Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2) (17 page)

T
wo days later
, I’ve added a second workout to my routine in order to sweat off some of the tension that not fucking is creating. Jerking it at home while I fantasize about Lucy isn’t working for me. I know what it’s like to be inside her, and my dick is treating my hand like I’m betraying it. I remind myself to be patient. She’ll come around.

After watching a wedding show one night, I got invited back for a second round of shows—this time a cooking competition. It didn’t matter what was on television. We could have been watching
Sesame Street
and I would’ve been happy.

Lucy’s eyes hardly ever stray far from me. I sense she’s on the verge of making a decision, and based on the number of times she’s invited me over, my guess is that fortune will fall on my side of the scale. Until then, I plan to tire my body out as much as I can.

Judging by the crowded room, it appears quite a few members of the team are feeling a little anxious about the upcoming Signing Day. There are twelve scholarships being offered, and the quality of recruits we’re getting at Western is better every year. This year? After we just won the National Championship? After Masters was on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
? The national media is watching us, and for a guy who wants to play at the next level, that is influential shit. Everyone wants to be a Warrior.

“Goddammit, Fozzy, watch where you’re going,” Hammer chides when Fozworth Royce, our three-hundred-pound carrot-topped center, brushes by him as Hammer’s setting down his weight bar.

“Why don’t you get out of the fucking aisle,” Fozzy mutters.

“I’m standing in the middle of the pad, Foz.” Hammer points to his feet, which are, to his credit, planted in the center of one of the large mats lining the floor in front of the wall of mirrors.

“You are now,” Fozzy replies sullenly as he walks away.

The sound of Jeezy’s “Seen It All” rocks in the background, punctuated by the grunts of about forty guys. We’ve got a week until Signing Day and then our asses have to be back in practice.

I spot Ace and Jack over in the corner, throwing a weighted medicine ball at each other. Bishop and a couple of his boys are doing box jumps. I turn back to Hammer, who’s still glaring at Fozzy’s back.

“Taylor Swift it, man,” I order.

“What the hell does that mean?”

I shake both my hands. “Shake it off.”

“You’re spending too much time with the girl squad.” Hammer leans over to start another rep of squats.

I lie back on the bench and continue my fly exercises. “Gee, sit around in the stench of passed gas and sour beer or watch television with three babes who smell like a candy store and look better than a Vicky’s Secret runway show. Can’t imagine why I’m hanging out with Luce and her roommates. Admit it, bro. You’re sour because they haven’t invited you back.”

“I think you’re being selfish, keeping them to yourself,” he whines. “I’ve got another list I want to run by them. This time I’m working on the top ten foods that look like dildos.”

“No. Not happening.”

“Okay. How about a list about the euphemisms for a girl’s cooch? I’m guessing sausage casing would be out. I can already see the brunette screwing up her little nose at me. Say, she dating anyone?”

“Charity? Nah, I don’t think so.”

“You oughta hook me up.”

“Who’s hooking who up?” Darryl asks.

“Matty’s girlfriend has two hot roommates. I think one of them should be doing me.” Hammer takes a break and swallows a half gallon of water.

“Matty, bruh, I didn’t know you were dating anyone,” Darryl says. He leans against the bar above the bench while I glare at Hammer. He’s going to jinx the whole deal.

“It’s early stages yet.”

“Is Masters contagious or something?” Darryl asks warily. “I never thought I’d see the day that you’d be dating someone. I guess that means more at the Gas Station for me.”

Stung, I bark back, “I’m not a poon hound. I haven’t dated anyone lately because I hadn’t met anyone worth dating.”

“Then introduce us.”

“No way.” I wipe my forehead with a towel. I’m trying to convince Lucy that I’m a decent guy worth risking her time and energy on. I bring these yahoos to the party and even though they mean it out of love, I’m already cringing at the types of embarrassing and unsavory stories they’ll trot out in an effort to impress her with their not-so-great wit.

“What the fuck, Foz? I have water up my fucking nose,” Hammer yelps. When I look up, the rest of Hammer’s water jug has been emptied over his face and chest. “Watch where you’re fucking going!”

I deduce by the water and the position of Foz at Hammer’s elbow that Fozzy must have bumped Hammer while he was drinking and the water splashed everywhere.

I wait for Fozzy to apologize but he doesn’t. Instead he takes the nearly empty jug, walks calmly over to me and dumps the rest of the contents over my head. I rip the plastic jug out of his hand and wipe myself off, counting silently to ten, before snapping. “What is your problem today? Your jock a little tight after one too many of momma’s cookies at Christmas?”

“You fucking defensive players. You think you’re so hot. That you won the Championship last year.” Fozzy leans closer, so close I can smell the meat he had for lunch and it’s not good. I shift away. He follows like a dank stalker. “That game that we lost last year. That was you guys fucking up. The offense scored thirty-five points. All you guys had to do was make one stop but instead, you allowed the team to score. A team that we embarrassed the year before. If anyone needs replacing on this team, it ain’t Ace.”

I look past him to Ace, who’s standing over in his corner looking smug as fuck. Doesn’t he get that this is bad for the team? No matter what happens, we can’t be fighting like this.

“Fozzy, we’re one team. We’re not offense or defense. We’re one team, and we win and lose based on the team effort.” I reach for patience, wondering how in the hell we’ve come to this point. Not once during last year, even during games the offense managed only a couple scores, did our D grumble about the offense. We all worked hard and that’s what mattered. What happened to measuring that? I wave toward Jack. “Hell, Jack’s almost part of the defense what with his sister and Masters getting married. One team, Foz.” I stand up and punch him in the shoulder. Not as hard as I want, but hard enough for him to know I didn’t appreciate my surprise bath. “Save the water for your gut next time.”

“If we’re really one team, why aren’t you standing up for our boy Ace?” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. Ace is now leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring back at me.

The whole room is staring back at me. Fuck me. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. Can’t this team just carry on like it did last year? What difference did it make who was sticking his hands under Fozzy’s ass? It
is
the damned defense that carries this fucking team. I take a deep breath before I spew all my shit out onto the weight room floor. Voicing these sentiments might win me favor with the defense, but the stuff I told Foz was true. We rise and fall as one.

“I’m standing for the team,” I tell Foz. I tell them all. “The Warriors stand together. They fight together. Or we lose…together. It’s not about one player. It’s about all of us.”

“Then you don’t stand for Ace. Well, fuck you then.” Foz spits at my shoes.

Hammer has had enough. He lunges for Foz. I can’t get up from the bench fast enough to stop the clash. Foz swings at Hammer. Hammer goes low and knocks him backward. Darryl throws himself into the mix and soon, it’s defense against offense. There’s pushing and shoving and fists are flying.

Bishop runs from across the room and launches himself, Iron Man-style, onto Fozzy’s back. Fozzy starts swinging the smaller man around like a cape. Visions of weight benches and racks tipping over causing serious injury flash before my eyes like some kind of nightmare on Elm Street, gym version.

I wade in and start throwing guys to the side.

I finally make some headway through the mass of bodies when someone’s fist glances off my chin, and I have to take an extra moment to prevent myself from introducing
my
fist into someone else’s face. In the space of that moment, it all goes to hell again until Coach walks in.

He blows the whistle long and hard, and like the trained animals we are, we snap to attention.

“
What in tarnation is going on in here
?”

I heave Roberson off my chest and stagger to my feet.

No one answers the coach. He eyes Ace, whose hair is mussed but other than that looks like he wasn’t touched. I don’t know whether to be impressed that the O-line did its job protecting him even in the weight room or pissed off that his pretty-boy face doesn’t have a scratch on it.

“Anderson, care to tell me why in the blue hell half your line is on the floor looking like they’re about to host a goddamned Greek orgy?”

Ace folds his arms across his chest.

Coach turns to me. “How about you, Iverson? Got anything to say for yourself?”

Nothing you’d like to hear
. I swipe a hand across my mouth. It comes away bloody.

He spits on the floor in disgust. “You two are clowns.” He swings around and eyes every player in the room. “Maybe I should replace the whole lot of you. None of you have guaranteed scholarships. You boys better whip yourself into shape real quick or you’ll be paying for the rest of your college career instead of enjoying the free ride that Western so kindly provides.”

What bullshit. Western gets millions of dollars from us. Our bowl games fund academic scholarships and music shit and art shit that is totally unrelated to football. And Coach? He wouldn’t enjoy his three million a year if it weren’t for us and our backbreaking efforts. My throat aches from swallowing all those thoughts down.

Still no one stands up to him because he’s Coach.

“Ace, you’re the hotshot quarterback. Rein in your boys. And Iverson.” He turns back to me.

“Yeah?” I know whatever he’s going to say I’m not going to like.

“You got a lot to prove this year, and so far you look like your pants are around your ankles. Maybe the defense was good because Knox Masters was the leader in the locker room. I guess we’ll see this year, won’t we?”

I haven’t been embarrassed in a long time. Not like this. Now my cheeks burn with the way he’s dressed me down, implying I was only good because of Masters. What about my average of thirteen tackles per year? Or the sixteen in the championship game along with the sack at the end? Those count for shit, huh?

I’m going to need to see a dentist from all the grinding of my teeth that I’m doing right now.

Coach isn’t even done. “It’s fucking embarrassing to walk in on this shit. What if I had a recruit with me? You two start working together or you’ll both be holding clipboards come this fall. And that goes for the rest of you yahoos. Get lifting. This isn’t some retreat, motherfuckers. This is the home of the goddamned Western State Warriors. You start acting like the repeat champions or get the fuck out.”

He storms out, slamming the door behind him. The room is dead silent. I hadn’t even noticed before but someone turned the music off halfway through Coach’s rant.

It takes a moment to shove his boot out of our collective asses, but one by one we go back to our tasks. I sneak a glance at Ace who’s glowering in my direction as if I’m to blame for all this.

Hammer nudges me. “Dude, you gotta fix this. You’re the only one who can.”

And by me, he means Lucy.

Fuck me, but I think he’s right.

A
fter years
of never seeing him, Matty has been everywhere. He hung out at the apartment, watching our shows without complaint. He sat in the Brew House, drinking hot cider and studying. Sometimes, his friend Hammer came with, but more often than not, Matty was alone. He said the smell of coffee was growing on him. Hammer whispered loudly that coffee wasn’t the only thing growing on Matty.

I presume he meant me and not some terrible fungal infection.

Matty often waited until I was done with my shift and left at the same time. He held the door for me and asked how my day was, whether I’ve eaten, and how I was feeling.

I mumbled some kind of response under my breath, but hurried away like the coward I professed I wasn’t. But I’m afraid to talk to him, afraid that if I look into his blue eyes, I’ll lose all my self-control. Because every time I close my eyes, I see him.

Every night I feel him moving inside of me, over me, under me. The imprint of his hands on my skin, his mouth against my lips, haunts me. One night? I don’t know how any woman can be okay with having a single night with Matthew Iverson.

For the last three days, I’ve brooded. But I’m done with that. I’m going to jump off the cliff and hope he catches me because he’s in my blood now. It may be foolish and reckless, but I know exactly what kind of reward is at the bottom of the canyon.

“Lucinda!”

My head snaps up to see the faces of half my mock trial team frowning at me. It takes me a moment to collect myself because I’ve spent the last ten minutes staring out the window daydreaming about Matty.

“I didn’t catch that.” I pretend like I was paying attention the whole time.

“I’d like to reserve any remaining time for rebuttal. Is that right?” Heather asks.

“Yeah, that’s the right language.

Randall, acting as judge again, nods his head regally. Heather turns to the chairs we’ve set up as our mock jury. Tonight our practice group consists of just Heather, Randall, and me—we’re practicing cross-examinations and arguments. Randall already gave a really amazing opening statement, but Heather’s been struggling.

This is the third time she’s run through it and each successive attempt is more boring and more pedantic than the last. When she’s done after only using five minutes of her allotted eight, Randall’s head is lying on the desk and he’s mock snoring. No wonder I drifted off. I shift anxiously in my chair. I can’t wait to get out of here to tell Matt that I’m ready. Hopefully, the offer is still open.

“What’s wrong now?” Heather exclaims. “You told me the closing has to include me listing off all the evidence.”

“We don’t have time for you to list all the evidence, just the important points. But more importantly, this is
argument
,” I stress, trying to hurry Heather along. “You need to be convincing and persuasive.”

“Why don’t you do you do it if it’s so easy!” Heather stomps past the counsel table and throws herself into a desk chair.

“Heather, come back. I’m sorry if I was too critical.”
How about you grow a thicker skin?
I want to say, but I bite my tongue. She appears on the verge of tears, and the last thing I want to do is destroy her confidence.

“Why don’t you show her?” Randall suggests. “Just do a quick closing.”

“I don’t do closings,” I remind him.

“But you’re okay with criticizing the hell out of mine,” Heather shouts.

I shut my eyes and count to ten so I don’t leap out of my chair and throttle her. I can do a closing if that’s what she needs. I do them in my sleep. I just can’t do them in a competition.

“Come on,” Randall cajoles.

“Fine.” I stand up and take Heather’s abandoned spot in front of the chairs. If I do this, we can all leave.

“May it please the Court.” I gesture toward Randall. “Opposing counsel.” I pretend Heather is the attorney for the other side, which is easy because I feel we’re oceans apart on the concept of an effective closing. “Members of the jury.” I face the chairs. “We have asked you to sacrifice a day out of your life, and your sacrifice does not go unappreciated. One of the greatest strengths of our legal system is that we are allowed to bring our disputes before a jury of our peers. No matter how thin our wallets are, no matter our position in society, under the eyes of Lady Justice, we are all the same. We thank you for what you have done today and what you will do on behalf of our client, Emily Hartog.”

“Do I really have to go through all of that?” Heather interrupts. “Because I could thank everyone in one sentence. Yo, peeps, thanks for your attention. Here’s why you should find in our favor.”

I grit my teeth. “No, Heather. You do not have to go through all of that. Do it your own way. Make it your own, but sell the jury on the fact that you are truly grateful for their presence here. We don’t want them pissed off.”

“Fine.” She imperiously waves her wand. “Go ahead.”

Randall bangs his pencil against the desk. “Proceed, counsel.”

“Thanks.” I scowl at both of them. I take a deep breath, gather my thoughts and pick up where I left off. “In the Old Testament, the Jewish people were required to sacrifice a lamb for their sins on a yearly basis. But the lamb that was chosen was special. It had to be a lamb with the nicest wool, the best-looking hooves, the clearest eyes, and the strongest gait. It was, after all, a stand-in for the Lord and therefore must be as perfect as a human-raised lamb could be.”

Randall and Heather are watching my every move now, hanging on every word. I hide a smile of confidence. This story gets people every time.

“The leaders were charged with picking out the lamb, and once chosen, the tribe would cast their sins upon the back of that lamb, that perfect creature. They would confess their cheating, their envy, their blasphemies, and then the leaders would drive that blameless lamb out into the wilderness. It is from that practice we derive the word ‘scapegoat.’”

Heather sucks in a breath, and I give her a nod of acknowledgment.
This is how you do it.
A movement in the back of the room catches my attention. My eyes widen at the sight of Matty. With a tip of his head, he silently asks if it’s okay that he’s here.
Is it?
I ask myself. Why not? It’s not like he’s judging me.

I turn back to the fake jury, but my attention is still on the back of the room. I can feel his eyes on me as I spread my hands and once again argue for my client. “Ms. Hartog is the scapegoat for IMC. They designed, produced, and assembled a faulty ice resurfacing machine. Instead of accepting responsibility for this, they want to place the blame on Ms. Hartog, citing operator failure, but the evidence clearly shows that even if Ms. Hartog operated the machine perfectly, the brakes still would have malfunctioned, she still would have been injured, and we would still be here today asking for the same thing—for IMC to be brought to justice. At the beginning of the trial, my co-counsel told you we would prove these three things.” I lift the demonstrative aid identifying the elements of our charge. “And we did. Allow me to revisit a few of the highlights.”

I tick off each element, reminding the fake jury of the key bits of testimony and documentary evidence such as the co-worker who described the previous problems with the machine, the company paperwork that revealed internal concerns about the braking mechanism. Randall starts giving me the wind-up motion. Shoot, eight minutes goes by so fast when you’re having fun.

“Emily Hartog came to you in pieces. She broke her leg, lost her job, her house. Her car was repossessed. You can’t make her completely well again. She’ll always have that limp. But by finding in her favor, you can give her new wings. Thank you.”

Loud, slow clapping booms from the rear of the room. I duck my head in slight embarrassment, but I am proud of what I did. It felt good too.

I stop by my table and address Heather. “So, something like that. Start with a catchy opening, recite the elements of the law. Hit the key points of our case and close with an emotional appeal.”

“Gotcha,” Heather replies with wide eyes.

I busy myself with the papers on the table to hide how pleased I am that she’s finally looking at me as if I’m not the weakest link in this group, that I can actually contribute.

“I think we’re done.” Randall’s voice is gentle, but filled with affection. He knows how much this means to me.

Gratefully, I gather up my stuff and fly to Matty.

“The jury finds the defendant not guilty,” he says instantly.

I grin stupidly. “It’s not that kind of trial, but thank you.”

He hugs me and leans down to give me a soft kiss on the lips. “How about we celebrate the verdict with some food?”

How about we celebrate with some
you
? I swallow back the naughty words. Instead I say, “That sounds wonderful.”