Safety Net (16 page)

It was still disconcerting to see
so many people who didn’t know him hate him passionately. For what, he
wondered. For being at Crocker? For being a good quarterback? For being on a
winning team? The only complaints he found legitimate were: being ugly (Erick
didn’t think he was
that
bad, but he was no Lowell Menacker either, so
fair enough) and having pretensions to the Heisman. Erick didn’t think he had a
snowball’s chance in hell of winning the Heisman, but the buzz wouldn’t die. If
he’d been a fan of the other players who were in the running for the Heisman,
he’d be pissed at Erick West, too.

Erick couldn’t be distracted by it,
though. He didn’t have the time. His spatial engineering class was utter hell,
partly because his primary focus was, of course, football. It was football
season, so what could anyone expect? But he had to take the class and it was
only offered in the fall quarter. So after morning drills, he wrestled with
abstract spatial concepts, geometry, and physics formulae until the afternoon,
when he had more practice before quarterbacks’ meetings or team meetings and
sometimes a half-hour press thing with Coach Bowman or Coach Miller. Then he
was released to get back to his dorm in the dark and fit in some studying if he
could, and if he was lucky, read an e-mail from Candace and begin his reply
before he collapsed into sleep.

When he looked back later on the
Hammer Game that season, Erick could see red flags everywhere. A ton of
pressure to handle all at once, some of it out of his control and some of it
within his power to push back. If he’d only seen it sooner and acted upon it.

They played the Hammer Game at
Rockridge. It had rained earlier in the day and the field was moist in the
chilly November air. The game was sold-out and was going to be broadcast nationally.
CU Rockridge weren’t having a great year. Their quarterback, Renny Martinez,
was a freshman from Chico who’d had a bit of localized fame as a high school
star. But the Mountain Lions had opened their season playing Oregon and it had
been a bloodbath. After an easy win over Texas Tech, they’d lost to Washington,
Arizona, UCLA, and USC. Everyone in the press expected the Hammer Game to be a
lopsided crushing of Rockridge by the PWAC powerhouse Crocker. Everyone was
wrong.

Erick threw his worst game since
coming to Crocker, probably his worst game ever. Erick couldn’t remember being
this bad, not even in junior high. Seven incompletes in the first half alone,
sixteen incompletes total. Five interceptions. Six failed conversions. And the
worse he played, the more the rest of the team rallied yet was unable to
accomplish anything. Dale made a breathtakingly fantastic catch on a ball Erick
hadn’t even meant for him; he’d aimed for Benton just as Benton got steamrolled
by a Mountain Lion. Lowell recovered a loose ball after McIlvaine fumbled a
horrendous pass Erick had made. His guys were playing heart, mind, and soul.
They were playing to win. And Erick was letting them down, every single one of
them.

The final score was a deceptively
respectable-looking Rockridge 31, Crocker 24. Erick knew it would’ve been
shockingly worse than that if Crocker’s defense hadn’t been playing as well as
they had all season.

The press swarmed the field with all
the Rockridge fans. Renny Martinez held the Golden Hammer high above his head
and the Mountain Lions’ O-line guys were holding each other and chanting their
school song. Erick tried to get back to the locker room but kept finding his
way blocked by a person holding a microphone or a camera. He could see his guys
heading off the field and had to restrain himself from knocking over the next
person to stand in his way.

Sharp fingernails dug into his arm
and he swirled around to face the Fox Sports lady, who rattled at him, “Do you
think this loss has hurt your chances at the Heisman?” and shoved her
microphone in his face.

Erick was still blinking at her for
digging her long red fingernails into his skin. “Um.”

Unperturbed, she asked, “Are you
happy with your performance tonight?” And Erick wanted to choke her. For a
split second, she wasn’t a person to him anymore, she was an irritating talking
thing
preventing him from getting to the locker room and getting the
hell off this miserable field and getting away from this horrible stupid awful
night.

Then an arm clapped across his
shoulders, another arm draped around his chest and Lowell was there, holding
him. Protecting him from this Fox Sports
thing
. Lowell leaned forward and
smiled at the reporter. Easygoing, as if they’d just won. As if this loss didn’t
matter.

“Shouldn’t you be interviewing
Renny Martinez, ma’am?” Lowell said pleasantly. “He just won his first Hammer
Game.” He was already turning Erick toward the visitors’ tunnel. “C’mon, West,
let’s leave the celebrations to the Mountain Lions.” He guided Erick through
the crowd, arm across his shoulders as if they were happy-go-lucky players
heading off the field as always.

When they were in the tunnel past
the guards, Erick said, “Shit. Thank you for that. I hate to think what I might’ve
done to her if she’d asked me one more stupid question.”

Lowell, losing his smiling easygoing-ness,
muttered, “I wanted to drag her by the hair over to Martinez and shove her
fucking microphone into
his
face. But that’s just me.” His hand
tightened on Erick’s upper arm. “C’mon. Not looking forward to Coach’s postmortem,
but let’s get it over with.”

The team’s after-meeting with Coach
Bowman wasn’t the worst Erick had ever experienced. Coach Bowman wrapped it by
saying, “Before we end this, unfortunately, we have some quarterback issues to
discuss. I don’t think it would be productive to discuss them privately with
West, so we’re going to do it now. Coach Miller?”

Erick wondered if Coach Bowman was
so angry at him he couldn’t even face him, which was why he had Coach Miller do
it. Coach Miller was more low-key and even-keel, and that made his detailed
assessment of everything Erick had done wrong in the game even harsher. He
described it as if it had been someone else. Erick listened, and that someone
else sounded like a junior high defensive tackle who’d just been shoved into the
quarterback position because there was no one else to do it. But that someone
else had been him.

It felt like the middle of the
night by the time they were back on campus, but it was only a little after ten
p.m. Erick, Dale, and Lowell slowly walked from the football offices to
Poitier, passing a handful of partygoers along the way. Even when they lost,
Crocker celebrated the Hammer Game.

“Do they even know what the Hammer
Game is all about?” Dale said. “Do they even care that we just lost?”

“Dale,” Lowell said wearily.

“What does it matter?” Erick said. “It’s
only football.”

“Dude.”

“Erick.” Dale gave him that
concerned look that always made Erick wonder if he was covered in blood and
hadn’t noticed.

In front of Poitier Hall, Erick
stopped and said, “Y’know, I don’t feel like hanging tonight. I’m beat. I’m
going to head back.”

Lowell and Dale exchanged a look.
The we-have-to-take-care-of-Erick look. Lowell said, “I’ll come with. Walking
around will clear my head.” He exchanged another look with Dale, a look Erick
had never seen and couldn’t name.

Dale twitched one eyebrow at
Lowell, almost smiling but not quite. The look he gave Erick was back to
your-head-is-bleeding-and-you-need-help. “Safe journey, my brothers. See you
tomorrow.” He got his ID out to swipe into the dorm, and flung back over his
shoulder, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

As they walked away from Poitier,
Lowell muttered, “Fucking comedian.”

Walking did help, some. Erick
stopped visualizing the five interceptions in slo-mo, was beginning to lose
focus on the sixteen incompletes. He tapped his hand against Lowell’s stomach
and steered them the long way around, past the campus reservoir and the faculty
residences. It was quiet here: no parties, no students. Erick thought about the
Fox Sports lady getting in his face and felt sick at the impulse he’d had in
his anger. He’d spoken to her before, she was a nice lady. She was married to a
former Green Bay Packers running back and had two kids. Thank God Lowell had
saved him.

They walked the perimeter of the
reservoir, Erick slowing his steps. There was a big oak tree in a small copse
set back from the sidewalk. Four security lights were set around the reservoir,
giving off a dim orange glow.

Erick stopped by the oak tree and
leaned against the bark. “Lowell.”

Lowell stopped with him. Erick
reached out, touched Lowell’s hair though he hadn’t meant to, and rested his
hand on Lowell’s neck. Lowell watched him, very still, and Erick kissed him.
Soft, gentle.

Erick drew back, thinking this was
it, all it would ever be, and he could tell Lowell it was only because he was
grateful and confused...

Except he kissed Lowell again,
slower. And Lowell responded, kissing him back. Erick pressed against the tree,
sliding his arms around Lowell’s waist, and pulled Lowell into a deeper kiss.
Lowell’s kiss was hungrier, igniting a series of thoughts Erick didn’t stop to
examine. He let them flare and burn out as he tasted Lowell’s lips, mouth,
breath, warmth.

Lowell ended the kiss and pressed
his forehead to Erick’s. “Oh, Erick,” he sighed. Erick couldn’t tell if it was
a good sigh or a bad sigh. He touched his lips to Lowell’s, caressed them. When
Lowell didn’t respond, he licked the upper lip and Lowell caught his tongue,
sucked on it before letting it go.

“What are we going to do?” Lowell
whispered.

Erick tightened his hold. “Go back
to your place?”

“Oh, Erick,” Lowell said again,
shakily, against Erick’s ear.

The walk back to Poitier might have
cooled them down into rationality. Might have, but didn’t. The living area was
dark when Lowell opened the door. Dale’s bedroom door was shut, no light coming
from underneath. In Lowell’s bedroom, Erick sat on the bed and turned on the
bedside light while Lowell shut the door. Lowell faced him, and Erick pulled
his shirt off.

“Erick,” Lowell said, like he was
losing his breath. He climbed onto the bed, pressing Erick beneath him, and
kissed him very slowly. A long kiss Erick wouldn’t have minded getting lost in.
Stay there for a few months, at least.

Erick ran his fingers through
Lowell’s hair, ran his hands over Lowell’s back, untucking his shirt. Lowell
shifted, moving his hands from Erick’s hips, along his sides, and he was
getting hard. A rush of intoxication poured through Erick’s skin. He pawed at
Lowell’s shirt.

Lowell rose up enough to get his
shirt off. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. The doubt in his eyes pierced
Erick like a needle, and Erick answered it by rocking against him. With a soft
groan Lowell pressed back, kissing Erick’s neck, shoulder, jaw. They made out,
kiss after kiss, until Erick had to get free of his jeans and underwear; he was
fire-hot and hard.

Lowell unbuttoned his fly, then
paused and said again, “Are you sure?”

“I won’t be if you keep asking me
that,” said Erick. “So stop asking.”

Lowell grinned at him. “Okay.” He
stripped and tossed his clothes onto the floor, and they pressed together,
kissing, naked, touching.

Erick felt completely free. High.
Soaring. The buzz of a sold out stadium roar as he threw a perfect pass for a
winning touchdown. Lowell there to catch it, of course. Always Lowell. With his
strength -- perfect arms for catching, long reach, big hands, strong fingers --
and agility and long runner’s legs.

Lowell drew back very slightly, to
slide his hand between them, stroke Erick’s hard-on. “Oh, Erick,” he sighed,
smiling a little, watching as he stroked. Erick reached for him, maneuvered to
wrap his fist around Lowell’s cock. He pumped a few times and Lowell groaned,
pushing against his palm.

“Wait, wait,” Erick said, shifting
his weight. “Let me...use my left hand.” Lowell moved as Erick changed hands.

“Your
left
hand?” Lowell
said, one eyebrow raised.

Erick stroked him steadily. “Force
of habit.” He smiled self-consciously. “Back when I made QB1 in seventh grade.
Coach was always talking about my arm, protecting my arm, protecting my hand. And
I had this idea: what if I jacked off and my hand got all cramped up. What was
I gonna tell coach. So I switched to using my left hand.”

Lowell looked at him and burst out
laughing. He buried his face against Erick’s neck, still rocking, sliding his
cock in Erick’s grip.

“Oh, dude. That is so fucked up.”

Erick chuckled. “Yeah, maybe. But I
got pretty good at it.”

Lowell pushed into his fist. “Yes.
Yes, you did.” He kissed Erick, holding him, moving with him, thrusting. When
he came, Erick kissed him, kept kissing and tasting his skin until Lowell
flopped back against the bed.

“C’mere,” Lowell said, grabbing at
Erick’s hips. He pulled Erick over him and stroked Erick’s cock, and Erick was
so full and far gone it didn’t take long for Lowell to bring him off. And the way
Lowell watched him coming...the look in Lowell’s eyes... Erick didn’t think
there could be anything as sexy, as liberating, as wonderful as that.

Erick would’ve slid to one side if
the bed had been wide enough. He was tempted to slide against Lowell into one
sweaty, sticky mess. Lowell gave him a very soft, tired smile and said, “You
can clean up first.” As Erick got off the bed, Lowell sat up, touched Erick’s
cheek and kissed him.

Erick left the bedroom door open,
letting the low light from inside spill out to make his way to the bathroom. As
he stepped from the doorway, the bathroom door opened and Dale came out. Dale
paused and looked Erick over, murmured, “’Night,” and went into his bedroom.