Silence. Then Klein sniffs. “Let’s just say I owe him a favor.”
Since he doesn’t just come right out and say my father handled his divorce, I’m guessing maybe my father agreednotto represent Klein’s wife.
“You had a decent season, Billy. Some great defensive plays and solid stats.”
“Thanks, man.”
“But that’s not enough to get drafted. Especially with your history.”
What the fuck does that mean? “Sorry? What do you mean by my ‘history?’”
“You have a reputation for partying and women. Combine that with being difficult to coach,and—”
“Whoa. Stop right there. I’m a fucking slave to my coaches, even when they’ve sucked ass. And if you’ve been watching the Broncos for the last three years, you’ll know we’ve been through a lot of bullshit. First, I got recruited by Coach Sullivan, who retired. His replacement my freshman year, Krugman, was a degenerate who was fired mid-season and is facing federal charges for accepting bribes. His replacement, Nicholson, accepted another offer after only half a season, and now we have Santos.”
“And what’s the problem with Santos? Why the beef between you two?”
I frown. “Why do you think we have a beef?” I mean, we do, but why the hell does Klein think this? I don’t exactly advertise that I hate my coach. During game days, I’m on my best behavior, and at practice, I bust my ass. Isn’t that enough?
He pauses. “You do know coaches talk, right?” Santos talks shit about me? “And even if they didn’t, I have two eyes in my head. I watch all of the interactions on the sidelines during games. I’ve watched him yell at you and wave you away. I’ve watched him ignore you when you try to talk to him. I’ve watched the smile drop off his face when you interact. You never get any pats on the back, even when you have a great play, and he scowls when your name is mentioned by the press.”
I’m a grown-ass man. I never cry, not even when I broke my hand in junior high from a bad tackle. But Klein’s words choke me up a little. Not gonna lie—I feel betrayed. I leave my heart and soul on the field every fucking day, and the whole world apparently thinks my coach hates me.
I clear my throat. “I’ll admit Coach Santos isn’t my biggest fan, but I do everything he asks me to do in practice. His dislike of me is more personal in nature than professional. I’m a workhorse on the field. Ask any of my teammates.”Except Ezra Thomas. Don’t ask him.
“So what’s the story? Why doesn’t Santos like you?” When I don’t say anything, Klein sighs. “If you want a glimmer of hope that I’ll represent you next year, I need you to be honest with me. Think of me like your attorney. This shit stays between us. Your coach might blab, but I don’t. I’ll never badmouth you.”
Fuck it. What do I have to lose? “Do you remember that blog, the Lone Star Stud Report? It listed out everyone’s personal shit. Football players’ girlfriends, hookups, parties, you name it.”
“I remember your hashtag.” Jesus Christ, that hashtag. You’d think I’d be flattered, but no one really wants to be nicknamed #Bigcock. “I also remember you being in the middle of that pool orgy.”
Wincing, I rub the back of my neck. “No one had sex in the pool.” I don’t think. “It was mostly skinny-dipping.” Did people hook up afterward? I mean, I definitely did, but that’s par for the course. None of us are celibate. Except for my dry spell these last few months, but Klein doesn’t want to hear about how I’m all hung up on a sexy little cheerleader. “Coach somehow thought I was responsible for the festivities, which was unfair. I’m the one who laid out a fishbowl of condoms. I encouraged safe sex. But ever since then, he thinks I’m out fucking prostitutes two at a time and snorting coke or some shit. For the record, I’m not.”
Klein laughs darkly. “Listen to yourself. You sound like a raging hormone. If I’m being honest, you have a lot going against you. You party too hard, you fuck anything with two legs…” Not an accurate description of my sex life—I’m definitely discerning—but when I start to interrupt, he tells me to shut the fuck up. “Billy, you’re your own worst enemy. If you want to get drafted,you need to take this seriously. I don’t want to see any more photos of your face between women’s bare tits.”
Okay, yeah, that wasn’t my best moment. I want to tell him that I’m not being a shithead anymore, that I’m over my fucking around phase, but he doesn’t give me a chance.
“Get yourself a nice girlfriend.” Roxy immediately comes to mind. “Someone homely.” Uh, Roxy isnothomely. “Be seen around campus going on quiet dates.” Exactly what I want to do with her. “No more goddamn parties. No more random women.” I can handle that, but his next words make me freeze. “And for fuck’s sake, don’t get anyone knocked up because your reputation definitely can’t handle that.”
Shit. If I date Roxy, people will assume the kid is mine. Jinxy did.
When we get off the phone, my stomach cramps, and I can’t tell if it’s from throwing up or that call.
I’m starting to see how limited my options are after graduation. I’d rather get my scrotum lopped off with a rusty blade than work for my father. He’d give me some shit job where all the assholes at his firm, including my idiot older brother, think they can boss me around because I didn’t go to law school. Even if I wanted to be an attorney, I don’t have the grades.
And I can’t imagine getting a teaching job and spending my life in a classroom. Even if a school looked past what’s out there on the internet about me, I don’t really see myself hanging out with teenagers all day and instructing them on the finer points of history.
Never mind that I’m probably not the best candidate to play father figure to Roxy’s baby. My sperm donor is an asshole to my mom, who bitches at her if she dares to cop an attitude because he’s never home. I have no idea what a healthy relationship looks like, aside from a few of my friends who have girlfriends. But who knows if they’re going to last?
Maybe Roxy is right. Maybe us dating would be a bad idea.
As much as I want to tell the world to fuck off and be with the woman I’ve been crushing on, what the hell do I bring to the relationship if I’m broke and jobless?
My one shot at any kind of success is getting drafted. I might not love football the way I used to, but it got me a full ride to a good school and out from under my father’s thumb.
I collapse back in bed with a groan and toss my arm over my face.
I’m not sure what the future holds for me, but I have a sinking suspicion it does not include Roxy Santos.
