3. Cameron
THREE
cameron
I hate this part of the day. Class is over, practice starts in thirty minutes and my brain kicks on the anxiety.
It wasn’t always like this. Sure, practice has always been brutal. The wind sprints, the Oklahoma drills, the occasional vomiting when mid-eighties temps and Coach’s sadistic streak combine into stomach-churning misery. But I never used to care. This year, apprehension hits me in the gut as soon as my last class ends and my mind shifts into athlete mode.
The locker room is quiet today, reminding me I’m not the only one who feels the change. Reeve nods when I come in but he’s getting dressed silently, for once not in the mood to broadcast who he slept with this week. Lorenzo doesn’t look up from tying his shoes as I walk by. Even Cash, known as much for his enthusiasm as his solid running back skills, skips his trademark “Chin up, motherfucker” and chatters mindlessly about baseball stats while he changes a few lockers down.
It all comes down to two little words: the draft. Our entire football careers, it was the distant dream, the prize you focused on in those shitty moments when you wondered why you ever picked up a football in the first place. The future you swore was yours when you were riding high. But here we are. Junior year. We’re closing in on our last chance to prove who we are on the field. Everything we’ve worked for is right there on the horizon, just out of sight. Or else it’s not there at all and never will be.
Something in these last few weeks has turned the pressure that I always accepted as an athlete into a suffocating weight I can’t get out from under. It’s not the first time I’ve had mixed feelings about football. Senior year of high school I was burnt out and one bad game away from quitting the team entirely, and it wasn’t my love of the sport that stopped me, it was Reeve. Not an option , was all he said, but the subtext was clear: not senior year, not when you have colleges after you, and not when football is the entire foundation of your friendship with a guy who’s more like a brother.
This is different, though; it’s not burnout. This is love and hate, fear and need, a constant push and pull. I feel like I can barely breathe during those hours before a game, walking into the locker room, pulling on my gear. Then I step out onto the turf and play begins and my head clears, and I remember: Oh, right, I fucking love football.
It’s ones against ones and we’re running our newest plays. First play, I beat my man to the outside. Reeve hits me in stride going down the sideline, and nobody can catch me. On the next play, I pick on the safety. We run play action and I go to the post and tear right by everybody. Two for two. We line up again. This time, it’s a bootleg to the opposite side and I run all the way across the middle. Reeve finds me. I put a move on the first guy and split the other two defenders, and I score again.
Our offensive coordinator nods his approval. “Play like that on Saturdays, Forrester, and you might be on your way to breaking the record for touchdown catches in a season.”
I acknowledge his compliment, trying not to make too much of it, but I already hear the words echoing in my head, where they’ll stay all week, reminding me my big plans might not be all that far out of reach.
We’re walking off the field when an ugly voice pipes up behind me. “Break the record for touchdown catches, huh, Forrester?” I turn to see the smug face of Mason Connery, a little shit of a backup receiver. “You got a long way to go before you beat my brother’s record.”
Mason’s older brother was a phenomenal wide receiver who graduated from Shafer last year and was snatched up in the first round of the draft. He was basically my idol freshman year. Too bad his younger brother inherited half his height, a fourth of his talent, and not a drop of his charm.
I give Mason a tolerant smile. “Spend a little more time on the game and a little less up your brother’s ass and maybe you’ll see some playing time this year.”
“Oh, yeah?” His voice is bitter; he’s getting ready to turn up the charm now. Mason never fails to make up for his small stature and shitty personality by being a complete asshole. “Maybe if you racked up a few more yards, that hot-ass girlfriend of yours would still be sucking your dick. Oh, sorry, ex -girlfriend.”
My shoulders tighten, but I force the tension back down. Mason’s not the first guy on the team to have something to say about my recent breakup with one of the most beautiful girls on campus.
“Bet she’s getting hungry,” he says a little quieter. “Maybe I’ll give her my number.”
Up ahead, Reeve and Cash are heading for the locker room.
“Good luck,” I tell Mason as I walk away. “She’s got a height requirement and you’re about a foot short.”
“Connery being mouthy again?” Reeve asks, eyeballing Mason over my shoulder when I catch up to him.
I nod. “Napoleon complex in full effect today.”
“Want me to smash him into a locker?” Cash asks.
“You do you. Nobody would miss him.”
Sometimes I feel bad for Mason. He walked onto this team thinking he was a big shot just because his brother was a stud. Even guys who gave him the benefit of the doubt early on are starting to turn on him. It’s painful to watch sometimes. But then he starts in on my ex sucking his dick, and suddenly it feels good to know that if there are two things that unite our team, it’s winning games and hating Mason.
I’m showered and half dressed, standing in front of my locker when my phone rings on the bench behind me. Busybody that he is, Reeve grabs it before I can see who’s calling.
“Hey, Minnie,” he answers, turning casually back to his locker with the phone pressed to his ear like my mom was calling just to talk to him. Which she probably was. Reeve lived with my family on and off through high school, so my mom is like his second mother. She’s definitely seen more of him than his real mom. It’s only as I’m walking out of the locker room and heading home that the two of them manage to wrap up the gabfest and Reeve hands me my phone.
“Hi, doll,” comes Mom’s melodic, southern accent.
“Hey, Ma. How’s it going?”
“Just fine, just fine. How was practice?”
“Good. Hey, before I forget, did you get the patio thing resolved with the contractor?”
“Oh, he’s taking his sweet time, but he’ll get to it.”
“When, in January when the ground’s frozen? Just send me the dude’s number already, please? I’m sick of him jerking you around.”
“You threatening the man won’t see my patio finished any faster.”
“Yeah, I know, you catch more flies and all that. I’m not going to threaten him, I just want to remind him you have a grown son who’s not half as sweet and charming as his mother when she’s being taken advantage of.”
“Honey, dealing with a lazybones contractor is a piece of cake compared to what I’ve pulled myself through.”
“I know, Mom.” She’s walked through hell these last few years, and she’s managed to do it without her beauty-queen smile ever faltering, but if you know her well enough, you know that what my father did has changed her irreversibly. Maybe I can’t fix that, but I can get her patio finished sooner.
“I have other news for you,” she says brightly.
“Just promise you’ll send me the guy’s number if he doesn’t show up by the end of the week, okay?”
“Sure. Can we carry on now? I wanted to tell you I’m thinking of bringing a few friends to the game this weekend.”
I hesitate. I know where this conversation is headed. “I didn’t realize you were coming. It’s an away game.”
“I’m aware.”
“That’s a three-hour drive.”
“We’d make a weekend of it. I’ve been talking you up to my girlfriends, and they’d love to catch a game.”
“Fine by me, but if you’re looking for a guaranteed win, this one isn’t it.”
Heavy silence. “Oh?”
“They’re ranked number three, Ma.”
“I know what they’re ranked.”
“So it’ll be a tough game; their receiver is probably best in the nation.”
“I see.” I can hear the wheels turning in her head. A game where her son doesn’t dominate every second he’s on the field? And with friends there to witness? Bad news. “I wonder if perhaps this isn’t the right weekend for a game.”
“Your call, Mom,” I tell her. “I’m almost home so I’m gonna go. Just let me know about tickets.”
“Sure thing, I’ll think about it. Love you, doll.”
She doesn’t need to think about it; she’s not bringing anyone to a game where I don’t shine bright enough to justify her constant bragging. I couldn’t care less if my mom’s friends see me up against a better athlete. What I can’t do is let my mom down, not after everything she’s put into my football career and not after the shit she’s been through. My mom deserves to see a dream come true.
It’s just too bad her only dream is me signing a pro football contract. Because the closer I get to the end of my college ball career, the more I worry it might all end right there.