Students of the Game (6 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BRYCE (Freshman Year)

I find Carver at the lunch table alone, not yet over run by testosterone, or should I say a handful of my new best friends,
team mates
.

“How’s it going with Missy?” I ask, following his gaze.

Carver grins, but continues to watch her across the busy cafeteria. “I’m getting there. What about you…any potential hotties? How about that girl, Joy?” he asks.

I pause in mid chew. “What about her?”

“She’s cute…you should hit that.”

Slightly aggravated, I sigh and put down my sandwich. “It’s not like that with her.” I silently wonder why I’m even admitting this to Carver. Maybe because he’s the only one who actually knows how I feel about her, I’ll find it therapeutic to talk to him. I decide to take the chance. “I’ve known her my whole life. We used to be really close, then her dad died and I was a dick to her. Basically, I traded our friendship for football.”

“Let me guess your dad pressured you into playing? He was some big superstar like you’re going to be, wasn’t he?” Carver laughs, which sets me off even more.
Therapeutic my ass.
I instantly regret telling him anything at all.

“No, he didn’t and no he wasn’t,” I say, through gritted teeth.

Carver stops laughing and rolls his eyes. “Dude, I’m just kidding with you. You’re lucky. My father is a total ass.” He leans forward and grips the edge of the lunch table. “Do you even know how pissed he was that I didn’t make varsity?
Nothing
I do is ever good enough for him. Joy’s pretty lucky, too. Sometimes I wouldn’t mind if my dad was dead.”

For a moment I’m shocked by this sudden turn in the conversation. I wonder how long he’s been holding in this pent up aggression towards his father. What else has caused him to feel this way, and just how deep does it go? I begin to regret giving him an attitude, realizing that he’s trying to open up to me, just like I did with him.             

“Sorry, to hear that man,” I say, with a touch of sympathy. “I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

“No, of course you ca
n’t. Why would you ever have to?” Carver flicks his lunch tray away and focuses his attention back to Missy’s table.

Is it my imagination or was there a hint of jealousy in his voice. I brush it off and pack it away for later. Right now doesn’t seem like a good time to press the issue. Besides my life is really nothing to be jealous of. I’m just as insecure and scared as the next guy. I just have a good way of hiding it and I’m starting to think that maybe Carver does too. 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

J
OY

Despite the good time I’m having with Seth Saturday night at the movies, every time the hero punches someone in the face, I think of my Brown application, at home, unfinished. When he pulls the girl he’s been trying to save into a passionate embrace, I think of Carver. And when he ends up walking away in the end, I think of Bryce.

“Hello…anyone home?” Seth waves his hand in front of my face, trying to get my attention.

I look up and see the credits scrolling up from the bottom of the screen and find the majority of
the theater has emptied. “Sorry, what?”

Seth lets out an exasperating sigh, grabs my hand and pulls me up from my seat. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

I exit the theater in the usual movie daze of spending two hours grossly absorbed in someone else’s life. This time however, the daze is a result of my own. The evening air sobers me up and I lock my arm around Seth’s. “Sorry about that, I just have so much going on right now.”

“I kind of guessed that. That’s why I asked you out.”

“Oh…asked me out, huh? So, is this like a date?” I laugh.

He unlocks the car and flips the interior switch to let me in. “Ha, ha…No,” he says sarcastically. Then in
a more serious tone, adds, “Speaking of which, get in. I need to talk to you.”

Um, OK.
I shrug and get into the car.

Seth sticks the keys in the ignition, but doesn’t start the engine. He suddenly gets quiet and looks extremely uncomfortable. It’s so painfully unusual, I anxiously wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t.

“Just freaking spit it out Seth!” I exclaim.

“Fine!” h
e throws his hands up in the air. “I like Farah!”

Oh. Why did I not see this? How could I have not seen this?
We’ve all been friends for years…

Then I remember that I’m t
oo busy studying all the time, daydreaming about boys, or arguing with them, and I get angry with myself. Seth must have wanted to tell me for awhile and I selfishly ignored the plea for help. I mentally vow to try and be there for my friends more. Despite the displeasure with myself, I feel a smile spread across my face. I’ve always thought Seth and Farah would make a good couple, but never insinuated anything to either of them. Things would definitely be awkward between us all, if it didn’t work out.

“OK…,” I start, “So she doesn’t know, right?”

“No, of course not.”

“But you want her to, or you wouldn’t have told me.”

He sighs, “No…I don’t know. I just wanted to tell someone. Not being able to admit it has been killing me.”

“Well, keeping it inside surely wouldn’t do any good, but just telling me isn’t going to help either.”

“What if she doesn’t feel the same way? We’ve been friends for so long, I’d hate to lose that too.”

“Seth, Farah is a great friend and if she really cares about you, then that’s not going to happen,” I reassure him. 

“I guess you’re right.”

“Aren’t I usually?” I laugh, and Seth leans over to lightly jab my shoulder, and suddenly we’re back on comfortable ground.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

By the time Bryce arrives Sunday afternoon, I’
m in somewhat of a melancholy mood. My mom has taken Devon to the mall, to pick up something from the electronic store. Though I know the real reason is so we can have the house to ourselves and hopefully not have a repeat of Tuesday’s events.

The doorbell rings and I answer to find Bryce holding out his history book and binder towards me with both hands. “I bring gifts,” he jokes.

I roll my eyes and step aside so he can pass through the entryway.

Bryce has on his black North Tide hoodie and jeans, with a form fitting black beanie hugging his head. He walks through to the kitchen and we set ourselves up at the table as we did the first time. Bryce pulls off his hat and swatches of chestnut hair stick up as if pleading for the beanie to stay. He reaches up to calm it back in place with his hand. Not having much luck, he gives up,
and straddles the bench.   

          
Clearing his throat Bryce says, “Before we start, what I wanted to say the other day, was-”

          
I interrupt him. “Just forget about it, Bryce. What’s done is done, and I’d like to just focus on the matter at hand.” I give him none other than my infamous
this conversation is over
, look. I really don’t feel like arguing again.

          
He sighs in defeat, most likely not a usual thing for him, but he accepts it. “I think you may just be more stubborn than I remember, Joy.”

I ignore the comment and reach for his binder and open it. I finally get to review his
notes. This is progress compared to Tuesday.

The first few pages look decent, headers underlined with major battles and important dates highlighted. There really is no distinct organization or outline format and after flipping further through the binder, I come to a stop. There’s an absurd amount of pages scribbled with rows upon rows of X’s and O’s. I pry open the binder and remove the sheets of loose leaf paper. Waving the stack at him I say, “Well maybe if you stop playing Tic-Tac-Toe and listen to the lectures, you wouldn’t be starting off the semester with a D.”

“It’s not Tic-Tac-Toe.” He looks slightly amused and offended at the same time. Grabbing the pages from my hand, he glances down at them and says, “They’re football plays…and I can’t help it. As soon as the teacher starts rambling on about battle dates and stuff, I just loose interest.” For a moment he loses his confident demeanor and looks slightly embarrassed.

Despite my causticness, I feel bad for criticizing him. I have to keep in perspective that football is as important to him as academics are to me.  Even if he
did
chose the sport over our friendship. To keep this whole situation from going south, I sigh and ask, “So what are the X’s and O’s then?”

He relaxes slightly, turns the paper around, and slides closer to me on the edge of his bench. He picks up a pen which looks disproportioned in his Kong sized hand, then starts to draw multiple X’s in a row. “So
, these X’s represent the defensive line,” he now switches to making O’s, “and these, offense.” He stops and looks up at me to see if I follow. “The line of scrimmage or ‘trenches’ as we call it is this imaginary line that you can’t cross until the Center snaps the ball. After the snap…”

He’s still rambling on about positions and play options, but only one word stands out to
me during this whole explanation,
trenches
.

“Bryce, I think I know how we can get you to pass history!” I actually smile. “Soldiers dig trenches along the front line for protection on the battlefield, ri
ght?” I pause a moment to think then propose my idea to him. “If you can compare certain aspects of the war to that of football…something which interests you, it may help keep you focused in class.” I sit back, pleased with my idea, but I don’t want him think I’m going to do all the work for him. “The first thing you need to do is take better notes, but when you’re listening to the lectures, try thinking in terms of your offense and defense.” I slide his binder back in his direction.

Bryce nods. “Yeah, OK. That makes sense.”

“Good. Making sense is what we need right now.”

“You must think I’m such an idiot,” he says bluntly.

I find this is odd coming from him. Bryce comes across as having a ton of self-confidence. Why would he even care what I think? Taking a moment to formulate a reply, I finally answer. “No, you just have different priorities… Besides I don’t even know how much I can help you with this, I know nothing about football.”

He smiles, “Well, have you ever actually watched a game?”

When I admit that I haven’t, Bryce jumps up from the table and makes his way into the living room. He locates the remote control wedged between couch cushions and flicks on the TV.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I exclaim in disbelief. “We are supposed to be studying!”

He flops down into our beige sectional and starts flipping through the channels until he locates an NFL game. “You said it yourself, there’s nothing we can do until I take better notes.”

Hmm…I don’t remember saying it quite like that. 

“Come sit, I’ll explain the game to you.”

Now the one defeated, I close his binder and make my way over to the couch. I chose a seat at the opposite end of the couch.

Bryce leans forward and instantly becomes absorbed in what’s happening on the screen. “OK,” he starts, “We’ve already gone over offense and defense, right? So, basically the team with the ball gets four tries, called downs, to move the ball up the field at least 10 yards. The goal is to cross into the opponent’s end zone and score a touchdown. Take this play here, 3
rd
and eight...which means it’s their third chance and they have to move the ball up eight yards…”

I watch the screen, still a little confused. Bryce is rambling on about all these different scenarios that could happen on 4
th
down, and now I’m totally lost.

The quarterback (at least I know that position) has the ball and he’s wiggling around his team mates trying to decide what to do with it. He reaches back and throws a long, deep pass. It sails all the way down the field, right into the arms of an open player who runs into the end zone and starts to do some silly victory dance.

“Touchdown!” Bryce exclaims, reveling in his own silly dance moves. And I guess that means I don’t need to worry about a 4
th
down.

A commercial break starts, featuring a guy on a motorcycle with a scantily clad woman straddling the back. There’s a whirlwind of explosions and screeching electric guitars, and by the time it ends, I’m still confused as to what the advertisement was for. I scratch my head and Bryce laughs.

“Man-mercials,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what I call these over-the-top commercials during sporting events. They have a tendency to target a male audience. You know…trucks, beer, chicks in bikinis eating hot wings.”

“Hot wings…really? You are such a guy.” I toss a throw pillow at him in mock disgust, and we both laugh as it weakly hits him in the chest and bounces off.

The game comes back on and Bryce starts commentating again. “OK, so since the Pats scored, they have to kick-off the ball…”

A
s much as I love watching pig piles of men in spandex, I can’t help to keep my eyelids from drooping at the sound of his voice. It certainly has been an emotionally exhausting week. Bryce stops talking when he sees that I’m starting to doze off. I look up and find his eyes locked on my face. For a split second I see a flicker of something in his gaze that I can’t decipher, but he starts to get up and it’s extinguished as quickly as it sparked.

“You look so bored.” Bryce laughs. “I’ll take off.” He walks to the kitchen, grabs his stuff, and pulls on his hat. I walk with him to the front door. Before he leaves he turns towards me. “So, Missy told me all about the dance.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you guys will have a blast,” I say, with as much sincerity as I can muster.

Bryce looks away. “We aren’t actually together right now…just friends. It’s hard to have a relationship when I’m so busy with football.” He stops short realizing what he just said.

It’s funny how our conversation can seem so common place and then one little slip of the tongue can change everything. For a short time it felt almost natural to be watching TV in my living room with Bryce, like we never stopped, but suddenly it’s become a total slap in the face.

      
“I’d better go,” he says, awkwardly.

I don’t reply, but open the front door for him.

     “Thanks, Joy. I really do appreciate this….second chance. I promise I’m going to give it my all.”

      
With that he leaves and I shut the door, left alone to think about what I’m really giving him a second chance at.