Page 28 of The Cheerleader

Eldy leans in, his smile gone. “I hear there’ll be scouts at the Navy game.”

I scoff. “You’re listening to gossip again.” I shake my head. I’d heard the same thing from a local reporter—Hartford guy, not one from here in Storrs—and not unreliable. Still, I’ll believe it when I see it.

“None of that shit matters,” I say. “I’m going to stay focused on training and the game and improving my speed.” I stare him down in challenge.

“Don’t give me that look. I train hard.”

My smirk escapes because I know he puts in his time. Not as much as I do, but I know I’m an unusually driven bastard. I shake my head. I have no choice. I was born this way. At least that’s what my mother says, and that I get it from my dad. Hard work and a charming personality is all from him, she always tells me. She’s kidding about Dad being a charmer. He’s a man of few words and fewer smiles, and although I’m okay with that—most of the time.

The guys on the field finish the drill. It’s our turn again.

Eldy turns to me, as serious as he gets. “So you put in extra time with the weights for speed?” He’s asking my advice because he’s a competitive fucker. I admire that about him. He may joke, but he doesn’t like being outdone by me, not even in the hard work department—the only one where I outshine him, in my opinion.

“No,” I lift my helmet to put the smelly thing back on my head. “The time with weights is so the defensive linemen will bounce off me when they try to take me down.”

He laughs. Coach Torino blows a whistle and motions for us to go back out there.

“Let’s see if they bounce off you today, Granger,” my friend says as we trot onto the field.

“You just pay attention to the pass off, and I’ll do the rest.” I can already taste the salty sweat on my lips as we line up under the relentless afternoon sun.

We line up with Eldy under center. I’m on the line as if I’m going to run out for a short pass or block for Lenny Dobbins, our wide receiver, to my right.

Eldy calls out the play, and we all know what it is, including the defense. It’s a run play where Eldy drops back, fakes the pass, and tosses the ball off to me. The sequence requires the line to hold up the defense and split-second timing on the toss. It requires me to catch the short toss as I step back and then take off through the gap the right guard and tight end are supposed to open up.

“Sixteen-twenty-four-ready-set-hut,” Eldy shouts.

The center snaps the ball, and we all move, including the big beefy defensive lineman—right at me.

But I’m quicker because my life depends on it, or at least the health of my limbs, not to mention my ribs. I’m first off the line and move past the lineman, whose beef makes him a fraction of a second slower than me, and that’s all I need.

The inside linebacker is another matter. He’s leaner and faster and coming at me, diving for my knees. I jump over the linebacker like a champion hurdler. When my feet hit the ground, I turn the switch on and flat-out sprint for the end zone.

Twenty yards out, I see in my peripheral vision our fastest safety, Fletcher, chasing me down. I know he’s going to catch me before I get to the end zone in spite of me willing my legs to churn faster.

Preparing for impact, I squeeze the football almost hard enough to burst it. When Fletcher’s close, I turn away from him to protect the ball as he flies at me from two o’clock. I dive forward in an automatic move to gain extra yards as we collide.

“Where do you think you’re going, Granger?” Fletcher says as he rolls over me and pops up to a stand. He has a nasty grin on his face and his hands on his hips as he towers over me, blocking the sun from my eyes. He doesn’t bother to extend a hand to help me up from where I lie flat on my back, still clutching the ball.

Catching my breath, I grin up at him. “Thanks for blocking the sun while I rest a minute.” I’m not one to back down from challenge. It’s always best to taunt a taunter, even when it’s my own teammate, though I’m smart enough to keep my voice low so that only he can hear me.

He doesn’t say a thing as I stare up at him, wondering what the fuck his problem is before I remember I don’t care.

Mack Delaney, the linebacker I used as a hurdle, trots up, winded and laughing. “You shitting me, Granger? You fucking hurdled me. You practicing with the track team in the off-season? That was crazy.” He stretches out a hand, and I take it, pulling myself off the grass.

Suppressing a grunt, I think I manage to hide the fact that my ribs are on fire behind my normal badass game face.

“You practice that expression in the mirror?” Fletcher says.

I don’t bother acknowledging his wiseass comment. He’s already gotten as much attention from me as he’s getting. Trotting back to the line, I ignore the pain, telling myself it’s just another in a long line of bruises.

The heat reaches some ungodly high at about four p.m. I hand a cup of water to Mack, who’s just finished losing his lunch. He grunts his thanks and rinses his mouth. A few other guys are retching on the sidelines, including Fletcher. Scooping another cup of water, I hand it to him when he approaches. He takes it without looking at me and turns away.

He has a right to be embarrassed, so I don’t fault him for not thanking me.

“How’d you manage to keep your lunch?” Al Preconi, the athletic trainer, comes to my side, shaking his head as he glances over at the fallen warriors.

I shrug. I’d bet my iron stomach that Al’s the one who told Coach to call practice.