Chapter 1: Monday, Aug. 13

The first day of school is always filled with questions, and not the kind the teachers will ask on a test.

I mean things like “Where’s my next class?” “What’s my locker combination again?” “Do I have enough time to hit the restroom before the tardy bell rings?”

I had two before I even opened my eyes that Monday morning.

The first was, “What the fuck is my alarm doing going off while it’s dark outside?”

The second was, “Why the hell is a girl cuddled up to me with what seems like two very nice boobs pressing into my ribcage?”

Things were extremely slow in coming together as I reached over my sister — my sister?!?!?! — and whacked the alarm button. The clock showed 5:01. In the fucking morning. There had to be a reason I’d set it for such an ungodly hour.

The need to pee forced me to crawl over Kacie’s slumbering form and stagger to the bathroom. I went ahead and brushed my teeth and washed my face.

I returned to my room and was digging through my dresser for some clothes when my phone pinged. It was a text from Jed Richards.

I had less than 30 minutes to get to the fieldhouse.

It’s all coming back to me now. My name is Gary Robinson. I’m 17. This is the first day of my senior year at a suburban high school, the start of my victory tour. Some nine months from now, I should be a high school graduate and a multimillionaire.

Today was not just the first day of school, it was the first day of football practice. We had practice at 6 a.m. and again after school at 4:15 p.m.

Somewhat against my better judgement, I was going out for the team at the request of the head coach. It seemed I was just what they were needing to fill the role of holder for extra points and field goals. I was also supposed to work at slot receiver, but I doubted I would ever actually play the position in a game.

Distorted fragments of an extremely weird dream floated through my head as I dressed, competing with equally weird chunks of scenes from my summer vacation. Had I really had sex with 10 women? Starting with my sister and including five of her friends? Not to mention the two 30-something goddesses and a couple of 20-something women from the modeling world.

That certainly felt more familiar than the flashes of my sister vehemently rejecting me, telling me I was gay, zit-faced and nearsighted. A quick look in the mirror contradicted the last two and I certainly felt like I had heterosexual leanings.

I pulled on Bermuda shorts, a polo and deck shoes. That would meet the school dress code, which permitted “nice” shorts during warm weather. I think a forecast high temperature of 104 qualified.

With a quick kiss on the cheek for my sleeping sister, I grabbed the backpack with my new laptop and school supplies and headed to the kitchen. I was surprised to see my parents and Grandpa Robinson sipping mugs of coffee.

“Mornin,’” I said as I grabbed a banana. “What are y’all doin’ up so early?”

“Your grandfather and I thought we’d go watch a little football,” Dad said. “Your mother just wants to make sure Kacie gets to school on time.”

I devoured the banana and grabbed a cup of yogurt. I hoped that would be enough to get me through the morning workout and athletic period, which would come before my lunch period.

“Am I still supposed to take the Buick?” I asked Dad as I disposed of my trash.

“I’ll give you a ride and leave it so you can drive it home this evening,” he said. “Dad can take me to the office after practice. We’re supposed to go over remodeling plans with the contractor this morning.”

My grandparents, who lived a couple hours west on the family farm out in Buchanan County, had bought a seven-bed, five-bath monstrosity a few miles away as a second home. Dad’s sisters — my Aunt Patty and Aunt Karen — and Aunt Patty’s two daughters were taking up four bedrooms. Grandma and Grandpa were going to have two adjoining bedrooms and a connecting bathroom converted into a little apartment they would use when in the area.

“We’d better get this show on the road,” Grandpa said. “Claire, don’t work too hard. Let that new assistant of yours get her hands dirty.”

“You boys stay out of trouble,” Mom said, giving the three of us a kiss on the cheek.

Mom was serving as the interim general manager at Prairie Star Country Club, where we’d been members ever since Dad’s real estate development company had packaged the club and the adjoining subdivision where we lived. It had been Dad’s first big project. Aunt Patty, the middle child between Dad and Aunt Karen, was about to start as the club’s assistant GM.

Dad and I headed out the back door to the carport where his Buick and my BMW Z4 roadster were parked, while Grandpa headed out the front door to the Cadillac parked in the front drive. Dad had advised me to take the Buick, which resembled a tank, for the first few days of school in order to avoid damage to the Beemer during the after-school rush to get out of the parking lot. Of course, my parking spot was in an area of the senior lot populated mostly by football players, who wouldn’t be leaving until after the evening practice.

I was hopeful I could avoid getting run over by a fellow student at least through the end of the season. By then, most of the speed demons should have either calmed down or had their licenses suspended.

It would be interesting to see how much easier it would be to park the Beemer compared to the Land Rover SUV I would be sharing with my sister after Labor Day. Kacie would get to drive the Rover most of the time, but there would be occasions when I would be called upon to chauffeur members of the Gang of Eight — Kacie’s circle of friends, three of whom I was dating — or my sister and our cousins, Kinsey and Kirsten.

All of the Gang of Eight were juniors and had their licenses. But Morgan Ensberry, my first official girlfriend, and Bethany Metzger and Staci Patterson, who seemed to be taking on the role of “assistant girlfriends,” hung out with Kacie even more than the rest of the gang, two of whom were “involved” with my friend and teammate Jed. It had been intimated that I would be driving Kacie and Morgan on ice cream runs that would be the closest thing to dates we would have time for during school weeks.

Dad pulled into the senior lot, which doubled as the gym parking lot for volleyball and basketball home dates, a few minutes before 5:30. I headed into the varsity football locker room of the fieldhouse and quickly changed into my workout clothes — compression shorts, nylon athletic shorts and an UnderArmour shirt. I grabbed my socks, cleats and helmet — which had ROBINSON written in black magic marker on a piece of athletic tape stuck to the area that would protect my forehead — and headed to the training room to get my ankles taped, something I’d never been through.

Our two licensed athletic trainers — Doc and Trapper, which I’m pretty sure were not the names on their birth certificates — were busily wrapping ankles while instructing the new student trainers in the process. A handful of assistant coaches and about half a dozen older students were also wrapping guys.

The experienced ones were getting guys taken care of in just a couple of minutes. If they each taped eight or nine players, that should be enough to get everybody on the field by 5:50, which was on time according to Coach Tucker, the head coach. In his world, 5:51 was late for a 6 a.m. start, and he was the one who made the rules.

I hopped up on a table that came open. It was being manned by an assistant coach I remembered from the day I underwent my physical a couple of weeks ago at the gym. He’d been rather perturbed when I had to ask for directions to Coach Tucker’s office. He got even more perturbed when saw the hair on my lower legs.

“Don’t you know you’re supposed to shave halfway to the knee?” he snapped.

“That’s the first I’ve ever heard of it, sir,” I replied.

“Jesus! How long have you been playing football?” he barked.

“This is my first day,” I said. “Coach Tucker didn’t tell me to come out until June. I didn’t go through offseason or spring ball.”

“Goddammit, I don’t have time for this shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Hey, Doc, you got any clippers in this place? We’ve got a seventh-grader here who doesn’t know he’s supposed to shave his legs.”

“Third drawer on that counter on the south wall,” Doc answered.

“You go take care of it, then get with Kirby,” the assistant coach ordered. “I don’t have time for this. NEXT!”

I looked in the third drawer from the right and found nothing, then looked in the third drawer from the left. Still no clippers.

I got the attention of one of the student trainers and asked where to find clippers and Kirby.

“We don’t have either,” the guy told me. “I don’t know what the hell Doc is talking about. Coach Miller doesn’t ever learn any of our names. I guess we’re not important enough. I’m Cody, which is the closest we’ve got to a name like Kirby. Lemme get this guy, then I’ll take care of you.”

A couple of minutes later, I hopped up on Cody’s table.

“We’ll just have to cover as much as we can with prewrap,” he said, swathing my lower legs and feet in a pink foam-like material. “You’re still going to pull some hair out when you take this off.”

Cody then tore off a number of strips off a roll of white athletic tape, sticking them to the edge of the table until he was ready for them, and began encasing my feet, ankles and lower shins. I was barely able to wiggle my toes when he finished.

I pulled on my socks and cleats, grabbed the helmet and followed some other players through a door on the east wall. I continued following my new teammates out onto the artificial turf, which was lit up with more light than I would have expected outside a stadium. There was even a scoreboard behind the south end zone with the clock running.

“LET’S GO!” some coach boomed. “WE’RE BURNIN’ DAYLIGHT!”

I almost laughed out loud at that statement. It was still an hour until sunrise. There was no daylight to burn yet.

In addition to the lights, several stereo speakers were scattered along the sidelines blaring college fight songs. I’m sure Coach Tucker was not making any friends with the residential neighborhood located south of the campus. I don’t think I could have slept through the rendition of “On, Wisconsin!” currently echoing through the predawn darkness.

I searched for Jed or any other guys who’d spent the summer working with us at the country club. We’d worked out together pretty much every morning for about two months, but those sessions had been very loosely structured. This would be run according to a rather strict schedule with segment clocks set up on each sideline.

I eventually found Jeremy Porter, one of the kickers who’d joined our summer crew.

“You’d better get with your position group,” he said, pointing toward Coach Wilson, the receivers coach.

I buckled my chinstrap and crossed the plastic grass to where Coach Wilson was chatting with a couple of the guys who’d joined our workouts and skull sessions. It took the coach a couple of seconds to realize why I was joining the group.

“Oh, yeah, the rookie” he said as he remembered me. “I done plumb forgot about you. Just follow Ronnell and Calvin, here, and do what they do. We’re about to get started.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Coach Tucker gave a blast on his whistle and guys started lining up for calisthenics. My football career was officially under way.

The first practice didn’t include a whole lot of football. More like “football-related activities.”

After calisthenics and stretching, we broke up into position groups and engaged in various drills. I was among 13 receivers — six wideouts and six other slots — who ran a variety of patterns as Coach Wilson threw passes to us. The difficult part for me was picking up the ball after making a cut. Coach Wilson was releasing the ball a step before we turned. At least he wasn’t throwing as hard as Jeremy Porter.

Most of the session was really just coming up with different ways of making us run. State rules mandated a five-day “acclimation period” during which helmets were the only protective gear allowed. We’d be allowed to don “shells” — shoulder pads and helmets — on Thursday, but wouldn’t be allowed to engage in full contact until next week. This week was all about conditioning.

Wearing a helmet was a new experience for me and was a contributing factor to my struggles with picking up the ball during drills. Peripheral vision was basically eliminated and it seemed like Coach Wilson was always making the ball come out of a blind spot. The good news was if it was within reach, I could usually catch it. I just had to be able to see it.

We changed drills every time the segment clocks buzzed, but Coach Wilson either explained to me what to do or had Ronnell or Calvin do it. The toughest for me was learning blocking techniques. It was a totally foreign concept for me to initiate contact, even if it was just bumping into each other at a walk for right now. This was more about being in the proper position to engage a defender.

“Keep your head up,” Coach Wilson instructed. “See what you’re hitting. Don’t lead with your head. That’s how neck injuries happen.”

I tried to maintain proper form, but I still had a lot of questions. Working in my favor was the knowledge that I wouldn’t be put in a game in a situation where my missing a block would get us beat. At least, I’d better not be.

Blocking assignments for slot receivers were usually minimal, anyway. It’s not like we were expected to knock people over or push them out of the way like the interior linemen. Our job was to screen a defender long enough for the ballcarrier to cut one way or another. Oftentimes, Calvin said, we’d run a pass pattern even on running plays to take a defender out of the area.

The workload wasn’t that bad. While we were expected to move at top speed for most drills, it was only for short bursts followed by periods of rest. Running gassers with Jed during the summer had been more physically demanding.

Then we hit the gassers to finish up just as the sun was peeking over the horizon.

I was keeping up with the guys I’d been working out with all summer. That wasn’t good enough for Coach Wilson.

“How do you expect to survive out here if you can’t outrun anybody?” he shouted as I crossed the goal line. “Coach Bennett runs faster than that and he’s a fat, old man with bad knees!”

I’m not sure what Coach Bennett thought of that. He was too busy shouting at the offensive linemen.

In fact, pretty much every coach was shouting at somebody. The only one I didn’t notice shouting was Coach Tucker, who stood off to the side observing his assistants doing all the work.

I was gasping for breath with my hands atop my helmet as we waited for the last lineman — an underclassman who appeared to be morbidly obese and made me look like Usain Bolt by comparison — to finish his last gasser. It took a couple of minutes, but he gutted it out.

Coach Tucker gave a blip on his whistle and everyone gathered around, taking a knee and leaving helmets on. I stayed on the fringe of the huddle, trying to make sure I did what the other guys were doing.

“Good job this morning,” Coach said. “I saw a lot of good energy and enthusiasm out there. It looks like most of you kept up with your running over the summer. We’ll find out for sure this evening.

“We’ll start testing on weights during the period. We’ll find out in a hurry if you kept up with your lifting, as well. I expect everyone to improve on your maxes from the spring.”

He then turned things over to Doc, who reminded us to stay hydrated and to remain as active as we could during the day to avoid the buildup of lactic acid and muscle cramps.

“It’s going to happen unless you’re in incredibly good shape,” he said. “Sitting in a classroom all day is probably the worst thing you could do right now, but that’s the situation we’re in for these first two weeks.

“We’ll have bananas in the locker room. Take one. You’ll need the potassium.”

Coach Tucker made a few more announcements regarding the athletic period and the after-school workout before sending us in. It was a little past 7 a.m. and I needed a shower before I headed off to my first class.

I was jogging past the head coach on my way to the locker room when he got my attention.

“How’d it go, Robinson?” he asked.

“Well, you haven’t cut me yet,” I replied with a smile. “It’s going to take some getting used to finding the ball wearing a helmet. I had a couple clang off my facemask before I could pick it up.”

“It’ll get easier with more reps,” he said. “This was just the starting point. We’ll start looking for improvement as we go along. Now get inside and get ready for class.”

I waved at Dad and Grandpa as I went by. They were standing with Bill Richards — Jed’s dad, one of Dad’s golf partners and our family lawyer — along with several other men who I took to be fathers of other players. The number of spectators ringing the field was one thing that surprised me. I understand that football is a big deal in this part of the world, but why would that many people get out of bed so early in the morning just to watch the first practice of the season?

The locker room was a swarm of activity as guys stripped, cut off tape and headed for the shower. It was a regular sausage fest in here. Arlene Jenson would have loved the view, which I was actively trying to not notice. I was reminded of what Arlene had told me about body modesty when she’d helped me get my first modeling job a couple of months ago.

Arlene — the 30-something redheaded goddess who ruled over the cabana set at Prairie Star Country Club — was one of my regular lovers and something of a mentor. She’d thought I was a college guy who was just going to be a fun weekend fling back at the start of the summer as she waited for her divorce to become final. Things had developed into a loving relationship on both our parts.

She’d not only taught me how to please a woman in bed, she’d provided me the use of her garage apartment as a place to entertain girls in my own age group. I’d taken advantage of the situation to rendezvous with six teenage girls, four of whom surrendered their virginity in what several of them referred to as my “secret hideaway.”

Arlene had recently undergone in vitro fertilization with her estranged husband and was waiting to see if the implant of a fertilized egg would take. A congenital condition made natural conception all but impossible and previous implants had been unsuccessful.

The prospective pregnancy had inspired blonde goddess Jan Metzger, Arlene’s BFF since childhood, to express her desire to have a child. With me. That left me with something to think about. At least both women were financially secure enough to afford a child without benefit of marriage.

And, yes, Jan was related to Bethany Metzger — as in the mother of as the result of a teen pregnancy. Bethany was my sorta-kinda-also-girlfriend and one of the girls who’d lost her virginity to me in the apartment. Well, maybe not lost, exactly. More like discarded as soon as I was willing to take it. Which was on our second date. Just a few days after my first time with her mother.

Yes, my life had gotten somewhat complicated over the summer. In addition to accidentally taking my sister’s virginity — no, really; I wasn’t even awake when it happened — and Morgan basically forcing herself on me, I’d become involved with Arlene, Jan, Bethany and Staci. Then there were a couple of my sister’s other friends who’d used me to satisfy their curiosity as well as other brief encounters that happened on modeling assignments.

For all the trouble I’d landed in because of my inability to keep it in my pants, it had definitely made for one hell of a summer. The start of school was sure to see a significant drop in my amorous activities.

My education was getting a jump start as Calvin, who was quickly becoming my babysitter among the receiving corps, showed me how to use the “shark” to cut off the athletic tape.

Cutting it was simple enough. Removing it was another matter. Despite the prewrap Cody had put on my legs, there was still hair stuck to the tape. It was going to hurt when I pulled the tape off.

“Dude, you should’ve shaved,” Calvin laughed.

“Now you tell me,” I hissed as I tried to peel individual hairs from the tape.

“Here,” Calvin said. “You want a bullet to bite on?”

“Wha...?” I started to ask just as Calvin yanked the tape off my left leg.

“OWWW!” I screamed.

“Betcha you’ll have ‘em shaved tomorrow,” Calvin laughed as he repeated the procedure on my right leg.

“SON OF A BITCH!” I swore. “I bet I’ll have ‘em shaved before this afternoon!”

There were actually little spots of blood from where he’d pulled hair out by the root. I made a mental note to make sure I had the bleeding stopped before I went to class, even if it meant using little pieces of toilet paper to blot it up like I’d do with shaving cuts.

I hobbled to the shower, where I took just enough time to soap up and rinse off. I realized I’d need to keep a little bottle of shampoo in my locker as I wet my head. My hair got pretty sweaty in that helmet and this had probably been the least demanding practice we’d have until our first Thursday walkthrough. Probably ought to get an extra comb, as well.

I was almost dressed when a lanky, sandy-haired fellow came around the corner of our row of lockers and came up to me.

“So, this is the guy who’s keeping me off varsity?” he asked no one in particular.

“I wouldn’t know about that,” I said. “I seriously doubt I’m going to be a threat for playing time at slot receiver.”

“I’m not a receiver,” the youngster said. “I’m a quarterback.”

“Then I’m definitely not a threat,” I said. “I think there’s a couple of hundred guys out here who they’d rather use at quarterback than me.”

“I was supposed to hold for extra points,” he said. “Coach Tucker says he wants me taking every snap on JV instead.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said. “We haven’t even lined up for a kick. Coach Tucker will probably tell me my services aren’t needed over these next three weeks.”

“Scottie! Quit stirrin’ up trouble,” Jed Richards boomed. “I’ll tell you sister to kick your ass and you know she can do it. She’s been kickin’ it your whole life.”

Scottie muttered something that I didn’t quite catch and walked off.

“What the hell was that about?” I asked my friend, who’d started the ball rolling on my involvement with the team way back at the start of summer vacation when he asked me to help him practice deep snapping.

“That’s Scottie Pipkin, the one Coach Tucker told you about,” Jed said. “He thinks he should be the varsity quarterback right now instead of next year. He needs to grow up some before he’s ready for varsity.”

“Pipkin?” I asked. “Any relation to Keri?”

“Her little brother,” Jed said. “How many other girls you know who can kick a guy’s ass?”

“So he’s your...”

“You call him my brother-in-law and I’ll kick your ass,” my friend said. “He’d shit fire if he knew I was the one who got you involved in this. He’s always been a prick. He’s been even worse since I started dating Keri.”

Keri Pipkin was the shortstop on our school’s softball team and one of the few Gang of Eight members I had not deflowered. We had spent an afternoon fooling around in her bedroom just before she took up with Jed. She’d deemed me a safe choice to practice with as she tried to decide if she wanted a boyfriend or a girlfriend.

It turned out she wanted both. She was dating both Jed and Coach Bennett’s daughter, Erin, with whom she’d been relieving stress for a year or so.

Coincidentally, I’d been in the act of deflowering Erin when she realized she still wanted Keri. The two girls reached an agreement with Jed on some kind of triangular arrangement. I wasn’t sure of the details on how it all worked and didn’t really want to know. I figured I was safer not knowing.

I slipped on my deck shoes, grabbed my backpack and headed for the door, picking up a couple of bananas on the way. Maybe I could postpone hunger in addition to avoiding muscle cramps.

I pulled the peel down on one and bit off the top third as I exited the fieldhouse. I had less than 10 minutes to get to my first period class.

I made it to Mr. Cochran’s classroom before the first bell even with a detour to dispose of the banana peels. It helped that his room was one of the handful of social sciences classes located in the southern half of the East Wing, relatively close to the fieldhouse.

I was only slightly perturbed when I was instructed to report to the auditorium for an assembly. None of the coaches had said anything about it. At least I had time to get there before the bell rang.

This school hadn’t been very big on assemblies my first three years. Most information that needed to be disseminated to the entire student body was served up in the form of announcements over a campus-wide PA system.

Apparently, our new principal — a Dr. Ralph Franks — felt the need to put his stamp on the way things operated right off the bat. I hoofed it to the North Wing and grabbed the first empty seat on the aisle toward the back of the auditorium. I hadn’t even gotten settled in when a pinch-faced woman shooed me out of the seat.

“You’re supposed to sit with your homeroom,” she informed me.

I had only a vague memory of an announcement from the final week of last school year back in May that most of my junior homeroom had been assigned to a Mrs. Rittenberry. I didn’t even know what my homeroom teacher looked like.

With an exasperated sigh, I looked for seniors whose last names started with R. I saw Jed sitting several rows from the front next to Hunter Reynolds, who’d been on the cabana crew at the country club, and a linebacker name Luke Riley. I hoped the Ri’s and the Ro’s were still together. I really didn’t remember.

“Is this Mrs. Rittenberry’s homeroom?” I asked the lady sitting on the aisle of the row Jed was in.

“I’m Mrs. Rittenberry,” she said. “Who’re you?”

“Gary Robinson, ma’am,” I said. “I didn’t even know we were having an assembly. We haven’t had one on the first day of class since I’ve been in high school.”

“Dr. Franks is changing things up,” she said. “An email was sent out to everyone last week with today’s schedule.”

I whipped out my phone and checked my email. Except for the penile enhancement ads I was still getting by the dozens, there was nothing from the school district going back past the first of the month.

“I didn’t receive anything,” I said. “Not even in the junk folder.”

“Did you check your school email address?” Mrs. Rittenberry asked.

“I didn’t know I had a school email address,” I said. “I didn’t have one at the end of last year.”

“It’s something Dr. Franks started,” my homeroom teacher said. “You should have received an email about it.”

“Sent to an account I didn’t know I have and for which I don’t have the log-in information?” I asked incredulously.

“Just find a seat,” she huffed. “We’re about to get started.”

I excused myself as I slipped past her and sidled down the row to an empty seat between a guy and a girl I didn’t recognize from last year. At least I wasn’t the only one in this situation. I noticed dozens of other students — mostly seniors, juniors and sophomores and a lot of them football players — also scrambling to fill spaces in various areas of the auditorium. Only the freshmen, who should have received orientation letters detailing what to expect on the first day, seemed to have a clue. That would change pretty quickly.

A somewhat rotund fellow with salt-and-pepper hair and steel-rimmed glasses walked out to a podium just as soon as the first bell quit and got things under way. He gave the kind of welcoming speech one should probably expect in this situation. He was just starting to get to the point when the tardy bell interrupted him.

I was having a hard time finding myself willing to put much faith in this man. The deal with email was worth at least two strikes against him.

Once the laughter died down, an obviously pissed-off principal got on with his address. He eventually did get around to mentioning the email situation. Every student had been assigned an account with the address of FirstName.LastName@schooldistrict.edu. The password was our last name and the last four digits of our social security number, but we’d be able to change that once we got logged in.

At least he remembered to tell us to use our full first name as it appeared on our birth certificate. I’d be logging in as Garrett, not Gary.

Apparently, sending out important announcements via email would be more efficient and cost effective. At least according to Dr. Franks.

The system would enable faculty members to better manage class assignments. Since so much of our homework would be done on computers, it would be more efficient to email an attached Word file or something similar instead of printing out a report and handing in so many sheets of paper.