8 Chapter 7

Tyler

Not only do have I been avoiding my friends all weekend, I missed two match. I know that will hurt me later in the month when I have to pay the bills. But I was losing my shit, I swear I almost check myself in a metal hospital. I think my little sister—Jada noticed as well. She asked if I was becoming like mom cause I hadn't move from the spot I sat on my bed from some time—I was looking down at the sea glass, the one she kept close to her heart.

The unexpected visit for her, I shouldn't have let her in. I let her see the real me, I invited her into the shitting place I call home. When in comparison to her two floor mansion was nothing. I wish I could go back to that day, five years ago. I would never have begged my mother to take me to that boxing class. It was my 15th birthday, she promised me she would take me to wherever I wanted to go the month before. It didn't take me long to tell her I wanted to do boxing. I found the class one town over—there was non here.

She begged me to look for something else, told me boxing was dangerous. I got so mad, I told her I hated her and I wish I had a different mom. What I didn't know was that she couldn't afford the to pay—for the class and the bus ride. For the next four weeks she was hardly home. She took double shifts. Got a second job at the local bar.

The day of my birthday I woke up to the letter saying I was able to attend a lesson. My mother was at the end of my bed smiling at me. She looked happy as well. So that morning we dropped off Jada at day care and left to Todos Santo. I couldn't keep my excitement on my bus, I was telling her all the moves I wanted to learn, showing her my hand movements.

What I didn't expect was to meet her—Bella Thomson. I saw her in coffee shop. She looked angry and sad, I wanted to beat the fuck out who ever made her that way. I left my mom talking to the instructor and followed her. I didn't wanna seem like a creep so I waited outside the shop, I didn't exactly know what I was going to say to her but I just had to say something. I had to talk to, I had to find a way to make sure I see her again. Now I wish I stayed with my mom, I wish I never turned back. I wish I looked back a second later.

This first time I left the house after she came. I was inside all weekend, alone. Jada had gone to one of her sleepovers. To make sure my friends don't ask questions when they see, I tell them that I had to go out of town "Early college interview," I explain to anyone willing to listen. Nobody questions it. But to give my alibi an extra shine, I have Adriana—Addy, my girlfriend—tell everyone.

This is the first time I'll see my team since Bella told me what they did. I needed the time to digest what happened, and when the players begin to trickle into our chipped-wall locker room, I'm already there, hands on hips,one  leg flung over a bench. Our rusty lockers have so much graffiti, the color lies somewhere between gray and purple.

The place always smells of dust, piss, and poverty. Josh, James, Nelson, and the rest arrive before Coach Higgins. The fact he ain't here yet gives me pause. Coach is never late. Well, other than the time his wife went into labor. He was ten minutes late that day as he yelled at her on the phone. I close the door behind them and lean over the wall, crossing my arms.

"Care to explain the fuckery that was Friday?" They all stare at the ground. I'm not gonna tell them I knew, I knew why they did it. They were desperate. All Saints is not a bad team, but they usually get ahead because enough money is thrown into their shit like a mid-ranked NFL team. We have the talent, the motivation, the hunger.

"Cold feet," Josh spits out, looking around him for moral support. He lands on the bench with a thud, tugging at the beanie that secures his hair and letting it fall to his shoulders. "All the trash-talking and the pranks just got to us. It was the first game of the season and on their home field. The bleachers were all blue. It was just too much," he explains. "Other teams will always try messing with our heads."

I rub the back of my neck. "We can't let that shit get to us."

"Why?" Josh sneers. "Because you have a scholarship to a D1 college lined up and we all need to fall into place and make you look good? Shit happens. You missed the after game hangout. Is that how you're gonna be every time we don't meet your majestic expectations?" I stare at him, trying to keep my fists to myself. Josh is a linebacker.

He is talented but with a fuse shorter than a hamster's dick. Twice, he got into fights with players from the opposite team last year, and one of them ended with both players rolling under the bus that was supposed to take us home, kicking and screaming.

I know he frequents the snake pit, and that he's fought Knight a few times. I also know his dad doesn't want him to go to college. He's got an auto shop business to take over, so he ain't going anywhere. He was born in this neighborhood, and he'll die here, too. Senior year is his last chance before he kisses the football dream goodbye. "It's not about me." I bare my teeth, feeling white-hot anger climbing up my throat.

Although, I know part of it is. And so what if I want us to succeed? Every single motherfucker on this team will benefit if we win the league. There're enough scholarships to go around, especially when you're from my zip code. Just because Josh is too much of a pussy to stand up to his family and say no doesn't mean we need to look like shit.

"Leave it." James stands, putting his hand on my shoulder. "We'll do better next time." I shake him off, stepping toward Josh so we're nose to nose.

"Are we gonna have a problem this season, J?" He bumps his chest with mine, tilting his head sideways with a manic look glazing over his eyes.

"Sure hope so, man. Can't pass up a chance to fuck you up." If I head-butt him, I risk suspension. With my rich track record consisting of fighting people for food, cigarettes, drugs (done with that shit, BTW), and even football gear, I can't afford any slipups. I gave Coach my word I'd be on my best behavior this season, and he, in return, will give me a heads-up before the scouts arrive at our games or whenever a college asks to see my tapes. I assume head-butting a teammate would fall squarely in the realm of acting up.

"Keep talking like that, and I'll make sure you'll have to drink from a straw for the next few months." I shove my index finger into his face. And that's when his fist swings at my face. I duck my head and dodge it, then punch his lights out, acting purely on instinct.

He drops like a brick. James and Nelson drag him toward the bench to try to set him up and assess the damage. James punches a locker and curses. Then he turns around and pushes me against the wall, getting in my face. "You lecturing me about being a hothead? Really, Carter?  

The door flies open, and Coach Higgins blazes through it in perfect shit timing. Also on instinct, Nelson throws himself over a passed-out Josh, covering the asshole, who is probably still seeing stars, but more importantly—covering for me.

"Carter!" Higgins yells into the bowels of the locker room. His tan, round face is red, and his brown hair is everywhere. I hurry toward him, eager to push him out the door. "'Sup, Coach?"

"Don't use that slang with me like I'm one of your homeboys," he spits out, and I bite down a smile.

"Get your ass to my office." I follow his chubby short frame, wondering if Coach was a decent player before he started teaching.

Then I wonder if he's feeling bitter about having to train a bunch of people who were born with the right height and build and talent. I'm guessing we're going to have a hard discussion about the game on Friday.

He's going to bitch about it for a few minutes, and then we'll move on. In the four years I've known Coach, he's seen me at my worst—underfed and underdressed, zombie-ing around on zero sleep when I needed to work part time to make sure I had food in my stomach. He'll cut me some slack, as he always does, because he knows my life is in the toilet. Tucked between the lab and the restrooms, his office is decorated in yellows and browns.

He sits back behind his desk, and says, "We have a problem."

I fall into the chair in front of him, releasing a yawn. "Chill, Coach. It's just one game. Besides, I—"

"Ain't nobody talking about the game." He slaps the table with his meaty palm, roaring,

"I just got off the phone with Gabe Richard, All Saints High's principal. He told me about your little incident in his locker room last Thursday."

Dafuq? My mind reels with four thousand different questions. Why now? What happened? I can't get suspended. I. Can't. Get. Suspended. Fuck all the Richard and Joshes of the world.

"Spill it, boy." Coach laces his fingers together, cradling an invisible baby he's about to toss across the room.

I've never seen him so red in my life. Then again, the principal of the most affluent school in California has never threatened him before. "What, no beer and porn? I need to be in the right mood to talk about my sexcapades." I stretch my long legs.

"I hooked up with a chick from there. I didn't touch shit. Other than the chick."

"Bella Thomson," he clips, digging his fingers into his eye sockets in frustration.

"That her name?" I play dumb.

"You know her name, Carter"

Who the fuck doesn't? "Is she too princess for me, Coach? Think I should aim a little lower?"

"I think wherever you aim, don't do it in her direction unless you want your football career dying a sudden, painful death. I struck a deal with Richard, who seemed adamant about you not going anywhere near his school again unless in a professional capacity. I gave him my word that you will keep away from Miss Thomson and he, in turn, will overlook the fact you were trespassing."

She came to my house. I want to laugh in his face. But since volunteering this information is a no-go, I smirk. If he's expecting a thank you, or worse—any type of cooperation—he obviously hasn't been paying attention. It's not that I don't want to go pro—I do. Hell, it's my best chance to get out of this shithole.

It's that I don't listen to people like Richard, who only care about themselves and their dicks. If I've learned one thing about this life, it's that you can't let the bad guys win.

And Richard? He doesn't want me off Bella back because he's concerned for her. He's doing it because he wants her— I saw the way he looked at her.

"Tyler, give me your word," Coach probes, his ten-month pregnant belly poking out of the edge of his red Coach shirt we got him for Christmas.

"There's too much on the line, and there're a lot of pretty blondes out there. You'll be drowning in them at any self-respecting D1 college. Besides, think about Adriana." I tip my head down, gesturing with my open arms.

"You have my word, Coach Higgins, that I won't get suspended." He doesn't catch the semantics. Because to him, I'm just a dumb kid, and she's just one girl out of many.