain’t nowhere to be found.
So, I do what I always do when I need to get my mind right. I pull out a blank sheet of notebook paper and start writing.
Little Bit,
Man, you would not believe how much homework you get in college. I thought Mr. Vale’s class was the be-all-end-all to mountains of lessons, but nope, Professor Allen tops them all. Dick face looking asshole. During his lecture yesterday, some chick was talking in my row, and he kicked ME out of class. Wouldn’t hear a fucking word of “excuses” from me about who was or wasn’t talking. So, not only does my history professor already hate me, but now I have to find someone to get notes from about whatever I missed after he kicked me out.
Honestly, I was hoping school would be kind of like RHS, with the teachers catering to the athletes. I’m not saying I wouldn’t do any hard work, but it would be nice to have a little bit of a break. My goose is cooked, sweetheart, between strength training, team meetings, practice, and assignments.
Here I am bitching about my course load, and you’re there. I miss yo–
“Oh, who’s Little Bit, Pretty Boy?” Morgan teases as she falls into the chair beside me with a thud.
I quickly shove the letter into my notebook, away from prying eyes.
“None of your fuckin’ business, nosey,” I answer, good-natured amusement coating my tone as I reach my pen over and tap the back against the tip of her nose.
She slaps my hand away in jest, “Aha! Pretty Boy’s got a girlfriend.” She cups her mouth and sings, “Pretty Boy and Little Bit sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-N-G.”
I swat at her arm and shush her, “What are you, five? Act like you got some damn sense, woman. We are in a library, for God’s sake.” I chance a look at Claire, who is indeed staring daggers at me and my uninvited friend. I ain’t gonna let her ruin the good rapport Claire and I got going on. I kick her shin in warning when she continues loudly giggling.
“Ow, what the hell, Pretty Boy?” she grumbles.
I shoot a pointed look toward the librarian. Morgan meets Claire’s death glare and shrinks back in her chair, holding her hands up in apology.
“I didn’t take you for such a goody-good.” She whispers.
I close my textbooks, gather my papers, and start putting everything in my bookbag. It’s clear there will be no more studying going on right now. “I ain’t a fuckin’ goody-good. I just wasn’t raised in a damn barn and have some respect for my elders,” I meet her eyes and wink at her so she knows I’m just giving her a hard time.
“Now, since you ruined my study time, how about you treat me to one of those yummy chocolatey shits you brought to Comp Ed a few days ago.”
“It’s called a Frappucino, you fucking caveman.” She retorts.
“Yeah, whatever, that. Get a move on, youngin’,” I shoo her with my hands out of the library, and we make our way to the campus coffee shop for a fucking yummy chocolate shit. I’ll be damned if you catch me ordering a fucking frappelattcino bullshit.
* * *
My muscles are screaming for rest. The tendons are wound so tightly that they may snap at any moment, but I refuse to stop. My body takes the punishment my mind can’t stand. I pump the bar again, down to my chest, bumping off the inflated muscle and back up to full arms-length, and over again.
Sweat drips down my face as the cadence of my heavy breaths echoes throughout the gym with each rep.
Just ten more, I tell myself.
It’s never just ten more. I’ll go until my arms resemble jello and shake from the relentless force. Each descent of the bar is another controlled plunge into my control and resistance. Down. Up. Down. Up. The war against the iron is long and hard-fought, but iron always wins in the end.
My arms tremble as I slam the bar back on the rack. The metal thunk reverberates throughout the room.
“Whoa, bro. Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning?” Tuck asks with a snap of his hand towel against my thigh.
I lay panting on the bench press pad, staring at the ceiling, waiting for my heart rate to return to a normal speed. I flip him the bird.
“Seems like someone needs to get some pootang,” he ribs, standing in the spotter area of the bench press, peering down at me. “Good news for you, we don’t have practice tomorrow. So your lame ass ain’t got no excuse for not coming down to the Pit with me and the guys.”
The “guys” make up half of our defensive line. From what I can tell, they’re mostly good dudes, but I haven’t made much of an effort to get to know them, except one: Keegan “Key” Hostead. Key is the Crimson Tide’s best defensive tackle, and he knows it. He’s a force to be reckoned with on the field—a wall of rage and dominance.
Off the field, he revels in belittling everyone around him. Carries himself with a disdainful swagger, and condescension drips from every smile he offers. Such a prick.
He’s the only teammate we hang out with that has a steady girlfriend and will still fuck everything that moves when we go anywhere while lying through his teeth to her. She has to hear the rumors. Hell, maybe she’s even seen some of the nudes that he saves proudly on his phone, and she still chooses to stay. Maybe she thinks she can cash in on an NFL payday if she rides his coattails long enough. Keep them jersey chasers far the fuck away from me. Little Bit is nothing like these desperate ball sluts.
I don’t like explaining what I have with Little Bit to anyone here, but both Tuck and Morgan know I’ve got a situation back in Alaska. I don’t like to talk about it, but I’m not interested in getting with anyone. Morgan accepted it as fact without any further conversation. Tuck is Tuck and believes having “hoes in different area codes” is okay. I just ignore him. He doesn’t push it too much… so far.
I reach for my water bottle on the ground beside me and pop the mouthpiece open. I give it a solid squeeze, sending a stream of cold water right into his face. I thrust myself into a sitting position before any of it can drip back onto me and laugh heartily at his shocked face.
“Fine. But you’re payin’ the fuckin’ cover this time, asshole.” I point my finger in his face as I agree.
The Pit is a local club. Of the dancer variety… Alright, it’s a titty bar. The bouncers are Crimson Tide fans – not many folks who ain’t around these parts– and forgo checking our IDs at the entrance. They don’t, however, wave the twenty-dollar cover charge to get in. Something about them supporting us all season long so we can support the dancers when we come in. All for a good cause, I suppose.
“Welcome back, fellas,” the burly, Billy Bob-looking bouncer says as he parts the blackout curtain covering the entrance.
We stand at the entrance, taking in the glowing strobing lights, neon attire, and poofed-up hair of the dancers and servers. The guys and I throw questioning looks at each other before the bouncer interjects, “80s night, boys. Music is a steady stream of hair bands. Drinks are two-for-one until 2 AM.”
We nod and make our way to a large booth in the center of the room.
A dancer gyrates against the floor-to-ceiling length pole on the stage. Her neon green bikini bottom glows under the black lights around the room. A beacon of sex and secrets, daring you to imagine what lies beneath. Her blonde Farrah Faucett-like hair bounces with each of her ministrations, her dewy skin shining like a radiant morning glow against the metal.
The dancer drops to her knees and crawls to the edge of the stage, her eyes locked on Jimmy Floyd, our defensive end. Like a lamb to slaughter, he struts to the chair before the stage. Heart full of hope, head full of lust, and hand full of cock and singles.
A server with waist-length brown pin-straight hair, dressed in a neon pink tube top with matching booty shorts and neon yellow fishnets, on roller skates, rolls over and sets a tray of cherries on the stage. She pops one in her mouth and sends a wink my way before rolling back to the bar.
Another server, dressed like the other girl, rolls up to our crew, “Hiya boys, welcome to the Pit. I’m your server for the evening, Chastity. Can I get y’all something to drink?” The group lets out a collective snigger at her stage name before listing their orders.
Picking up my Miami Vice, I take a tentative sip. The pineapple and cranberry juice pair nicely with the rum and go down smoothly. I have to watch it, or I may find myself inebriated by accident. This shit is delicious.
I excuse myself to hit the head. The long, dark hallway is a shocking contrast to the blindingly light bathroom. My eyes take a moment to focus. The walls are covered with titty shots. No faces. Light ones. Dark ones. Members of the IBTC with little chocolate chip-sized nipples. Tig ol’ bitties with large gum drop-sized nipples. And my personal favorite, sagging wrinkly ones with no discernable nipple to be seen. This place has seen all kinds, and they clearly don’t discriminate.
After I take a piss and wash my hands, I look at the man in the mirror. I look normal. My hair gelled and tousled to look like I just got out of bed. White tee, snugged tightly across my muscular chest, short sleeves wrapped firmly over my biceps that seem to bulge out of the thin material. Black ripped jeans, fitting like a dream down to my signature skate shoes. But my eyes. Melancholy lingers, and lightness is dimmed.
As I walk down the hallway, the speakers overhead blare out a ballad about a sweet cherry pie. The previously quiet and calm hallway fills with the raucous noise from the ever-growing crowd. Hooting and hollering for the girl on stage, who I gather is about to do some unsavory things with that tray full of cherries.
Debauchery and neon fill every corner of the club. Alabama may be on the Bible belt, but these girls keeping their bottoms on doesn’t stop the filth that goes on between clients from time to time. By the looks of things, Floyd hopes this will be that time. I watch with a smirk as he rises from his seat and makes his way to the stage. His fit form allows him to jump up with one hand on the stage with ease.
Floyd’s got one handful of Cherry’s tit and one of her ass when he’s tackled by one of the security team. Cherry quickly grabs the singles, still flowing slowly to the ground from the force of his takedown, before she scrambles to the back behind the red glittery curtain.
The security guy throws Floyd off the stage. He staggers as he tries to stand back up. The guy jumps down beside him and grabs him by the collar, “Y’all are done for tonight. Out!” He shouts at our group.
Tuck looks like someone just kicked his puppy as he gently pushes the dancer off his lap and adjusts his boner before sulking out after us.
“Can’t have anything nice, can I? Fuck, Floyd, I’m gonna have blue balls for a month. You’re such a dick!” Tuck complains as we pile into the bed of Key’s pickup truck and head back to campus. Laughter flowing in the wind behind us.