Chapter Two Cam
Chapter Two
Cam
“I’m the victim.”
I’m seated on the bench before the vacant field, arms knotted over my chest, the evening sun causing my skin to glitter a flattering golden sheen, probably.
At this point we’ve had our after-game meeting and the bleachers have been cleared of onlookers, leaving me to look at nothing but gaping emptiness under blazing fluorescent lighting.
A warm breeze combs across the green turf and white spray paint, cooling the beaded sweat along my hairline, and the heat radiating from my cleats is intense enough to fry the rubbery track under my feet.
Barnett rubs his gleaming bald head, his light-brown face drawn with weariness. “You punched another player, Morelli,” he mutters.
“He called me a bitch,” I point out. It’s the closest to an explanation he’ll get—I’m not going to tell him I had some weird PTSD war flashback.
“Look, Coach. I’m a big guy, so I have a lot of testosterone.
When someone disrespects me, it’s natural that my response is to punch him.
Haven’t you watched hockey? They’re duking it out all the time. ”
“You’re an eighteen-year-old high schooler, not a salaried hockey player,” Barnett says despairingly. “Also—and I’m asking this politely—please stop bringing up your testosterone when I speak with you.”
“I’m just defending myself.” I lean my elbows against the helmet nestled in my lap. Since the stands are cleared, there’s no audience to defend my appropriate reaction to being insulted. “I didn’t hit him that hard. He was barely bleeding.”
“The quantity of blood is irrelevant, Morelli.” Barnett looms over me with all of his five feet and seven inches, his expression contorted with severity. “This is the final straw.”
I blink up at him. “Final? Were there others?”
There’s a snicker behind me, and I whirl my head around. Mason Gray is standing on the track, hugging his clipboard, the breeze ruffling his perfectly styled black hair. Has he gotten prettier over the last two hours?
“Laughing about something, water boy?” I demand.
Mason gives me another pleasant, toothless smile. “I wouldn’t dare, quarterback.”
I whirl back to the coach and jam my thumb in Mason’s direction. “Shouldn’t he be sweeping the end zone or something?”
Coach Barnett tips his head back like he’s casting a silent prayer to the Heavens Above, then walks to the bench and fumbles through a bulky tote bag.
He pulls out a manila folder and tosses it into my lap.
“I was planning on pulling you aside after the game anyway,” he says darkly.
“Even before you decked another kid in the face.”
I flick open the folder and find my transcript staring up at me.
Health Science—C
English 12—D
Precalculus—F
World History—C?
Independent Reading—D
Gym—A
“Notice anything?” Coach Barnett asks.
“Crushing it in gym,” I say, grinning in triumph. “Hell yeah.”
Coach pinches the bridge of his nose. “Morelli,” he says, slow and deliberate, “you don’t meet the minimum-required GPA to play on the team anymore.”
He may as well have just spit directly into my mouth. “What the hell?” I snarl, shooting to my feet and causing my helmet to roll onto the field. “The year just started!”
“Yet you’re already failing courses. And now you’ve punched a person.”
“Again, he called me a bitch,” I point out, huffing. “I had to prove I wasn’t a bitch.”
Coach Barnett swallows another deep breath, like my mere presence is suffocating. “I can’t ignore this, Morelli. The school’s rules apply to everyone, even our leading quarterback. There needs to be a change, or this is your last game.”
The weight of his words comes crashing onto my shoulders, causing my knees to wobble.
Everything inside me screeches to a stop—my heartbeat, my blood flow, my breath.
“W-Wait,” I croak, raising my hands defensively.
“I don’t understand. That scout is going to be here in a few weeks.
If I don’t play, my chances of being recruited… ”
And getting a full ride…
I realize my fingers are trembling and my voice is hitching around my words. The confident, indomitable Cam Morelli isn’t supposed to snivel.
So I lower my palms and level my face.
“That’s why you need to get your act together,” Coach Barnett says, stroking his gray goatee in solemn thoughtfulness.
“You’re a late bloomer in the recruiting process, so this is your only chance to grab his attention now that you’ve met his height and weight requirements.
You’ve worked hard over the last couple years to get to this point, Morelli.
Very hard. It would be a shame if the reason you didn’t get an offer is because of your transcript. ”
I resist the urge to flop onto the turf and start writhing in frustration.
He’s not wrong. I’ve been working overtime, particularly this past year, to bulk my body and perfect my skills through training and conditioning.
If only I’d thrown myself full force into this sport freshman year, maybe I’d already be verbally committed to Alpine University.
Or maybe another few scouts would’ve taken note of me, and I’d be exploring my options.
But I didn’t. Because it hadn’t been my plan, up until sophomore year.
“I’m ordering you to get a tutor,” Coach Barnett continues, oblivious to my mental anguish. “And a therapist. God, please get a therapist.”
“A tutor?” I croak, ignoring the other sentences.
“Yes. A person who helps with schoolwork and—”
“I know what a tutor is.”
“Well, I can never be sure with you.” His bushy eyebrows tent with sternness. “Preferably a straight A honors student with a willingness to tolerate bullshit.”
To my utter horror, his attention turns to Mason Gray. I snap my head around so quickly that my neck cracks. Mason offers a timid wave and says, “Coach Barnett asked me about it before warm-ups. I’m happy to help.”
So he knew.
This slimy bastard knew.
My entire world is succumbing to the flames of Hell, wrought by the Devil Herself.
Was his rejection of my advances another way for him to escalate my upcoming misery he was clearly aware of?
Does he really hate me that much? “Stop,” I say, shaking my head.
“Please, fuck all of that, I’m begging you, anyone but him. ”
Mason’s lip crinkles down. “Why?”
“You said you’d rather be skinned alive than date me!”
“I did not.”
I groan, swinging back to Coach Barnett.
Football is the one thing I have after I forcibly carved my name into the varsity team last year despite never having played in anything but recreational leagues.
I’d known until now that I would probably excel in the sport if I devoted my life to it—I have raw talent, and that’s a fact nobody on the team can deny.
My current situation is the only proof that I’m not the same little brat I used to be.
My parents sacrificed everything to get me here.
My status on the football team is evidence that it was worth it, evidence that I can do something to benefit them for once.
I’m getting a goddamn full ride to play football in college. It’s my fault that we had to come out here, so I’m going to do everything I can to ensure I don’t plunge my parents into more debt, regardless of whatever turbulent inner feelings I have about college.
I can’t tell them I’ve failed. I won’t allow it.
I’ll do whatever the hell I need to if it means getting back on the field.
Mason steps between me and Coach Barnett, wearing that mild smile. “Don’t worry, Cameron,” he says, using my full name like the little jerk he is. “Together, we can boost your pathetic grades and get you off the bench.”
I nearly choke. “Pathe—?”
“I hope you’re excited to get started with your lessons,” he interrupts, his dark eyes glittering with innocence and hatred.
The fluorescent stadium lighting settling over the town gives his pale skin this infuriating, ethereal glow, like he’s descended from holiness to speak with me.
The detached gaze and cagey body language don’t add much to the “polite” atmosphere he’s aiming for.
“At this rate, you likely won’t graduate senior year, let alone touch another football. ”
I look at Coach Barnett in horror, waiting for him to address this outrageous accusation. He merely shrugs.
“You want to get back on the field, and I want to…help the team,” Mason continues in that soft voice, tapping his clipboard against my shoulder in an act of war.
I go to smack it, face gnarled with a scowl, but miss it by inches.
I swear his indifferent smile widens. “So let’s be respectful, okay?
There’s something commoners call hard work, and with it, you can accomplish anything. ”
I hunch over, because he’s dealing me blow after blow, railing his words into my chest with the force of curled fists. Coach Barnett doesn’t seem to care about the verbal mugging happening directly in front of him.
“Anyway.” Mason draws his clipboard into his chest. “Even if I have my reasons for helping, this offer is still one-sided. So, it would be nice if you could be my ride over the next few weeks. I found your number in the roster, so I’ll send you my address. Good night, Cameron.”
With that, he reaches for a backpack beneath the bench, slings it over his shoulder, and proceeds toward the locker room behind the end zone, leaving me bleeding out, my jaw hanging open, my eyes nearly bugged from my head.
Today is the worst day of my life.
Almost.
—
I’m not sure how I’m going to tell my parents about my issues.
I’m almost glad they took a day off from child-rearing, because it would’ve been worse if they had to watch me whack another guy in the face from the bleachers.
My dad probably would’ve vaulted onto the field just to wrangle me into a choke hold until I sputtered out an apology.