Chapter 2 Reeve
TWO
reeve
“Reeve! Hey, man, nice game! Bring home the W for us this weekend, would you?”
I look up to see a guy in a red Shafer T-shirt pumping his fist in the air. Do I know him? Nope. That’s the way I like it, though. When a random stranger risks being ignored by the starting quarterback just to throw him a compliment, you know it means something. Of course, I never ignore my fans.
“Thanks,” I tell him with a nod and a smile. “Can’t win ’em all, but I can always kick ass.”
“Right on,” the guy says with a laugh that seems forced.
I forgive him, though. It wasn’t really funny, and besides, I didn’t kick ass during our season opener on Saturday. If I had, maybe we would have been able to overcome our embarrassing defense and pull out a win.
A familiar anxiety comes over me as I cut across the bright-green grass of Shafer U’s quad.
I’m in my senior year with this team, and we’ve never started off a season this badly.
We’ve only played one game, so we have time to make it up, but it’s been an ugly start.
And winning has never mattered more than it does now.
I’ve always known I was headed for the NFL.
And since my senior year of high school, so has every coach, teammate, and scout who’s watched me play.
I’m starting quarterback for one of the top-ranked teams in the nation.
I’ll make the cut. But my performance so far this season hasn’t exactly been first-round-draft-pick worthy; half my offensive line is recovering from offseason injuries, so I’ve been running for my life.
And anything less than a top-ten pick would be an embarrassment after the hype I’ve gotten since I enrolled here.
Nothing else I do could ever come close to my football skills.
Unlike some of my friends with perfect GPAs or awesome job prospects or a family business their parents are waiting to hand over, football is all I have.
So that’s how I know a year from now I’ll be in the NFL. Not because I’m the best QB this school has seen in decades. Because I have no other choice.
I try to get my head straight as I head to practice, taking a few breaths of warm, late-summer air and trying to enjoy them. Here in the Midwest, fall arrives early, exactly the way I like it. Screw summer, fall has been my favorite season since the day I picked up a football.
As I approach the football facility, I spot Cam, my best friend and our star wide receiver. He heads my way, not smiling. Cam’s been stressed about our big loss, too, but there’s an unusual tension etched into his face right now.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” I throw an easy punch at Cam’s shoulder, but he ignores it.
“Same old shit. Serena’s giving my mom a hard time again, and Mom wants me to talk some sense into her.”
“Minnie didn’t tell me that.” Minnie is Cam’s mom, but I basically consider her mine too.
I lived with Cam’s family on and off all through high school, and god knows Minnie Forrester did more for me in those few years than my own mother did my whole life.
We still talk on the phone at least once a week, and when I “go home” for the holidays, it’s Cam’s house twenty minutes from campus I’m talking about.
“She doesn’t want to stress you out,” Cam says. “Besides, she wants Serena off her back, not living in fear for her life.”
“I wouldn’t threaten Serena. I’d just give her a little friendly advice: Stay away from married men. And don’t fuck with Minnie Forrester.”
Cam’s family is like something out of a movie: wealthy, beautiful, seemingly perfect, but with some serious skeletons in the closet.
A few years ago, after Mr. Forrester died, they found out he’d fathered a kid with this chick Serena.
Cam has spent the last year trying to get to know his five-year-old half brother, Liam, and playing referee between Minnie and Serena.
“Yeah, except she’d never let me see Liam again. Serena requires a delicate approach.” He runs a tense hand through his wavy hair.
“You and the Superman stuff again, Cam. You’re too nice, you know that?”
“Superman, huh? And who would you be?”
“Whichever one gets the most pussy.”
We look at each other. “Batman,” we say at the same time.
Just outside the doors to the football facility, I catch sight of a cute blonde in a crop top. She’s smiling at me, one of those smiles.
“Hey, guys,” she says as she passes us.
“Hello.” I turn to get a good look at her as she walks away. “You know her?” I ask Cam.
He gives me a funny look. “Yeah, so do you. You made out with her all over my bed last year.”
“That was her? What, were you watching us from the corner?”
“You wish. I had to politely escort her into an Uber when you passed out, remember?”
“Nope.”
When we step into the locker room, it’s like walking into a brick wall. Tension sits heavy and thick in the air. No one saying much, no one looking at each other. But they look at me as I cross the newly carpeted floor toward my locker. I know what I have to do.
I stop in the middle of the room, where I’m in view of every guy in the place. “You weepy bitches all cried out or do I need to haul in another case of tissues?” I ask loudly.
A few of my teammates laugh, everyone knowing I’m joking.
But a few others turn away or glare into their lockers.
I walk up behind one of them—Bryce, a cornerback—and squeeze his shoulders like I’m about to give him a massage.
“Okay, baby,” I say soothingly, “cry into another pint of ice cream, and then we’ll try again. ”
A couple of guys laugh. Bryce shrugs me off, but I see him trying to bite back a smile.
That’s better.
Some of these guys take things too seriously.
No one on this team has more to lose than I do, but wallowing in self-pity?
Useless. It only holds you back, keeps you stuck in loser mode instead of picking yourself up and doing whatever it takes to ensure you never make the same mistakes you made last time.
Whether anyone says it or not, I know the guys rely on me to remind them of that.
Ask anyone what I bring to this team and they’ll give you some answer about killing it every time I step onto the field—and they’re right—but just as important to being an effective captain are my behind-the-scenes skills: keeping spirits up and reminding everyone when to let go and move forward.
“Okay, so we lost,” I say as I make my way to my locker.
Heads turn toward me, and what little talk was going on comes to a stop.
“We lost to a team that should have had no shot at beating us because we underestimated them. Sucks, but guess what? It’s over.
We spend a couple days walking around campus with our tails between our legs, and then come Saturday everybody and their mother forgets they ever witnessed us losing, because it won’t happen again as long as we’re the ones taking the field. ”
Guys nod and murmur their agreement.
“Next Saturday we kick ass,” I continue. “And the Saturday after that and the one after that and, what the hell, let’s continue it on into next season when my ass will be in the stands making sure you motherfuckers are keeping up the promise.”
“Fuck yeah,” someone says.
“We can go undefeated the rest of the season if we want to,” I say.
“How many teams can say that? We can be anything we want. No one has ever been allowed in this locker room who wasn’t capable of making a difference on the field.
Fuck school and girls and partying. We’re all at Shafer for the game, so don’t kid yourself.
Let’s fucking do what we came here to do already. ”
By the time we walk out onto the field, the mood has lifted.
A couple of guys clap me on the back or send me quick nods of acknowledgment, their faith in themselves and the team restored.
It’s gratifying, but you know what none of them ever think to do?
Tell me the same thing I just told them.
Not that I need anyone telling me they believe in me no matter how bad I fuck up; I’ve had to believe in myself from the start. But, you know . . . it’d be nice.
Practice goes well. My shoulder, which felt off during Saturday’s game despite my trainers finding no issues, feels normal, which is a massive relief, and our defense appears to have learned a thing or two from the weekend’s embarrassment.
After practice, Cam heads off to have dinner with his girlfriend, and I turn down an invite from some of the other guys to grab a bite at the student union. I’m hungry, but I’ve got shit on my mind and I like to do my worrying in private. The last thing I like to be is a downer.
“QB!” a familiar voice calls out as I cross the parking lot and head for my old Bronco.
I turn to find my buddy Lorenzo jogging to catch up with me. “Looking spry, old man,” I tell him. Lorenzo’s a few months into recovery from shoulder surgery and hoping to play at least a few games before our season ends.
“Where are you hurrying off to? Let’s grab some food.”
“I was gonna go home and study.” I hesitate. “But—”
“Don’t let me stop you. I wouldn’t want to get on your tutor’s bad side.”
“Eh, I can charm her if I need to. Let’s grab dinner.
Viaggio’s?” Between being sidelined with an injury and dealing with relationship drama, Lorenzo’s been down lately, and I don’t want to say no.
Besides, falling face-first into a huge plate of chicken Parm from Viaggio’s, this Italian spot off campus, sounds too good to pass up.
“Let’s do it.”
“So how sick are you of sitting on the sidelines? You looked about ready to break a tooth watching Lopez miss his reads today.”
Lorenzo runs a hand absently up his tattooed arm and squeezes his healing shoulder. “Dude, you have no idea. It’s torture. You looked good out there, though. You feel good?”
“My shoulder didn’t give me any trouble after that weak showing in Saturday’s game, so that’s good.” I replay the highlights from practice in my head. “Still, I probably should have looked better today. Did you see how late I was getting the ball out on that one throw?”
“A little late. The rest of them were pretty damn good.”
Pretty good, maybe. Too bad pretty good doesn’t mean jack right now. I need to be on fire. Flawless. Perfect. Everything’s on the line now, and that performance I put up on Saturday means a huge opportunity wasted.
It kills me to have to wait all week to paint over that memory.
That means five more days where the latest news on Reeve Dalton is “mediocrity,” and I’m not used to that.
My life has had a lot of downs with a few ups now and then, but when it comes to football, every day has always been better than the last. I can’t let that change now.
We hop into the Bronco and I slide the key into the ignition, but she doesn’t start. Nothing unusual there.
I turn the key again. And a third time. When nothing happens, I know I’m fucked.
“Dead again?” Lorenzo asks.
I pound my fist on the dash. “God fucking damn it. I thought I fixed this.” I have enough knowledge about cars to get the Bronco going probably half the time she gives me trouble, but my skills only go so far. “I’m going to have to get her into the shop.”
“You want to call a tow?”
“If I could afford it.”
“I’ll spot you.”
“I have no income right now, man.” I blow out a breath. “Let me open the hood and see what I can do.”
Lorenzo stops me before I can hop out of the car. “Let me call a tow. Pay me back next year when you’re signing that multimillion-dollar contract, okay?”
I rub the back of my neck, which is hot with embarrassment. “Thanks, Lor.” Maybe I will be pulling in millions next fall, but next fall might as well be a million years away for all the good it’s doing me now. I need a temporary fix, and I need it now.