Habit, p.15
HABIT, page 15
My back to him, I let the quiet fill in after his tantrum. My chest hurts, partly out of pity for his situation, but also, I’m still hurt. And yeah, he apologized, but it was rather pathetic. And he waited to see me—he waited for us to be alone. Why?
“Why are you here now?” I ask, turning slowly until our eyes meet.
His brow drawn in, he shakes his head a tick.
“You want me to go?” His response is meek.
“I didn’t say that. It’s just . . . are you ashamed of me, James?” I level him with it because I’ve been through hell and back a few times. There’s a reason I don’t fall for boys. It’s the pretty ones who hurt the most.
His laugh comes out almost immediately.
“Are you kidding?” James grabs one side of the treadmill and swings around so we’re both standing in the tight space. I feel a little trapped so I back into the opposite railing and shuffle my body until we’re both equal parts standing in this stall and able to escape.
My body trembles from the mix of emotions rushing through my body. I want to forget all of it, step up on my toes to hold his face in my hands and kiss his worries away while he does the same for me. But at the same time there’s an edge of fear trying to break into my head. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in a long time, that inkling of something being wrong. And no matter how badly I want to, I can’t seem to ignore it.
“Morgan, I’m a joke compared to you. I’m a joke, period. I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing here, and honestly, I can’t stop worrying about when you’re going to realize you’re too good for me.”
His confession slams into my chest, and it takes me a moment to catch my breath.
“I worry you’re going to realize the same thing,” I admit, choking down the emotion threatening to soften my resolve. I’m not ready to be soft just yet. I still have questions. I’m still wounded. “I don’t think your dad likes me.”
He flinches at my words, and his reaction, though pained, is telling because he doesn’t dismiss my observation. Not immediately. Not even close to immediately. His expression and actions morph through all of the appropriate phases—creased brow, forced incredulous smile, fluttering lashes, roll of the eyes, and a breath of a laugh. But I see right through it. And he knows I do.
“It’s not you,” he finally says.
“Ha!” I huff, stepping off the treadmill. James grabs my wrist before I leave our tight space completely.
“Morgan, listen. It’s football. It’s the pressure and this place,” he says, glancing around the room—around Welles. There’s desperation in his eyes when his gaze comes back to me, and I swallow hard, feeling the weight of everything he means. “It’s hard on us. My dad has coached for years. He’s won state titles with teams that are ten times the talent of this place, yet the Browns and Penns of the world don’t show up at those schools.
“We came here for the opportunity, and my dad is laser-focused on getting me to that next level, not just on a field but in a classroom that can make something of me. And when shit happens like what’s gone on this week, when colleges I have dreamt of getting into show up to look at some . . . some . . . fucking joke? I guess it turns both of us into royal assholes. I’m not proud of it. I hate that I let this get to me so hard. I want to run into the headmaster’s office and spout off all of Toby’s weaknesses. I want to beg him to look—to really look!”
His hand slowly loosens its grip, finally letting my wrist go, but I quickly snatch his hand and work our fingers together.
“It isn’t you. My dad is just intense, and he’s intense for me. He wants one hundred percent of my focus on the mission. But I am focused. And being with you . . . it balances out the garbage on the other side.”
“Are you saying I’m anti-trash?” I joke. Sort of.
A hint of a smile tugs at his mouth. He steps into me and takes my other hand, bring our tethered fingers up to the space between us, clutching our fisted hands against his heart. My skin beads with chills from the air conditioning, the sweat from my run cooling me quickly. Too quickly.
“My dad sees you as a distraction. I see you as a necessity.”
Well, damn.
The rage that held me up for the last thirty minutes is gone, and I think if James let go of my hands, I’d collapse at his feet. I’m charmed by his incredibly effective apology. Running my palms up the front of his shirt, I gather fists of cotton at the center of his chest and jerk him the final few inches into me. He lets out an exhausted laugh then cups my face, stroking the skin over my cheekbones before letting his forehead fall forward to rest on mine.
“Thanks for waiting around for me,” he mutters.
“Hmm, what makes you think I was here for you?”
He presses his lips to my forehead, and I feel his mouth stretch into a smile.
“You normally run two six-minute miles on a Friday night?”
I open my eyes and follow his gaze over my shoulder to the numbers blinking on the treadmill. Shit. That’s fast.
“I’m a real party animal,” I say, bringing my gaze back to his.
“Right,” he laughs out. “Well, party animal. How do you feel about taking a walk to the juice bar and getting a recovery smoothie with me? I need every edge I can get if I want to draw that Penn guy’s eyes my way during tomorrow’s game.”
“Do those smoothies come with new legs so I have something to walk back on?” I’m half joking as I bat my lashes and look up into his amused grin. My feet are numb, and I truly believe my knees will buckle the second I leave this room.
Shaking his head and laughing, James kneels then twists around, patting his shoulders.
“Go on. Hop on and I’ll carry you.”
“The whole way?” I question, already moving to climb onto his back. He sweeps his hands under my thighs and hoists me up like a backpack. I giggle, feeling ridiculous.
“Yes, Morgan. The whole way.” He leans across the treadmill and snatches my phone, handing it to me over his shoulder.
“I have things in the locker room,” I inform him when he reaches the door.
“Awesome. More weight,” he deadpans.
I wait until we’re in the hallway before I reach down and swat his ass, yelling, “Yaw!” His feet stop in their tracks, and he cranes his neck to look me in my eyes.
“Are you serious right now?” His brow arches.
My mouth settles into a timid smirk.
“I have never been more serious in my life.”
About anyone.
Chapter 14
James
I don’t care what Theo and Cameron say, playing football on Saturday mornings is not the same as under Friday lights. There’s a charge missing. This energy that a quarterback gets when the sky is black and those yellow posts glow against the dark night.
There are birds chirping right now. Lots of them. A whole damn flock. And it’s so loud I keep looking at the trees when I should be watching our defense.
“This game is yours. You ready?” My dad leans into me and pulls my shoulder pad toward him as he speaks right into my helmet. I leave the birds and meet his eyes, or what I think are his eyes because I can’t see them behind the sunglasses. Because the sun is out, and it’s not night.
“I’m ready,” I grunt. My dad moves on, shouting down the line at our defense as they force a third down.
I’m not ready.
I’m distracted, and while I’d like to blame the sun and the birds, they have zero to do with it. I’m sure my dad will want to blame the girl wearing my initials in glitter on her face for the lack of spirit I fear I might showcase when I get out there. But it won’t be her fault, either. All I can think about is Toby and the fact he got the ball first . . . again. And he scored in two minutes. People went nuts. The Penn guy nodded and wrote shit down on his pad of paper then made a call to someone, probably the university president. In my head, the conversation went something like this:
“Hey, Larry. Yeah, it’s me, Clueless Scout Man. We have to get this guy. Now look, I know his dad is basically our boss, but I still think we need to offer him a full ride. He needs to know how much we want him, otherwise he’ll go somewhere else. What is that you ask? Do other people want him? Larry . . . everybody wants him.”
In this fantasy, the president of Penn is named Larry. I’m not sure why I manifested this nightmare with a Larry at the helm, but I think it has something to do with latent resentment I harbor against the kid who stole my entire piñata from my fifth birthday. His name was Larry, and my mom made me invite him.
I try to amp myself up as our defense forces a kick. Our return team isn’t very strong, but the school we’re playing is shit, so I get to come in with decent field position. My dad flattens his hand on the back of his clipboard as I run out, his fingers spread wide to indicate play set five. I knock on my helmet to signal I’m ready and got his sign.
My dad wants me to show off my passing strength, but I’m missing Theo’s hands, so I turn to Devin and Cameron in the huddle and tell them run their asses off and get open.
We break and get to the line. I position myself, ready for the shotgun snap for a bit of running room. I start my count, and for whatever reason, our center, Jake, sails the ball over my head before I finish the sequence. It catches our line off-guard, which means I have about a second and a half to land on that ball before a thousand pounds of high school football player weight piles on top of me to punch it away.
“Damn it!” I growl, eyes scanning the field behind me, tracking the ball as it bounds left, then right. I dive on top of it and brace myself, praying my ribs don’t crack as the tackles come. It takes the referees nearly a minute to pull everyone off, fists beating at me to get to the ball the entire time.
I leave the pile shellshocked, tossing the ball to the referee as I jog toward the sideline, the world a little fuzzy.
“Can you go?” My dad makes a throwing motion with his hand. I nod, ignoring the trainer moving closer to the sideline, wanting to push for concussion protocol. My head is actually the only thing that doesn’t hurt. My lungs feel like pancakes, and my arms took about three dozen fists to the forearms and biceps.
My dad fans his clipboard toward me, which means run it again. But something doesn’t feel right. I scan the line and stop at Toby. He’s standing with his helmet dangling from his hands as he rocks side to side, a smug grin on his face. Realization slaps me in my face.
I don’t have the team.
I tried to convince myself that I could win them over, and maybe in time, I will. But as of now—right now—I have a handful. These are Toby’s guys. They’re the same. It’s a good ole boys club and my membership application has yet to be accepted.
My mind runs through options as I run back to the huddle, and I’m still not certain how to handle things when I pull everyone in tight. Again, I scan the faces of the guys here with me. I look for the weak links, but they’re all so deceptive.
“Come on, what’s the play?” Devin demands. I meet his stare, his eyes as hungry as mine. Maybe it’s not a matter of sorting out who is against me but finding the ones who are with me. Devin wants the ball. If I throw it, he’ll be there.
“Devin, you get open on the route for the long ball. They’re doubling coverage on Cameron since Theo’s out, so let’s use that. I want you to really break.” Devin nods and claps his hands, his hot pink receiver gloves glowing in the morning sun. I bet they would look even better at night.
“All right, let’s do this!”
We break, the play clock running, and I manage my time carefully, spending only one second on something more important to this play than anything else. I flatten my palm on Jake’s back and lean into him as his hands push the ball into the grass.
“Don’t fuck me again,” I grunt.
I slap my palm down with enough force for my true message to sink through—so he gets it—then I back up and start my count. I’m ready for the ball to come at me instantly, but I hold on to the faith that my southside grit will wear Jake down. My pocket is going to give me up fast so I ready myself to move and burn as much time as I can before Devin hits his stride.
Jake snaps the ball on time and target, and our O-line leaves holes for the defense almost immediately. I swing back and to the right, leaving myself a good ten yards of room to run into my throw. I manage to break one tackle, but I don’t know that I’ll be able to get through the next one. Hoping I’ve given Devin the time he needs, I tighten my core and step into the throw of my life, launching the ball down the field a good sixty yards. I barely have time to witness it crest at the arc before I’m flattened on my back. I don’t expect to get a flag for roughing the passer, and if my pass fails I may shrivel up into the earth anyhow, so I lay with my hands wrapped around my facemask and my ears tuned to the reaction of the Welles home stands. If they explode, I can get up knowing I executed the biggest mic drop of my life.
The world switches to slow motion, and my eyes catch my dad’s movement first as he leaps and pumps a fist into the air, his mouth shouting, “Go!” The hundreds of students and alumni in the stands behind him all get to their feet as their hands shoot into the air, and then the frenzied wave of cheering breaks through and turns time back to normal.
“Dude, that’s the longest pass in Welles history, I swear,” Cameron says, leaning over my body and stretching out his hand. I grip it and let him yank me up.
“Did it look as good as it felt?” I ask him as we jog off the field, another six points added to our score.
“I’ll let you decide for yourself based on his reaction,” Cameron says, pointing toward Toby, who is now sitting by the water cooler, his helmet on the bench next to him as he chews on his mouthguard like a rabid pit bull.
“Damn, I should have watched. It must have been good,” I say.
Cameron laughs and we slap hands as we cross over the sideline and leave Toby to stew on his own.
I didn’t expect everything to magically turn around in my favor. Toby went back in for more running plays the next set of downs, and he led one more scoring drive before the game was done. But Orland Homan, the recruiting coordinator for Penn, did stick around after the game and ask to talk to me and my father separately from Toby and his dad. And Jake gave me knuckles on his way out of the locker room.
“It’s not an offer, but it is interest.”
Those are the last words my dad said before heading out for date night with my mom. He repeated them about a dozen times after our meeting with Penn. While I’m sure he wanted to keep me grounded, I think he was also reminding himself to not get carried away. Still, he was proud, and seeing him proud made me proud.
Things were beginning to feel tangible and within reach. It was exhilarating, but at the same time, it was all so terrifying. Interest is not an offer, and interest isn’t going to get me the kind of money I need to be able to afford a school like Penn. I need more games like today’s, and I need to convert more Jakes into Camerons and Theos.
I slip into the archive room after everyone else has arrived, and there’s a beer in my hand within seconds. It’s not quite the speakeasy-style whiskey and bourbon from the last few parties, and that’s primarily because I’m too chicken to swipe more liquor using my dad’s access key. I crack the can open and take a big gulp, glad I took my mom up on her offer to whip me up some dinner before she and my dad left.
A few guys congratulate me on my game as I wind my way through the desks toward the back of the room where Theo and Cameron are laughing about something. Lily and Brooklyn are huddled on the old leather sofa, and Morgan is nowhere to be found. I edge toward my friends while I scan the room one more time, then pull my phone out to check for a text from her. Nothing.
“Dude, if you keep throwing the ball like that, we might not be a joke this year. Shit, we may get a trophy out of this or some shit,” Cameron says. His red eyes and half-awake demeanor clue me in to how high he is, and I wonder how Theo lives with him.
“Thanks, man,” I say, bracing myself for his oncoming hug. He holds on to me a little too long, and I start to worry he’s sleeping on me or working this into a slow dance when he laughs in my arms.
I back away and screw my eyes up, a little worried that he’s about to be sick or something, but then I notice his gaze locked on something behind me. I follow the direction of his pointing finger.
Fucking Toby Sullivan standing in the middle of our secret. This is bad. This is really bad.
“Shit,” I grumble a second before Theo does behind me.
“Maybe he won’t come talk to us,” I say, trying to reason my way out of this nightmare. Theo laughs, then lays his hand on my shoulder as he steps up beside me.
“Dude, we are the entire reason he’s here. At least, you are.” He pats my shoulder a few times before picking up his beer and ambling his way through the haphazard clustering of desks toward our unwanted guest.
I put my beer to my lips and tilt my head back, draining it completely and leaving the can behind. I’m going to need some sort of buzz for this conversation, and I don’t have time to get on whatever cloud Cameron’s floating on.
“So, this is where you moved things. Classy. Respectful too. I get it,” Toby says, earning a hard stare from Theo. I glance down to catch his fist tightening at his side while he calmly holds his beer with his other hand.
Theo’s sister died after a party in the woods. I guess that’s what prompted Welles to completely close the campus and enforce strict security for the late hours. Morgan told me the only reason we were able to drive in and out late the other night was because my father’s truck has a faculty sticker.
“I don’t think you’re on the guest list, Tobes. Sorry, but we have a strict policy,” Theo says, circling his finger as if to suggest Toby simply turn around and leave. But Theo’s right. That’s not happening. Because he came here for me.
