The Blueprint, page 12
“Born ready.”
RUNNING ROUTES with the receivers’ coaching staff was usually my favorite part of practice. But Coach paired McAdams and me together and, always the tactician, told me to show McAdams how the greats did it. McAdams laughed, not offended in the least, and told us he was going to show me how the rookies did it—without a mobility scooter. Hardy har har.
I stretched my face into a parody of a grin when everyone else laughed. Didn’t want anyone to think I was a spoilsport. Of course McAdams would be funny. Why the fuck not? Why not add fire to my already flammable mood?
I ran my routes with little problem, but I couldn’t seem to get open to catch the pass. It was more than just running fast. I had to fake out my shadow and achieve some separation. If you ran the same route the same way, any defender worth his salt would be there to intercept it or hit you so hard you couldn’t hang on to it.
Case in point.
Every time I reached up for the ball, McAdams was there, which also did nothing good for my mood. After he beat me down the field twice, he clapped me on the back and said, “Good hustle, Blue.” I grunted something as a response, even though I wanted to tell him to fuck off.
I was you. The thought ran through my mind like a broken record. I was you before, when all of this was spit shiny and new, before the money, the fame, and all the injuries. I was you with a smile on my face and wonder in my eyes because I got to suit up with my heroes and play the game I loved.
In my first game, I was nothing but a bundle of nerves. I’d never been more aware that college ball was behind me. They were bigger, faster, stronger. Suddenly I was the one being dwarfed, and I’d never been more glad I spent my summer packing on an extra fifteen pounds of pure muscle. Then there were the expectations to live up to. I was a first-draft pick, and they expected good things. Great things.
I wound up outrunning one of the vets, Murphy Phillips, for a beautiful pass, but then he tackled me just inside the end zone. I wasn’t even sure I still had the ball, he hit me so hard. The three others who piled on certainly didn’t help, and I curled up on the bottom, held on tight, and wondered what the ETA was on getting the human pyramid off of me.
When we were finally untangled, there the ball was, right in my hand. I just stared at it for a minute and wished I could hide it in my jersey and take it home—my first touchdown ball.
Murphy Phillips helped me up with a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t make this a habit,” he said. “Nice job, kid.” I tossed the ball to the ref and jogged off field like I did that kind of thing all the time, but I floated on air for weeks.
Back then I looked at Murphy Phillips the same way McAdams looked at me now, and it bothered me—a lot. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to be an old, creaky legend on his way out. Because without football, what the hell did I have?
I stumbled a little bit, and Coach blew the whistle and sent us back to the start. I jogged back and wondered if I’d still have Kelly in the future, when he found someone who gave him everything he needed. He was my family, and I wanted him to be happy. But where did that leave me?
The whistle sounded again, and McAdams took off. It took me a moment to realize I’d missed our cue entirely, and he was halfway down the field. Jesus. My face flamed. Coach was gonna have a—
“Blue!”
“Sorry.”
“Do you even want to play on Sunday?” he screamed. “Because I think I have someone hungrier right here. Someone who wants it. Do you fucking want it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then show me!”
“You’ll get it next time, Blue,” McAdams said encouragingly, but he smirked a little as he jogged back to the start.
I gritted my teeth. Patronizing motherfucker.
As the day waned on, the sun beat down on my shoulders like actual pressure. It was muggy and hot, and I was ready to get the hell out of there. I probably wasn’t in the best state of mind to run drills right then. I tried to find my center, go with the flow. I wouldn’t let the rookie get to me, and that was final.
McAdams crossed in front of me and got in place, and I growled—growled like a wild fucking animal that spotted a weak area in a fence. They’re going to put me down. Like Old Yeller.
“Blue,” Coach boomed. “I want you two on defense this time. Show him what he’s gonna be up against.”
I lined up. You’re a goddamned professional. You’re going to run the play and show him how it’s done. Coach blew the whistle, and there was no time to worry anymore. We took off, ran about the same speed, and flew down the field. He tried to outpace me, but once my head was in the game, he didn’t have a chance. I actually had to pull back to make sure he didn’t decide to give me the slip and go for the catch behind me instead.
The receiver’s assistant coach threw a bullet sweet enough to make McAdams whoop. Fuck, he must have the luck of the Irish. He was in perfect position to get it first. But I wasn’t going to let him get around me, and I wasn’t going to let him complete the pass. He reached up to grab it, and something in my brain shorted. The smart thing to do would’ve been to intercept it—maybe even concede defeat and let him catch it.
That’s not… exactly what I decided to do.
I plowed into him like a freight train.
Sixteen whistles blew at the same time. It was probably more like six, but it sounded like a roomful of screaming tea kettles. There was no intentional tackling in practice. We only had a couple of preseason practices with unrestricted tackling, and that wasn’t one of them. The league’s contact restrictions were supposed to be for us—to prolong our careers and limit the risk of injury. But we knew the truth. Our bodies were bought and paid for, and we were not in any shape or fashion designed to brutalize the Outlaws’ property before game day. Period.
I looked down at McAdams as he rolled on the grass, and I realized I might have fucked up that rule a teeny tiny bit.
“Montgomery,” Coach screamed. If I didn’t know I was in trouble before, I knew it then. He rarely called me anything but Blue, and his face was red as a tomato. “Get over here. Now.”
AFTER PRACTICE I headed for the showers. It hadn’t been my best performance, especially after the McAdams debacle. Three different coaches thoroughly dressed me down in fifteen different ways. Coach Maxwell yelled so loudly he made my ears ring. His spittle flew on my face, but I knew better than to wipe it off. I let him have his tantrum, because that was pretty much the extent of it. He couldn’t afford to bench me.
I ignored the raucous yelling and joking in the shower from the other guys and let the water stream down over my head. My phone had already buzzed in my bag eight times, and I knew it was my father. Well, he could go suck a nut too.
I wasn’t surprised he already knew what happened. Coach had probably called him before we even left the field. He tattled on me as though I were a five-year-old kid. He would protect an investment gone haywire to anyone who would listen. I would get an earful later, and that was even more frustrating. I didn’t want to be handled.
I knew I needed to apologize to McAdams. No one had to tell me that. The team came first, and I couldn’t create unnecessary tension. Not to mention it was just the right thing to do. I hit the shower button with a flat palm, even though I still felt a little soapy.
I dried off quickly and put on athletic shorts that got stuck on every damp spot on my legs on the way up. Then I tossed on a shirt and pulled a ball cap over my damp hair. I made a face. I seriously had to get some gear that didn’t have Nike or the Outlaws’ team logo on it. But that shit was free for us, and we all practically lived in it.
I swung my bag on my shoulder and headed for the parking lot, where I scanned the cars until I realized I didn’t know what the hell McAdams drove. A hand landed on my shoulder, and I looked back to find one of the other players, Dane.
There was an expectant look on his wide dark face. He had his dreads in some kind of man-bun thing, and some of the locks still dripped water on his shirt. “You doing alright, man?”
“Yeah. Why do you ask?” He raised an eyebrow, and I let out a pent-up breath. Maybe he wondered why I attacked my own teammate running drills. “I’m fine,” I assured him.
“Get your shit together before Sunday,” he said, and he gave my shoulder a friendly whack.
That was pretty damn good advice. “I will.”
“We’re headed out to Black Rock to grab some food. You down?”
A beeping noise caught my attention, and I squinted to see McAdams approaching the parking lot with his remote in his hand. He seemed to be heading toward a lime green Lambo with suicide doors. He was obnoxiously double-parked, and I barely held in a sneer. Poser.
You’re supposed to be apologizing.
I clapped Dane on the shoulder. “I’ll see you there. Okay?”
I jogged over to the sports car. “McAdams!”
He looked up at my voice, and his expression hardened. Fuck. I couldn’t really blame him. He probably had some bruised ribs from that hit. As he started moving with purpose and tossed his bag in the passenger side, I hustled.
By the time I reached him, he had one leg in the car, but I grabbed his arm, pulling him off balance. And then I had to steady him with both hands on his shoulders—his muscled shoulders. My hands dropped like they were on fire, and I wiped at my perspiring face. What the hell was going on with me lately?
“What do you want?” he snapped and glared at me.
“I’ll tell you if you give me two fucking seconds.”
“Two seconds to what?” He was suddenly all in my face. “You wanna take another cheap shot like a bitch, or are you going to fight me for real this time?”
“Maybe you should calm the fuck down.” My voice was icy. I may have been in the wrong, but I was still a senior player. “I’m trying to apologize here, if you’d get your head out of your ass.”
“That’s the way you apologize?”
I blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. I had a lot on my mind, and I took it out on you.”
He looked at me silently but didn’t accept or get back in his car. “What kind of stuff? Because it looked like you had something against me in specific.”
“No. Just stuff.”
“Kelly kind of stuff?” At my lack of response, he gave me a mocking glance. “I thought so. He told you?”
“No, I guessed.” I didn’t want to dime Kelly out.
He looked startled, and his whiskey-brown eyes went wide. “How?” he finally asked.
“Does it matter?” I raked a hand through my still-damp hair. “I know, and I don’t have a problem with it.”
“It what?” The ice had thawed enough for him to needle me a bit. He knew what the hell it was.
“The gay… thing. I mean, Kelly is my best friend, so I’m obviously okay with it.”
“I’m bi, actually. And you’re more than okay with it, if I had to say.”
Wow, I was ready to kill him all over again. I’d probably have to get in some sort of line. With his attitude, surely someone else wanted to stab him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means there’s clearly something going on between the two of you.”
“He’s my best friend,” I said, and I worked to keep my fists loose and my expression unconcerned. It was a feat worthy of a medal. “That’s all.”
He smiled, and I was suddenly pissed because I noticed how nice his smile was, even though that one was clearly designed to mock my life choices in general. “Whatever you say.”
“I do say.”
“Okay.”
I could actually feel the irritation climbing up my neck, but I’d done what I came to do. “Good night, McAdams.”
He nodded as he got in his car and pulled the door down from the sky. “Night, Blue.”
I stood with my arms crossed, rocked back on my heels, and damn near bit my tongue in half to keep from shouting at him as he drove off in his stupid green Lambo. I wasn’t sorry I’d called him a poser. How dare he have the balls enough to call me a fucking fa—
Even as the word materialized, I felt ashamed. I blew out a frustrated breath.
That word shouldn’t even have been part of my mental vocabulary. God knew I heard it enough. It was as common as hello in the locker room. Usually it was an insult when someone was stupid. Or slow. Or late. Or missing a ball. Anything at all, really. I always thought I was above those losers, but I guess if you hung around anything long enough, some of it seeped in.
It was no wonder guys had such an aversion to acknowledging a different sexual orientation. We were indoctrinated from childhood. Be manly and tough and aggressive, and above all, don’t be a fag. You can be a womanizer, an abuser, or a deadbeat dad, and you can still be one of the crew. Just don’t be a fag.
I never used the word and didn’t plan to start, but my breathing had gotten rapid and choppy. I dug the heels of my palms against my eyes and probably rubbed a little too hard. I didn’t appreciate McAdams insinuating that Kelly and I were anything but friends—friends and nothing more—or making me think about things I probably should think about.
Don’t be a fag.
That voice in my head sounded a lot like my father and nothing like my own.
Chapter 13
Kelly
THINGS MIGHT have gotten a touch awkward between Blue and me, but on game day, there was nowhere else I’d rather be than the Atlantic Trade Stadium. The vibe in the stadium was electric. That was to be expected at the first game of the season, especially after the Outlaws won by one amazing field goal.
Kennedy and I sat in Blue’s reserved seats instead of the skybox. We were so close to the action I thought we should be in uniforms. Despite myself I got caught up in the madness. I cheered and yelled, paid full price for junk food, and had some girl in the stands paint AO—go Aventura Outlaws—on my cheek in shiny blue glitter paint.
Blue racked up two more touchdowns to add to his stats, and I jumped up so excitedly after the last one that Kennedy had to catch me before I fell onto the field. My prior claims that I didn’t like or understand football were clearly bullshit.
After the game Kennedy took off toward the parking lot to beat the traffic, and I headed back to the locker rooms because I was Blue’s ride. I picked him up from his home games more often than not and took him home to feed him. He ate like a pack of wild dogs while I ate like a human who brought home a feral animal.
He could surely have found his own ride home or driven any one of his three cars, all of which were newer and more luxurious than mine. But neither of us questioned it or rocked the boat. In the end I chalked it up to more pseudorelationship bullshit we refused to acknowledge.
As I walked down the hall toward the locker room, I tried to look like I belonged. I had a visitor badge, but I was always afraid I would be stopped and frisked anyway. Others milled in the hallway too—support staff, family members, and reporters.
I stopped one of the trainers in the hall and asked if he’d seen Blue, and he hurriedly pointed in the direction of the training rooms. I poked my head in several rooms before I finally found him in one of those ice tubs, right next to a hulking behemoth in his own ice tub.
At the sight of someone else, I held back a little. Maybe it was some part of me, some residual bit of the high school kid who tried to avoid the jocks as much as possible, as though they could smell the gay on me and beat the hell out of me for it. In reality that had never happened… to me, anyway. I imagined that was mostly because everyone knew I was Blue’s best friend, and if you messed with something of Blue’s, you got your ass kicked. It had certainly saved me from being a nerd casualty, stuffed in someone’s locker.
Since I wasn’t a sports aficionado and he wasn’t wearing a jersey, it was nearly impossible for me to tell who the other guy was. The only player I pretty much knew was, well, Blue. And Andrew McAdams. That was pretty sad, especially considering I’d been in the locker room many times. And in the box with the players’ wives and girlfriends. At a few holiday gatherings as well, like the Fourth of July picnic someone threw the year before. Jeez.
Maybe it was more of a reflection of my antisocial personality than my lack of sports knowledge. I should really be able to recognize more than just my best friend and a guy I went out with a couple times.
I squinted at the big guy in the ice bath. Ivan? Ivanovich?
Maybe. Ivan laughed just then—a rumble that reminded me of the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk. My eyes drifted back to Blue. He should’ve looked ridiculous, half-submerged in ice, completely clothed. Instead he looked fucking edible.
As though I’d called his name, Blue glanced over right then and saw me loitering in the vestibule entrance. His face lit up, and he waved a beckoning hand. “What’re you doing over there? C’mon over.”
When I shook my head, he beckoned more insistently. “Don’t make me come get you.”
“I’ll just wait outside.”
“Kel, if I get out of this tub to come get you, you’re getting in with me.”
That was supposed to be a threat? I laughed when I was supposed to, but I thought that was top ten on my spank bank list, ice water or no. When I meandered over and saw all those ice cubes, I changed my mind quickly. The water looked so cold it seemed like a good place to store beer. Not my nuts.
The joke I’d been about to make dried up in my throat as I got a closer look at Blue.
His tank top allowed me to stare at length at the fresh injuries on his body. Black-and-blue patches decorated his shoulder and left arm like a faint Rorschach test. And those were just the bruises I could see. Who knew what was underneath the fabric? I never got over how rough those guys were with each other and what a couple of hours of gameplay could do to their bodies. It only took one second, one hit too high or too low, to end a career and change the rest of a player’s life.
