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  “I’m sorry I was late,” I blurt, breaking my own rule.

  “Oh, I’m pissed about that too. But that’s not the reason you’re here. If it were just you being late, I’d make you run sprints until you puked out the rest of the booze in your system. But I’m talking about something else.” Coach stares hard at me for one awful moment while I wrack my brain trying to figure out the offense. Then Coach Prescott slams a fist onto the metal table, and it takes everything in me not to jump.

  “Goddammit, boy, I don’t care how fascinated you are with your own parts, you can’t pull your dick out at a party.”

  “Huh?”

  “This program, this university, hell, the entire football community is under a microscope right now. If you have to take a piss, get in line and use a damn toilet. Public urination might seem like a joke to you, son, but the image of this program is not a joke. And you, unfortunately, represent this team, on and off the field.”

  I don’t remember peeing in public at the party last night … but let’s be honest, that sounds like something I’d do. “Sorry, Coach,” I mumble, feeling even sicker than I did before.

  “If you want to play on this team, you won’t be late for practice again. And you won’t chug Jack Daniel’s out of a beer bong again. And so help me, Davis, if I hear even a whisper of you doing something that could even vaguely be construed as sexual harassment or assault, you’ll be off the team.” The coach’s eyebrows are knit so tightly together that I can’t tell the two apart. It just looks like one angry caterpillar crawling across his face.

  That thought makes laughter rise inside of me, but it can’t cut through the shame. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I must have blacked out at some point last night, because I do not remember pissing in public. Everything gets a little foggy after the whiskey bong. I remember going outside and filling my boot mug at the keg. The cutie on the physical therapy staff—Megan, I think—was there, and I think I tried to show her the bruise that’s been bothering me since the last practice. It’s big, extending from my belly button down to my hips, and—oh, shit.

  My stomach drops. It’s all coming back to me now. The way her eyes widened as I pulled up my shirt, tracked down as I shoved down my shorts. Did I expose myself to her? I don’t remember, but it doesn’t seem impossible. The guys must have covered for me, and that makes me feel even worse. I wouldn’t get kicked off the team for peeing in public, but after what happened last year, I’d definitely get kicked off for flashing. And I’d deserve it. I poke fun at all the gender and consent classes we’ve had to take since the rape scandal last year, but I’m just as disgusted by what happened as anyone else.

  Shame overcomes me, and I’m ready to apologize for whatever Coach wants. I remember thinking it was so funny at the time, making Megan blush. I haven’t really gotten past the ninth grade in terms of flirting. Strike that, I haven’t really gotten past the ninth grade when it comes to maturity in general.

  A heavy silence fills the room, Coach keeps up intense eye contact with me until I can’t take it anymore and break the gaze, looking down at my lucky shoes. They’re not giving me too much luck this morning, but just seeing the faded blue and gold stripes down the side and the tattered Mighty Mouse laces makes me feel a little better.

  I’ve worn those shoes for every game I’ve ever played for the Mustangs. My mom was so excited that I was going to college she spent a week’s salary on them. Football has been my entire college experience. I’m not going to get kicked off the team now. This is my time, the four years of bliss that I’ll look back on when I’m back in Texas doing odd jobs or whatever pays the bills. The only upside of moving back home next year is that my mom and three brothers live within ten minutes of each other.

  But I have my whole life to live in a trailer and struggle to make ends meet. I clench my fists. I have to stay on the team. I can’t fuck up the only thing I’m good at when I only have one year left.

  “I’m sorry, Coach. I was just having fun, and things got out of hand.”

  “Look, Reggie. I know you were just having fun, but right now, this program can’t afford to have any additional attention or questions about our integrity.” His voice gets softer as he tries to level with me. “I know that what happened last year with that poor girl was just a few bad eggs on the team, but now we gotta pay for that. If we want to be seen as anything other than a sex scandal, we need to prove ourselves out there. We’re about to go into the second game of the season, and we’re not even ranked. No one’s talking about the way we’re playing football; they’re talking about the way we’re behaving off the field.”

  The thought of Natalie, the girl who had been raped by my own teammates, still makes me sick to my stomach. She was passed out in the locker room and some of our best players, including our star quarterback, took turns taking advantage of her. When the video went viral, those guys were kicked off the team, just days before we had to play in the National Championship. We got slaughtered in the game, but even worse, the country lumped the entire team in with those scumbags. We had our Pac 12 championship title taken away, we’ve been to sensitivity and consent workshops, and the media—even Sports Center—can’t seem to see a football program anymore. All we are now, are the rapists. It’s an image I’d really like to get away from.

  I cringe to think that my actions from last night could lump me in with my so-called teammates who were a part of that horrific crime. We may have worn the same uniform, but there was a reason that theirs have been taken away. I’m not anything like them.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  “All right, then. Get out on the field, and let’s focus on football.”

  Chapter Three

  Megan

  “IT LOOKS LIKE YOU AND Reggie Davis were getting pretty friendly last night.” Chloe elbows me in the ribs as she rolls navy blue pre-wrap around her wrist and up her arm, glancing at it like it’s a work of art. The players are out on the field, so the medical room is slow. While Chloe entertains herself wasting supplies, I flip through some flash cards, trying to cram for a physiology test.

  “You should have stuck around. The way he was looking at you ….” She drags out the “you” and wiggles her head as she says it. Despite myself, I feel a blush creep up my cheeks.

  “He was looking at me like he was drunk. Because he was drunk.”

  I focus back to my flashcards. Acetabulum. I tap the card against the rest of the deck. The definition is in my brain somewhere. As much as I love Chloe, between living together, taking classes together, and being student sports therapists together, I sometimes wish she would just go away. I could just hide in the back office and study. But that tiny back office is currently occupied by Garrett Patacky, the staff physical therapist and our boss. He’s in there doing God knows what. Probably hiding from doing any real work.

  “Psh, you were literally just telling me how badly you need a fuck buddy.”

  Her words make me hiss, and I look around quickly to make sure no one can overhear her. “I’m pretty sure I said I need to lose my virginity, not get a … fuck buddy.”

  “Exactly. How do you think that is going to happen?”

  I look down, chagrined. “I don’t know. It’s not like it’s a big deal. Virginity is just a social construct.”

  Chloe gives me a withering look. “Whatever. Reggie’s hot, you could make out under the bleachers, feel up those arms of his, let him smother you ….”

  “All right, I get the picture.” I put my hand out like I can block her words, but I can’t block the image that is involuntarily forming in my mind. Me, laying under the bleachers. Reggie’s amber eyes on me as he hovers over my body, a single dreadlock falling over his brown skin. My hands traveling over the territory that my eyes memorized last night.

  I shake off the fantasy. “Even if Reggie was interested in me, for bleacher time, or whatever, I am so not interested in him. He’s huge, first of all.”

  Chloe rolls
her eyes. Okay, so huge isn’t a turn off.

  “He’s …,” I stumble around, trying to grasp all the sound reasons why Reggie is a terrible idea. “Reggie is a goofball, he doesn’t take anything seriously. No one takes him seriously. He’s not going to make the NFL and he has no discernible back-up plan. Which is pretty stupid, considering he’s a senior.”

  Chloe has gone quiet, and she’s pressing her lips together and shaking her head, her eyes bugging. But I’m on such a role I don’t recognize the panic symbols.

  “There’s not one thing about Reggie Davis that would make me consider dating or even hooking up with him.”

  There’s a cough behind me, and all the blood drains from my head. I’m sure it makes my pale complexion go a ghostly white. I turn around slowly, knowing exactly who must be standing right behind me. Yet I still can’t contain the little groan when I realize it actually is Reggie.

  Reggie, taking up all the space the doorway allows, stands at the entrance of the med room. “I need to get my arches taped,” he says, a weak half smile on his face. He looks like he’s apologizing for interrupting us.

  I long again for the tiny office in the back of the room. If I could just escape there, I could pretend to input records into the computer or actually get some studying done. Anything to not have to tape up Reggie. Reggie, who I just insulted and who had heard the whole thing.

  Chloe tears the pre-wrap she’s been playing with, disconnecting the spool from her makeshift sleeve, and tosses it at me. I catch it instinctively. Okay, so this is happening. I make a mental note to smother Chloe in her sleep tonight.

  Reggie hops onto one of the tables and starts removing his shoes.

  “You’re going to get yourself injured out there, with those things.” I nod towards his beat up cleats.

  “Nah, these are my lucky cleats. They’d never betray me.” His voice is so light, it was almost like he didn’t hear what I said.

  “Well, they have basically no support left. Taping your arches only goes so far.” My voice is curt, but my hands are gentle. His skin is smooth and soft under my fingers, and it annoys me that I notice.

  “Yeah, but if I got new shoes, I wouldn’t have any excuse to come by here.”

  There is a tinge of sadness in his voice, but when I look up, his face is all smiles. It makes me feel even worse.

  He waits patiently for me to finish taping his feet. “Feels better already!” he says in an even brighter voice, jumping down from the table and grabbing his shoes. “Always a pleasure, ladies,” he waves, without looking back at Chloe and me.

  I’m still crouched with a roll of tape in my hands. Maybe no one will notice if I just crawl under this table and die.

  Chapter Four

  Reggie

  A FULL WEEK AFTER THE party, Coach is still looking at me like he isn’t sure if he can trust me.

  I’ve tried to play it off, like it doesn’t really matter, but it does matter. I’ve spent the best three years of my life giving my all for this team, and the new coach has no history with us. It’s like he expects us to be statues on the sidelines. Every joke I crack, every time I goof off, or snap a towel, there he is with his chin jutting out and his mouth in a tight line, judging me. Like that has anything to do with how I play on the field. I’m trying to tone it down, gain some respect, but it’s like trying not to blink.

  I lace up my trusty cleats as Prescott gives his pre-game pep talk. We don’t need one, we are going to slaughter this team just like we do every year. The University of Washington should probably give up on having a football team. They’ve been the worst team in the conference for years.

  “Let’s go play some football!” The coach’s voice booms as we stand at the cusp of the locker room, ready to barrel out onto the field.

  I haven’t really been listening to his speech, but I’m getting that familiar rush anyway—heart pounding, stomach jittering, muscles clenching. Adrenaline pulses through my veins. There’s no feeling like it. It’s what addicted me to football in the first place. No other sport is as dangerous or as full of life.

  We bound onto the field, and the noise of the stadium rushes around us like a flood. From the stands comes the sound of coconut shells pounding together. It’s an old tradition, coconut shells to imitate horses’ hooves, but the sound never fails to get me going. The noise only fuels my adrenaline higher. The passion and the energy of the stadium is infectious.

  Lined up on the field, I’m ready to smash anyone wearing purple. The drumbeats of the marching band get faster and faster until they erupt and then go silent.

  It’s game time.

  West Sawyer—our former second string, but now starting, quarterback—throws the ball down the field. It’s not a long throw, but he somehow doesn’t see the massive defender cutting into the route. The ball gets picked off, like West was aiming for the UW player, not Ben Mayhew, our fastest wide receiver.

  The Husky spins around and heads down the field. I’m the only one who can stop him.

  I leap toward him, a last-ditch effort to get the tackle, but my fingers only grasp at his legs. He muscles past me and is gone in a second, speeding down the field like this is a track meet not a football game. I jump back onto my feet and run after him, but it’s pointless.

  All I can do is watch him run the ball back and score a touchdown. A damn touchdown, on nearly the first play of the game! I punch myself in the leg. Come on, Reggie. That was my fault. I was the only one close enough to block him, but I threw myself at him too late and missed my chance. If I’d been more aware I could have timed it better, and we wouldn’t be down by six. I punch at my leg again. It’s not going to happen again.

  The Huskies are so pitiful that they miss the extra point. Though I don’t know where I get off calling our opponent pitiful when they’re the only ones with points on the board. Still, I let out a sigh of relief at the bad kick for the extra point; the miss keeps it a one possession game. All we have to do is score a single touchdown to pull ahead.

  But with the ball back in our hands, West looks nervous. I snap the ball to him, and it bounces off his hands. He recovers, gathering the ball into his body as he takes a few steps back, finding space. He locates a target downfield and lets the ball rip. It’s a perfect spiral. The guy might not be polished, but he has talent. It’s aimed perfectly for Ben Mayhew, but his defender is messing with him—touching his jersey and making sure that Mayhew knows he’s there—but as the ball comes down, the defender blatantly grabs his arm before Mayhew has a chance to catch the ball.

  Mayhew reaches out, trying in vain to make the catch single-handed. The ball bounces as he tries to bring it in against his body, but the oval point of the pig skin hits his wrist and takes a sideways jump that Mayhew has no chance of catching. Thankfully, it falls to the ground. I can’t take the idea of two turnovers in such a short period of time. I wait for the whistle to call out the defender, but the ref just stands there, acting like it’s a legal play.

  “Holding! HOLDING!” I scream from up field. “Are you blind?” It’s genuine question, but before the ref can acknowledge my outburst, Coach Prescott calls a time out.

  I sulk off the field, brushing at the grass stains on my white pants, and wait for him to look at me with disappointment. I’m sure he’s going to give a speech about timing and not blowing our shot, and even if he doesn’t come out and say my name, I know he’ll be talking about me. But what I get is so much worse.

  “Sit down.” His voice is calm, but low and stern. He has a way of talking in an even tone that flares with danger around the edges. I trudge to the bench and sit, my leg shaking with pent-up energy, waiting until I can get back on the field.

  “Forrester, you’re in for Davis.”

  Just like that, Prescott strips the game away from me, putting in Clay Forrester, my back up. He spends the rest of the timeout talking about keeping calm and communicating. But I’m the furthest thing from calm. And I want to communicate with Prescott just how shitty i
t is that he has me sitting out. But I have a feeling that will only make things worse.

  West looks more pale than he did for the first down. Now on second down, he’s damn near trembling. He fumbles the snap, which he probably wouldn’t have done if I was the one snapping him the ball, I can’t help but think. And then it’s third down. West’s confidence is completely shot. It’s like watching a car wreck. Nothing you can do but let it play out and hope to hell the thing’s not totaled. Four downs, and we’re off the field.

  That’s pretty much how it goes for the rest of the game. We block, we restrain, and we contain the Huskies to that first horrible touchdown. But we can’t seem to make up the points. We have every opportunity to tie the game, but half time comes and goes with the score not budging from 6-0. The fans are deflated, their cheers half-hearted. And worse, Coach still has me sitting out, and I am about to lose my mind.

  We have to win this game. We’re better than this team, so much better, but we aren’t playing like a unit. If this keeps up, UW will score on us. And two losses at the start of the season …. I shake my dreads out of my eyes and try to shake out the thought of losing. We have got to get points on the board.

  “Coach,” I approach Prescott, trying to seem calm, but inside I’m a complete frenzy. I’ve got my helmet squeezed tight in my hands. “Let me back in the game. I can be professional. West is at least comfortable with me. Having him out there with Forrester, he’s focusing too much on the snap, about catching the ball when it should be the easiest part of the play. It’s throwing him off and he’s making more mistakes than he would be if I was out there playing center.”

  The coach looks at me and runs his tongue over his teeth, thinking about it.

  “You’re punishing West and the whole team for my outburst. I think we’ve been through enough of that, don’t you?”

  Prescott lets out a breath and then locks eyes with me.

  “Fine. But if you so much as have your jersey untucked, you’re coming out.”