The House of Grey- Volume 1 (15 page)

“Coach Able, maybe I missed something. Why exactly do you have to find something for me to do on the team?” Monson’s voice reflected his confusion.

Coach Able narrowed his eyes and looked at Monson suspiciously. Unsure of what to do, Monson waited for Coach Able to speak.

“Grey, when you won this scholarship, did you read
any
of the information that was sent your way?”

Why did people keep asking him that?

“Of course I did,” said Monson with indignation. “But it’s not like I went through it with a fine-tooth comb! Besides, as you can see by my glowing countenance, I was slightly preoccupied.”

Unbelievable as it was, Coach Able had enough tact not to inquire further. He just stared at Monson, and his gaze softened. “Your scholarship is one of most highly
publicized…”
he struggled to find the word, “things out there. First game of the year, people aren’t going to come just because of our kicking defense, our unstoppable halfbacks, and our amazing quarterback. They’ll come because of
you
. You’re the first freshman in history to win the
Horum Vir
all-inclusive scholarship, and almost nothing is known about you. People want to know who you are, so they’ll be looking for you. I need you to show up or we’ll receive a lot of bad publicity.” 

“Now isn’t that interesting,” Monson replied thoughtfully. “So what you’re saying is that you
need
me, and you want
me
to do you a favor. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Grey, what is it you’re concocting in that little head of yours?”

Coach Able, I think you and I are in a place to help each other. Do you have a minute?”

Chapter 9 – Flirting with Trouble

Thirty minutes later with schedules in hand, Artorius and Monson tried to catch up with their shorter companion. 

"So your session with Coach Able started out pretty rocky, huh?" asked Casey.

Monson answered with a self-satisfied smile. “Yeah it did, how did you know?”

"I was listening to the first half of your conversation, but had to leave partway through. I saw him afterwards, and he had a huge smile on his face. Things obviously turned for the better. What'd you do? Give him a lap dance?"

"Ahh, Casey, you're so witty I can hardly stand it.” Monson did his best to sound calm. It was costing him a great deal. “It was OK. He just wanted to know what I was planning on doing in this unique position of mine."

"What
are
you planning on doing?" Artorius finally fell into step beside his two friends. "Are you even planning on playing on the Legion?"

"No."

"I sense this is a good thing.” Casey threw his arm across his body stretching his back. "But I still don’t understand why you aren’t pissed. I mean, he made it pretty clear that, basically, you aren’t welcome in the Legion — shoot, welcome at Coren for that matter.”

“Don’t forget that he told me that I have to play nice with the media like some sort of performing monkey.”

“Like I said — you’re OK with that?”

"Of course not, but I got what I needed out of the deal.”

Silence, in which Monson tried really hard not to laugh.

Artorius stopped directly in front of Monson. "Well? Are you going to tell us what happened or not?"

"Oh, you want to know what we
said
," responded Monson playfully, a huge smile stretching the width of his face. “I told Coach Able that I wouldn’t try to claim my position on the team and would do my P.R. dance if he’d give you two a real tryout. So I hope you two goofballs are as good as you think you are, because if you screw this up, I’ll have to kick you both in the teeth."

With that, Monson strolled past his two friends, their shock chiseled on their faces. When they finally snapped out of their reverie, Monson was halfway down the hall. “OK, spit it out!” Casey caught Monson’s arm as they rounded a corner. “How on Odin’s green earth did you pull that off?”

“Do you really think so?” Monson feigned ignorance. “Because I’m pretty sure that the earth is covered mostly with water, which, -- and I could be wrong -- is more of a blue color, but—”

“Monson!” shouted Artorius and Casey exasperatedly. “Out with it already!”

“OK, OK. Keep your pants on,” said Monson, finally. “It really wasn’t that hard. He wanted something from me but had no real leverage to get me to do it. So I told him that if he wants me to play nice, then I want something in return. This was the arrangement that we came to: you guys get a special tryout and I do what he asks. Simple.”

“That was ballsy,” said Casey with a mix of awe and horror. “Do you know what that man could do to you?”

“Give me the same ridiculous hair cut that he has?”

“Stop joking around,
this is serious.”

“Jiminy Christmas,” Monson put up his hands in frustration. “You guys need to chill. If I explain, will you dial it down a notch?”

They both nodded.

“I’m here on an academic scholarship,
not
a sports scholarship. I have zero interest in playing football. As a matter of fact, I probably couldn’t even if I wanted to.  So, if Coren wants me to do
them favors
,
then they’re going to do it my way." 

“Your way,” interjected Casey. “What does that mean? What are you actually going to do?”

“What am I going to do?”  Monson laughed. “That's easy. I’m going to go to practice and watch you guys do your thing, drink some sports drinks, and see if I can get the tape girl to flirt with me. When the media shows up, I will talk the talk, walk the walk, and dance on my head if need be. In return, you guys get the chance to run with the big boys. I hope you don’t disappoint me.”

Both Casey and Artorius continued to look at him, dumbfounded. Casey’s face stretched in a grin. “Well, Artorius, it looks like something good has finally come from your stupidity. If you hadn’t mistook Grey for me, we might have never met him.”

Artorius nodded in agreement. “Yeah, we were pretty lucky on that one. I swear I thought it was you. If even looked like he was wearing the same thing.”

“Strange but fortunate,” said Monson, glancing over his shoulder. “Though you must have been really out of it, Artorius. How you could have mistaken me for Casey is beyond me."

Artorius just shrugged. “Who knows? I really wasn’t feeling like myself yesterday.”

Casey gave him a knowing look. “You were probably just nervous. I didn’t sleep at all the entire week leading up to orientation, and my uncle was almost unbearable. I almost stabbed myself in the ears just so I wouldn’t have to listen to him.”

“Ditto,” said Monson. “Molly was driving me nuts.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Artorius. He still looked unsure, but satisfied. He started shifting his gaze from side to side with concerned contemplation.  “I don’t think this is right, guys. Are you sure this is the correct corridor?”

“It has to be," said Casey, pulling out a small map of The GM. “It has to be; you see we started here....”

Monson let his attention slip as Casey and Artorius tried to figure out where they were. He allowed himself a selfish moment, not being able to help feeling pleased with himself. He found that his confrontation with Coach Able left him with the feeling of invincibility; like no matter what he did he would come out victorious. Monson knew that it was not huge victory, that Coach Able was probably getting the better end of their little deal. However, Monson’s successes in the past couple months felt few and far between. He needed this. Besides, it is not very often you have the opportunity to totally disregard a teacher’s power trip and turn it to your favor. He had also earned Casey and Artorius’ undying loyalty and respect, which was also a good thing.

Casey and Artorius finally figured out the correct route, and they were off again. It was terribly confusing. Just the sheer size of The GM with its maze-like corridors was enough to make even the older students — let alone newbies like them — lose their way occasionally. They got lost again and decided to ask someone.

A small group of upperclass boys were lounging on and around a large circular table next to the entrance of one of the many rooms in The GM. Monson counted four of them. A set of twin brothers, who looked like they may have come from India, leaned against the wall. A large round-faced boy with more chins than hands sat at the table eating copious amounts of food. Lastly, a weedy-looking boy who wouldn’t be out of place in a police lineup reclined on the table, his attention shifting like he was awaiting some sort of meeting, and not simply skipping class. 

“Well, look what we have here,” said Weedy Boy.   “Fresh meat—I mean freshmen.” He laughed at his own joke, though no one else did.

Monson tried to keep his mouth shut. He was unsuccessful. “Seriously?”

Monson’s eyebrow was raised so far he was in danger of losing it.

The boy’s eyes narrowed, then he grinned. Monson returned the stare but tried to keep his face impassive, silently berating himself for his forked tongue. Suddenly, it was as if the group of seniors seemed to multiply into a few dozen. Had they been hiding, just waiting for such an opportunity, or had they been there the whole time? Regardless, they did not look happy; curse his wretched tongue.

The crowd of older boys circled Monson and his two friends as Weedy Boy spoke. “Freshman, didn’t you know that you’re not allowed down this hall?”

“Oh, sorry,” said Casey, cutting off Monson’s reply. He sounded polite and contrite, as if he wanted only to rectify any misunderstanding. Actually, he sounded a little
too
contrite. “We didn‘t realize that this was
your
hallway.”

“I don’t like your tone. You should be a little more respectful when addressing your elders.”

“Well, you
shouldn’t
like my tone,” said Casey in an equally polite voice. “It's called sarcasm; look it up. It’s a good word to know."

“You have quite the mouth on you,” Weedy Boy glared at Casey. “
I think we may have to teach you some manners
.
”

That simple comment was enough to cause a dramatic change in the atmosphere surrounding the encounter; this could get ugly very quickly. 

Not good
,
thought Monson as he took a step back, trying to create some space between himself and the upperclassmen. They, however, were not going to let him off the hook that easily. As Monson took a step back, they merely took a step forward. Monson was not particularly scared of a fight, however. After the horrors of his dreams, the threats from a bunch of rich kids pretending to be thugs did not mean much to him. He and his friends were, however, outnumbered and it probably was not the best idea to get into a fight on the first day of school.  Furthermore, based on his experience the day before, Monson could see his two friends doing something crazy like pulling out sticks and thrashing people indiscriminately. Considering Casey’s freakish strength, that could be bad.  Trying to talk his way out of this was probably his best bet. They didn’t have anything against him personally...right?

The tension was high, but distraction and relief arrived in a form of a second group of students.

There were a good number of them; many girls lined the hall, most of whom wore their uniforms artfully, revealing just a bit more than the school code probably allowed. Directly behind them, an assortment of thuggish boys — the kind who solved everything with a well-placed fist. Clusters of younger and smaller boys who looked like lackeys of some sort teetered around, walking close enough
to
the group that people noticed, but far enough away that their presence was easy to ignore until needed.  The group revolved around a tall boy who was basking in the admiration of foreign-looking twin girls, one on each arm.  His brown hair was untidy, but strategically so, as if he had spent a great deal of time on it.  He was wearing slightly shaded sunglasses, not unlike the ones Casey had taken from Kylie just that morning. His shirt was unbuttoned to right above mid-chest. While Monson assumed he was trying to look cool, he wasn’t quite sure that the boy pulled it off.

“Mauller,” the new boy barked at Weedy Kid. “Explain.”

“Blow it out your tailpipe, Derek,” Mauller's eyes narrowed. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“You’re in
my
hallway,” said Derek pompously. “Or did you forget who you were taking to?”

“Excuse me,” broke in Monson. “I hate to interrupt this riveting show of comparative masculinity, but seeing as we have nothing to do with this, we would really like to be on our way.” 

“And who are you?” The new boy turned his attention to Monson with barely concealed disdain.

Monson gave Derek a polite smile. “It's rude to ask someone for his name without offering your own.”

The boy looked like he was going to laugh for a moment — as if Monson had done something raucously inappropriate. All he managed was a smile, which did not move to his eyes; they remained cold and calculating.