Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2) (7 page)

The guys all exchange looks and then Hammer speaks first. “You got to do it, man. An arm like that, even on a true freshman, could be the difference between a perfect season and a one-loss season. With our defense and an awesome quarterback, we would be unbeatable.”

Darryl nods slowly. The idea of having a little less pressure on the defense is appealing. “We should at least give him a chance. Have them fight it out during the summer.”

“A quarterback controversy?” Hammer balks. “Who are you—Rex Ryan?”

“The noise level would be insane. Press would be contacting all of you guys nonstop about which quarterback you supported. Emails. DMs. You don’t want that kind of distraction,” Masters says. He turns to me. “You’re the signal caller for the defense now. You gotta call this one.”

“Coach hasn’t said that’ll be my responsibility,” I object. I haven’t even decided it should be my responsibility regardless of what Masters is trying to silently project.

The videos have started replaying, but I’ve watched about as much Mr. Texas as I can stomach. I reach over and flick the computer off.

“I gotta go shit and shower,” Hammer announces and rolls his rank carcass off my bed. “I’m a worker bee. Tell me which target to destroy and it’s gone. But I’m for Mr. Texas. Ace will come around.” At the door, he pauses, “Either way, I’ve got your back.”

“Same,” Darryl declares and disappears with Hammer. Only Masters remains.

“You know you gotta do this,” he tells me.

“No, I don’t know anything.” I find my wallet and stick it into my back pocket. The room is stifling. I need to get out of here.

“Matty, you gotta be the leader here.”

“Why?”

Masters gives me a perturbed look. “Sophomore year we played Penn. We were set for a blitzing play, but I ended up intercepting the ball. Why?”

“When we got to the line, the offensive was set up for a dig route across the middle by the slot receiver. Blitzing would have put our guys out of position.”

“Right. You came over to me and we changed it up. Had four men rush the quarterback. I dropped back, and the ball landed in my hands. “

“You ran it back for a touchdown.” I grin. That was a good play.

“Because you recognized the offensive play. I didn’t. I have great natural talent, but you memorize the game. We sit in film and you see it once and it’s imprinted in your head. That’s why the defense is going to follow you.”

“I don’t want that. I don’t want that kind of responsibility.”

“Too bad,” he says unsympathetically.

“This isn’t even leadership,” I scowl. “It’s mutiny.”

Masters tries a different tack. “You once told me your favorite character from your favorite series was the bad guy who’d done a heinous deed because it helped save the world.”

I pause with one arm shoved into my winter coat and glare at my friend. “That’s fucking low, Masters. Real fucking low. I was drunk off my ass when I told you that story.”

“I know,” he says unrepentantly. “Don’t change the facts, though.”

“
Y
ou grabbed
the steering wheel as the ice resurfacer took off?” Heather Bell asks, her voice heavy with disbelief.

In the chair we designated as the witness seat, Emily Hartwig nods with pretend wariness and probably very real confusion since Heather is not supposed to be cross-examining her.

“Is that a yes?” I mutter under my breath. Heather misses her cue, though, and stands, forgetting that all non-verbal responses have to be verbalized or it’s not part of the appealable record. It’s something we’re specifically scored on in competitions. I hold my breath. Please tell me she’s not going to approach without—

“Let me show you what you said in your deposition,” Heather says and swishes her way across the fake courtroom floor.

Beside me, Randall groans. Heather whips around with a glare hot enough to make the papers in front of us burst into flames.

“What did I do wrong this time, Mr. Perfect?”

Randall rests his fists against the surface of the table, looking ready to spring out of his chair and launch himself at Heather. “How long do we have because that entire line of questioning is completely insane. Emily is our client. We don’t cross-examine our own client.”

“Randall, she’s new,” I remind him. The last thing we need is for Heather to blow her top, too. In the four practices we’ve had since the semester started, these two have been at each other’s throats, rendering the whole team tense and unhappy. Regionals are in the middle of March, right before Spring Break, and none of us is going to make it to the tournament at this rate. We’ll have clawed each other to death well before then. It’ll be our own version of the Valentine’s Day Massacre.

“Are you sure you’re Paul Bell’s daughter? Surely he would have taught you something,” Randall remarks snidely. I kick him under the table, and that earns me an unhappy look.

On the makeshift witness stand, Emily’s once perky brown hair lies limply around her face. She’s wearing the same expression we’re all sporting—tired and defeated. She’s been up there for the last thirty minutes, while Heather has tried to work her way through a direct examination—something she’ll be required to complete error-free in under eight minutes at competition.

The rest of our mock trial team shifts impatiently behind us. It’s time to call it a night even though we achieved nothing productive.

I get to my feet. “We’ve been at this for two hours. Why don’t we adjourn for tonight and we’ll take it up again in two days?”

“Hopefully Miss Bell will practice in those two days. Maybe read a few of our materials on how to conduct an examination?” Randall sneers.

Heather’s response is predictably tart in return. “At least I actually bring some emotion to this dead room. Your opening was so monotone that five minutes felt like five years. Plus, do you have any clothes that don’t scream tacky? Hand to God, I’ve seen mannequins at the Salvation Army tricked out in better clothes than you have on.”

Beneath his dark skin, Randall blanches and turns ashy pale. Heather’s good at dishing out insults like this. And Randall, a scholarship student like me, readily takes the bait. “If only you’d inherited some actual skill from your dad instead of just his wallet.”

When Heather opens her mouth to deliver another cutting remark, I jump in. “All right. We don’t need to snap at each other. I think we’re tired, hungry, and just need a break. Heather, if you could, there’s a set of sample questions in the original packet that show the difference between cross and direct. I can resend them to you via email if you want.” Hell, I’d write the entire examination if she’d agree to memorize and read it, but any time I’ve hinted at offering help, she shuts me down. “Randall, Heather’s new to this. We’ve got ten weeks, and I’m sure we’re all going to make mistakes between now and the Regionals, so let’s give each other room to make them. Patience.” I give them both a smile.

Randall’s a stellar attorney-in-training. He’s sharp witted, quick on his feet, and can deliver a rousing argument. We need him. But we need Heather, too, because despite her inexperience, her tryout was the best we’ve seen since...well, our freshman year. Once Randall’s blood stops roaring in his ears, he’ll remember why we chose Heather in the first place.

I made out an extensive risk assessment spreadsheet—even factoring in that Heather was inexperienced—and Randall had agreed with every item on the list. I guess I weighted her father’s influence too heavily, though.

“Pack it up,” I tell the rest of the crew, who gratefully shove their materials into their backpacks and scoot out of the borrowed classroom.

“Thanks,” Emily murmurs as she passes by the desks Randall and I pushed together to form our attorney table. “I was dying up there.”

“No problem. You did well. You looked vulnerable and victimized. The judges will love you.”

Our mock trial matches are judged by a panel of three individuals, usually attorneys in the community where the competition takes place. They score us on everything from correct courtroom procedure to witness demeanor and believability. After two straight years of losing in Regionals to Central, Randall and I were determined to field a winning team.

We recruited students from the theatre department to play our witnesses, and we were going to ask Riley Hart, a Poli-Sci pre-law major to be our third attorney, but then Heather tried out and the closing argument she delivered in the tryouts nearly moved Coach Jensen to tears.

After Heather explained she had a lot of experience with the law and that her father was the famous Paul Bell, there was no question who was going to fill the third attorney spot.

Bell’s a criminal defense lawyer hired by athletes, politicians, and actors whenever they get accused of doing something wrong. He actually got an athlete out of a robbery charge by claiming the football team had coerced him and he was under undue duress. I may have been a little star struck when Heather was talking to me. Yeah, I definitely put too much weight on the whole “daughter of Paul Bell” thing.

I pause while putting my things away. Is it possible my risk assessment toward Matty—I mean
Matt
, because we are not on nickname terms—also includes incorrectly weighted items? Not all football players are horndogs. Ahmed, one of Ace’s closest friends on the team, is seriously devoted to his girlfriend. And didn’t one of the Warriors actually get married last month? That’s serious grown-up stuff.

“You forget something?” Randall asks as he wrestles one of the desks back into position.

I look up in mild surprise. I’d forgotten where I was for a moment. “Nope. Let me help you with that.” I have to get Matt Iverson out of my head.

We finish tidying up the room, putting all the desks and chairs back into their uniform rows while Heather inspects her nails by the door. I try not to let that irritate me. Randall, on the other hand? He huffs and puffs and sighs the entire time, which is annoying in its own way.

Once we’re done and I’ve worked up an unfortunate sweat under my button-down, Heather saunters over to run a finger along a desk.

“I think this isn’t quite straight.” She shoves it lightly with her hip.

Randall releases a growl from the back of his throat while I bite back a snarky retort. Taking a deep breath, I try again to play peacemaker.

“Did you need something, Heather?” I’m not sure why she’s hanging around.

She shrugs, a delicate movement. Heather is very pretty. In fact, if she wasn’t so intent on being an attorney, she’d have done a great job as our jaywalking victim who got struck by a car. “Not particularly. I was wondering, though, how it was decided that you’d be in charge, Lucinda?”

I school my features into an impassive expression, not wanting her to know that I hate being called by my full name. I’ve told her at least twice that I prefer to be called Lucy, but since she continues to call me Lucinda, my guess is she’s trying to get every last dig in wherever she can. “I’m not in charge. Coach Jensen is.” Coach Jensen is a local trial attorney who volunteers her time to train us.

“But you put the team together. You were the contact person on the sign-up sheet for this elective.” She rubs her finger along the side of the desk, looking sweet and innocent, but I’ve spent two weeks with this girl and it’s been long enough to realize that sweet and innocent is an act Heather adopts when she wants something.

“Randall lost his cellphone so it made sense for me to put mine on there while he was getting it replaced,” I explain.

“That’s convenient for you, isn’t it?”

I glance over at Randall because I have no idea where she’s going with this. Randall’s expression is one of confusion, too.

“I don’t know if I’d say it was convenient. I had to field a hundred calls and about a quarter of them were crank ones that asked me if the try out was for my ass.”

Heather smirks. “You’re still in charge. The others in the group listen to you.”

“None of us is in charge. We’re all working together toward the same goal. You told me last fall when you tried out that you wanted to join to help us defeat Central and hopefully go on and win Nationals,” I remind her.

“See, that’s why I’m worried.”

“About what?” I shoulder my backpack, wishing I had escaped with the rest of the team, but that would mean leaving Randall and Heather alone, and I was afraid if that happened, only one would be alive for our next practice.

“I’m wondering whether we’ve assembled the right pieces for the team. You’re good as an administrative point person. You know, signing us up, getting us the schedule, passing out the materials, but you really don’t have the killer instinct a lawyer needs.” Ouch. But her ability to accurately hit at all of our insecurities after just a short time means she’ll be really good in competition, I remind myself. Heather keeps going, “I’m going to ask my father to come and evaluate the talent. He can coordinate with Ms. Jensen. They belong to the same club.”

“We’ve already set the roster. Why would we change it now?”

“So that we can win.” She states the words as if the answer is obvious.

I grit my teeth, but Randall’s had enough. “Lucy is the best attorney on our team.”

She arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “If Lucinda is so amazing, why isn’t she doing either the opening or closing? Why am I, someone you say has no experience and no skill, delivering the closing? Isn’t that the most important role of the whole team? We can hide the weak link between the two of us.” She drags her eyes down Randall’s perfectly fine outfit once again. “But if you don’t dress better, no one is taking us seriously.”

With that last arrow, she spins on her heel and walks away.

“I can buy a suit, but you can’t buy class,” Randall yells after her.

“Might want to brush up on your insults,” Heather calls casually over her shoulder. “That one’s older than your shoes.”

“I got these shoes last year.”

“From Goodwill?”

I step in front of Randall as he lunges toward the doorway Heather just exited.

“It’s not worth it,” I tell him.

“We can’t have her on the team. She’s a cancer,” Randall rages, pulling away from me and straightening his sweater in a huff. “Don’t you care that she basically called you incompetent?”

I shift uncomfortably because, while Heather’s words stung, I don’t know if she was entirely wrong. I mean, I’m not incompetent, but isn’t part of competence knowing your limits? “I thought you were sitting right beside me when I crashed and burned our freshman year?”

Randall clicks his tongue in sympathy. “It was a mistake. You froze. We’ve all had a similar experience once in our lives. When I was in eighth grade speech class, I couldn’t get more than two words out in rebuttal.”

“Randall?”

“Yeah?” He smiles brightly.

“You’re not helping.” I squeeze his shoulder. “I don’t like the way she says it, but we both know where my skill set lies and it isn’t with on-the-fly exposition needed for a good closing argument. And you hate doing rebuttals, so we needed a closer. We all agreed she was the best of everyone who tried out.”

He makes a face. “You could do it if you wanted to.”

“Then I guess my answer is I don’t want to.” I’d rather suffer a hundred insults than have to stand up and speak for ten minutes straight while everyone sitting in the audience picks apart every single word I’ve said wrong. Been there, done that, failed epically.

“You need to keep that bitch in check,” Randall says. He pulls on his winter coat in sharp, exaggerated movements. He doesn’t want me to miss that he’s pissed off. As if it wasn’t obvious. But, I suppose his dramatics are partly why he’s so engaging.

“It’ll be fine,” I soothe. “Once she gets the hang of things, you’ll be thrilled.”

“She better,” he says ominously.

“Or what?” I ask, losing my patience. “You’ll quit?”

“Maybe.” He sticks his nose in the air, looking every inch like Heather as he waltzes out the door. I should videotape him next time so he sees exactly how similar the two are. I want to throw a pencil at his head.

Between the stress of mock trial and the conundrum of Matt Iverson, I’m going to worry myself into an early grave. Could one thing go my way? Just one?

I
’m still worrying
about both topics when I show up to my shift at the Brew House the next day. At least with mock trial, we have weeks of practice to work out the kinks. With Matt, I fear the only way to exorcise him is to move across the country and enter a nunnery. He’s popping up in my dirty fantasies far too often. This morning I got up early because I feared if I stayed one more minute in bed, I’d call him and beg him to come over to help me work off some of my tension.

Which is why I’m thirty minutes early for work. I quickly discover this is a good thing, because a familiar figure is waiting for me when I walk in.

JR “Ace” Anderson rises from his table and greets me with his trademark ladies’ man grin.

“Hey, Lucy.”

I bustle over and give him a big hug. “When did you get back?”

“Just this morning.”

Ace doesn’t get the holidays off, so after the Championship game, he flew to his dad’s place in Massachusetts for a week. His parents have been divorced since he was ten. I still remember when he found out. He showed up at my front door after school and wouldn’t leave until my dad let him in. I’d been at band practice. When I got home, Ace was lying on my bed and his face was wet from crying.