Just make sure you've got lots of lube," I taunt him again as the mob of players on both sides tries to pull us apart.
The late hit costs Farmington fifteen yards on the kickoff, and 47 gets thrown out of the game. As I head off the field, the ref gives me a warning. "Watch the trash talk, 83. Any more of it, and I'll throw a flag on you."
Like I care. I've already broken their starting linebacker, gotten two touchdowns, a fucking ESPN highlight reel catch, and I've still got a quarter to pad my stats. I jog off the field and take a seat on the bench. I look around for a moment, then remember that we're on an away game, so the training staff is light. Carrie's back at Western.
"Looking for your PAT again?" Tyler asks, taking a seat next to me and pulling off his helmet. "You know she's probably back at campus, watching the game and dreaming of you. You hit that yet?"
"Fuck you, Paulson," I seethe unexpectedly for some reason. I’d already warned him once. "I told all of you to stop calling her that."
"What, PAT? Fuck it, man. She's just another slut," Tyler continues, his words cut off when I grab him by the shoulder pads and jerk him to his feet. "Whoa, what the fuck, man?"
"I said . . . stop calling her that," I hiss, my face inches from him. "She ain't no slut. Back off, or the only thing you'll be doing the rest of the season is learning how to jack off left-handed."
"Whoa, whoa!" Coach Thibedeau, our tight end coach and offensive coordinator yells, getting in between us. “You two, calm the fuck down!"
"Just remember what I said," I finish, letting go of him. "Not a word."
Tyler's pissed, but he lets Coach Thibs lead him away while I sit back down and stew. What the fuck am I doing? I know that sort of blowup is going to be caught by the cameras, and even if I'd told Tyler before to not call Carrie that, we'd done shit like that with each other lots of times. Coach Thibs isn't in a good mood either when he comes back.
"What the hell are you doing, Duncan?" he yells, barely restraining himself from popping me in the shoulder pads as he echoes my own inner thoughts. "Are you trying to get yourself benched or something?"
"I won't take any disrespect from anyone," I reply, looking Thibs in the eye. "Not from Tyler, not from Farmington . . . not from anyone."
"Yeah, well, if you want to catch any more balls this game, you’d better cool that shit off right now," Thibs replies, squatting down so we're eye to eye. "What the hell's gotten into you, Duncan? Talking shit to the other team, sure. Talking the same in practice, I don't like, but we can't seem to get you to stop. But you've never started shit with a teammate in the middle of a game. Don't get cocky. Farmington's a good team, and we could still lose this."
"No chance in hell of that," I say, looking up at the scoreboard as the crowd roars, contradicting me. Farmington's offense just connected on a deep pass, and they scored quickly, bringing them back within two touchdowns. Twenty-eight to fourteen, with one minute left in the third quarter. I look back at Thibs and pull my helmet on, snapping up.
"Okay, you're right. Fine. I'll keep it under control."
After the game, which we do win thirty-five to fourteen, I find Tyler in the shower area, where he's styling his surfer boy hair to perfection. He's currently dating one of the cheerleaders and probably looking forward to some quick couple time before we all get on the plane back to Western. "Yo, Tyler."
He glances over, then turns back to the mirror. His voice is tense, like he isn't quite sure how to handle me approaching him. Tyler's a tough guy for a quarterback, but I’m way too big for him. "Yo, Duncan."
"Hey man, I just wanted to say . . . my bad on the sidelines. I shouldn't have jerked you around like that."
Tyler brushes his hair one more time, then sets his comb down, turning to look at me. "Okay. Let's get this straight between us, Duncan. I know you're the biggest reason I'm putting up
The late hit costs Farmington fifteen yards on the kickoff, and 47 gets thrown out of the game. As I head off the field, the ref gives me a warning. "Watch the trash talk, 83. Any more of it, and I'll throw a flag on you."
Like I care. I've already broken their starting linebacker, gotten two touchdowns, a fucking ESPN highlight reel catch, and I've still got a quarter to pad my stats. I jog off the field and take a seat on the bench. I look around for a moment, then remember that we're on an away game, so the training staff is light. Carrie's back at Western.
"Looking for your PAT again?" Tyler asks, taking a seat next to me and pulling off his helmet. "You know she's probably back at campus, watching the game and dreaming of you. You hit that yet?"
"Fuck you, Paulson," I seethe unexpectedly for some reason. I’d already warned him once. "I told all of you to stop calling her that."
"What, PAT? Fuck it, man. She's just another slut," Tyler continues, his words cut off when I grab him by the shoulder pads and jerk him to his feet. "Whoa, what the fuck, man?"
"I said . . . stop calling her that," I hiss, my face inches from him. "She ain't no slut. Back off, or the only thing you'll be doing the rest of the season is learning how to jack off left-handed."
"Whoa, whoa!" Coach Thibedeau, our tight end coach and offensive coordinator yells, getting in between us. “You two, calm the fuck down!"
"Just remember what I said," I finish, letting go of him. "Not a word."
Tyler's pissed, but he lets Coach Thibs lead him away while I sit back down and stew. What the fuck am I doing? I know that sort of blowup is going to be caught by the cameras, and even if I'd told Tyler before to not call Carrie that, we'd done shit like that with each other lots of times. Coach Thibs isn't in a good mood either when he comes back.
"What the hell are you doing, Duncan?" he yells, barely restraining himself from popping me in the shoulder pads as he echoes my own inner thoughts. "Are you trying to get yourself benched or something?"
"I won't take any disrespect from anyone," I reply, looking Thibs in the eye. "Not from Tyler, not from Farmington . . . not from anyone."
"Yeah, well, if you want to catch any more balls this game, you’d better cool that shit off right now," Thibs replies, squatting down so we're eye to eye. "What the hell's gotten into you, Duncan? Talking shit to the other team, sure. Talking the same in practice, I don't like, but we can't seem to get you to stop. But you've never started shit with a teammate in the middle of a game. Don't get cocky. Farmington's a good team, and we could still lose this."
"No chance in hell of that," I say, looking up at the scoreboard as the crowd roars, contradicting me. Farmington's offense just connected on a deep pass, and they scored quickly, bringing them back within two touchdowns. Twenty-eight to fourteen, with one minute left in the third quarter. I look back at Thibs and pull my helmet on, snapping up.
"Okay, you're right. Fine. I'll keep it under control."
After the game, which we do win thirty-five to fourteen, I find Tyler in the shower area, where he's styling his surfer boy hair to perfection. He's currently dating one of the cheerleaders and probably looking forward to some quick couple time before we all get on the plane back to Western. "Yo, Tyler."
He glances over, then turns back to the mirror. His voice is tense, like he isn't quite sure how to handle me approaching him. Tyler's a tough guy for a quarterback, but I’m way too big for him. "Yo, Duncan."
"Hey man, I just wanted to say . . . my bad on the sidelines. I shouldn't have jerked you around like that."
Tyler brushes his hair one more time, then sets his comb down, turning to look at me. "Okay. Let's get this straight between us, Duncan. I know you're the biggest reason I'm putting up
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