Chapter 24: Wednesday Afternoon

"Fortunate Son"

Luis

"Again!" Coach Ames shouted at me. I dropped into a four point stance, both hands on the ground, ready to spring. I dug my feet in to get the most power I could.

"Hut!"

I uncoiled, slammed my shoulder into the pad wearing an East jersey with the center's number on it. Using my hands and arms to stabilize and focus my force, I pushed. When the sled lifted up, I began digging into the turf with my cleats as hard as I could, pushing the sled at my running speed, noticing as it dug another line of furrows into the practice field.

TWEET!

I dropped the sled on Coach Ames's whistle, bouncing him and the two equipment trainers from the jolt.

"Take a break," Coach Ames said as he headed towards the locker room.

Hands on my knees, I caught my breath. I think I moved that fucking sled, the coach, and the two managers up and down the field ten times. I took a look at the jersey on the pad and laughed. It was ripped to shreds.

"Do that in the game and we own the line," Coach Mc said as he went by. "Locker room in five."

I breathed deeply as the burning in my calves and thighs eased.

"Luis, move over by the sled and let me get a shot," some photographer asked. I pulled my helmet off and stood by the pad, holding my helmet under my arm and giving him my game face. Flash, clunk of the mirror, and the whine of the recharge. I missed the sound of film cameras and the whirl of the motor drive. Flash again, followed by a hundred more, it seemed. Christ, there must be a dozen photogs around now.

I turned and jogged towards the locker room, ignoring the questions. I gave a growl when one reporter shoved a microphone in my face. I behaved when what I really wanted to do was take the stupid thing and shove it so far up his-

"After practice guys," I heard one of the assistants say as he cut me from the herd and let me stomp the rest of the way on my own. I. Just. Want. To. Play. This. Game. All the other bullshit aside.

On the way in the door, one of the trainers handed me a bottle of go juice. Just what I needed. Fluids, sugars, and electrolytes to replace all that I had just lost. I forced myself to drink slowly. Still, it was gone by the time I sat on the bench in front of my locker. Another appeared in my hand as my helmet flew into the locker with a bit more force than necessary.

I heard an echo next to me as Mike Holloway threw his helmet. He looked as agitated as I did.

"Settle down, folks," Coach Hammer said. "Contadino and Holloway, save it for East. Now, Coach McFarlan has a few things to say."

I half listened as he gave a pep talk, explained Media Day to the newbies, and laid out the plan for the day. For the first hour, the first teams would be in the gym away from reporters' eyes. Then the rest of practice would be running standard plays and drills. We were not to expose any of our new plays.

Shit! I need to work with Jason on his tells. Who else can I enlist? I'll talk to the other captains later.

"When we finish practice, they'll be requests for photographs. I want everyone to cooperate. Do not answer questions, though. After showers, I'll gather a few of you to sit with me and the coaches for a press conference. I'd encourage the rest of the team to attend, we have a couple of special guests and some announcements." Coach Mc looked around at the team. Everyone understood that 'encourage' meant to be there.

On his cue, the four co-captains stood. I don't really remember joining the other three at the front of the room. But, there I was, standing with Mike Holloway, Paul Rogers, and Michael Simms. Paul is the brains of the offense at quarterback and Michael, never Mike, the brains of the defense at inside linebacker. Mike and I faced each other, with Paul and Michael behind us. We locked eyes and growled at each other.

Paul spoke to the rest of the team. "Would you want to face these two on Friday night?"

"NO!"

"Do you want them to be the only ones fired up?"

"NO!"

"Let's hear your growl!"

It started low. More of a buzz than a growl. It built until it consumed the locker room. A primal sound that tore through the soul and turned bowels of the unsuspecting into liquids.

"Bulldogs-" Paul chanted.

"Suck!" Michael responded.

The growl turned to the jeer.

"Beat-" Paul began.

"East!" Michael repeated.

"Beat-" Paul continued.

"East!" Half the team joined Michael.

"Beat-" Paul commanded.

"East!" The entire team responded.

Soon the whole team was jumping up and down in time to the chant.

"Kill 'em!" Paul screamed.

"Wreck 'em!" Michael intoned.

"Stomp 'em!" Mike growled.

"Humiliate 'em!" I threatened.

"Warriors on three!" We all shouted.

"1... 2... 3..."

"WARRIORS!"

We broke with most of the team heading out onto the field looking for victims. The first teams headed to the gym.

On the way, I told my co-captains about what I had observed with Jason and his tells. We quickly formed a plan where Paul and Michael would work with him.

Mike and I realized, just before stepping onto the wood floor, we still had our cleats on. We kicked them off and joined the team. For the next hour, the only sounds heard were the coaches' instructions, cadence counts, and socks sliding on the floor. Twenty-two very focused and intent people moved through the plays flawlessly.

Rebbecca

I managed to stumble back into the main art room from Francesca's office. My mind going a thousand miles an hour, yet registering nothing. Too much, too quick. How could I process it when I didn't believe any of it. This can't be happening to me.

"Everything okay?" Rosalee's voice startled me.

"Wha ... Yes. I think. I don't know."

"How did the call go?"

"Calls."

"Okay. Tell me about them." She pulled me into a hug. I felt safe and like I could relax.

"Well ... I talked to Ruth Massey at USC first. She offered, pending a review of my latest work, a full scholarship. Then, I had a message to call Dean Kerkoff."

"Who's that?"

"The Dean of the College of Fine Arts at UT-Austin. She offered me the same deal."

"That's spectacular." She hugged me tight.

"I guess."

"What's wrong?" She turned me to face her. I really wanted to hide, but she wouldn't let me.

"I ... I don't know what to do."

"Well, I think you need to get your portfolio done."

"I agree," Francesca said walking over.

I moved from Rosa's grasp and practically threw myself on Francesca. "Thank you!"

With an enigmatic smile on her face, she said, "Well, you have to tell me what you're thankful for."

I let the folletto have her moment and I explained to both of them, and myself, the calls. Apparently, both deans had received copies of my portfolio from the end of last school year and glowing letters of recommendation from some of my teachers. I had to give the resident pixie a harsh look which turned into laughs for all of us. In return, they had conditionally approved me for admittance next year and full scholarships. Conditional since I still had to handle trivial details like applying! And, they wanted a review of where I am now artistically to make sure I hadn't regressed to stick figures.

"Bellissimo!" The pixie said as she remembered something urgent needing her attention in her office.

"Well, things are working out, it seems," Rosa said.

"I guess." Is hiding such a bad thing?

"What's wrong?"

"Too much, too fast."

"Well ... When do they need something from you?"

"The applications in a month or so, the portfolio soon after and, a decision in February."

"Anything wrong with the schools?"

"Absolutely not. Both are very good art schools. Yet, it's a shame the best school is in a city without a top tier football team."

"Where's that?"

"Richmond. VCU. They have one of the absolute best art schools in the country. Don't get me wrong, I'd do quite well at USC or UT. Honestly, I don't know if VCU would be that much better for me."

"Come here," she said softly and opened her arms. I slid into them and we hugged each other. We shared a light kiss. "It will work out."

"I know." I did know, down to my toes. How does she get away with this? Most people I would push away. "Now, how about you?"

"Well ... I said I could pretty much go anywhere, but..."

"You have a favorite place?"

"Yep. The Peabody Conservatory at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore."

"I'm surprised you didn't say Juilliard."

"Not my style. Too cutthroat. Peabody is much more laid back and just as challenging and excellent but more humane."

I couldn't help but laugh. I tried to calm down when I saw the hurt in her eyes. I hugged her tighter. "I'm not laughing at you or Juilliard or Peabody. It's just ... Rosalee and laid back..."

She tried. She really tried to stifle the giggle. Which just cause me to giggle. And her to chuckle. And me to laugh. Okay, I snorted. Which caused her to point and bend over howling. As we spiraled out of control, we were loud enough to bring Francesca out of her office in a panic. As soon as I explained "laid back" and "trailer trash slut" she couldn't help but join in.

While we were struggling to control ourselves, tears rolling down our faces, Rashad walked into the room. He took one look at us, turned, and stomped out. So much for us calming down.

"Oh! I'm gonna pee!" Was all I could get out before having to run to the potty. Thankfully, Francesca had one in her office. I managed to more or less get aim, finish my business, and wash. When I headed back into the main room, Rosa and Francesca were involved in a serious conversation about schools.

"VCU?" Francesca asked me.

"Yes ma'am."

"It is an excellent school. But, not for you." She wagged her fingers at me. I love how Italians involve their whole body when speaking.

"Why?"

"While you need some mentoring with your skills, the main benefit you will derive from an art college is exposure. USC, UT, and a few others will give you the exposure you need."

"Okay," was all I could think to say right then. I needed to think about this. She could see it in my eyes.

"Why don't you girls go see your boyfriend practice? I think this week has been enough confusion. You need a break."

"Her boyfriend," Rosalee corrected.

"Ah! Si Si!" She gave us a knowing wink. "Now, run along."

Luis

"I'm gonna get you this time," I snarled at Mike, resting on my knees, getting ready to move into my stance. My pronouncement carried across the field and echoed off the nearly empty stands.

"Try it, asshole," he sneered back at me as he moved over the ball. We both set. Head to head just inches apart.

"22-Red! 22-Red!" Paul Rogers chanted. "Hut ... Hut-Hut!"

As soon as Mike moved the ball beginning the snap, I sprung and hit him full force, shoulder pad to shoulder pad. The impact sounded like a rifle shot on steroids. Combined with our war cries, it must have sounded awesome. We locked up with our blocking moves, just this side of a holding penalty for either of us. Four feet clawing into the turf, slinging grass and dirt. Each trying to throw the other off balance.

TWEET!

"Alright you two. That's it. Five laps," Coach Mc yelled at us. "Anybody else want to try for some laps? Half speed walk-thrus guys! Save it for the game."

Mike and I pulled our helmets off, smiled at each other, caught the winks from the coaches, and headed out on our laps.

"How many will be joining us in a minute?" Mike asked as we started our "penalty" laps.

"The whole team."

About halfway through our first lap, the sound of multiple rifle shots combined with grunts and war cries echoed through the stadium followed instantly by the coaches whistles. As predicted, the rest of the team joined us on the track

"So, what do we do to keep everyone fired up?" I asked Mike.

"I think we let the tension just naturally build until the Pep Rally tomorrow night."

"Sounds good."

"Ah ... Luis ... How are you planning on handling Friday?"

"What do you mean?"

"You can't exactly wear your jersey to school, can you?"

"Oops."

"Yeah, oops."

"Let me talk to the equipment managers. I'm sure we can figure something out."

"I can't wait to see you in paint."

"I hope you get picked next week."

Before he could respond, two sweet, sexy voices rang out, "Hey number 96! Looking good!"

"Shit! He's even got naked groupies!"

"My girlfriend and her girlfriend, I think," I said as I waved to the girls.

"Damn! How does that work?"

"Don't know. We're still ... I don't know. Confused."

Rebbecca

"There he is, number 96," I pointed out as I spied Luis on the track running with Mike Holloway.

"Who's that he's with? Damn, he's as big as Luis!"

"That's Mike Holloway, the starting center and one of the co-captains."

"How do you know so much?"

"I like football!"

"And a certain football player?"

"Oh yeah! Let's try to embarrass him." It only took a couple of seconds to work out what we wanted to say. By then, he was getting close.

"Hey number 96! Looking good!" We both yelled at the same time. He gave a wave as they went by.

"Must be the end of practice. Oh, look, there's my brother, Jason."

"Really? I didn't know he's your brother. He's a cutie and sweet too."

"Got a crush on him?"

"Not really. I think I'm too..."

"Smart?"

"Welllll..."

"That's okay. I've met most of the girls he goes out with."

"Thanks. Now what?"

"I'm not sure. I've never been to a Media Day before."

We hung around, watching the players run laps. Rosalee kept me in stitches with a running commentary of the sexual prowess of some (okay, a lot) or how cute, mean, ugly, scary, nice, or whatever she knew or thought each one was.

"What about Luis?"

"Teddy bear."

"Huh?"

"He's big, could be scary, but most of the time he's gentle and kind."

"Yep. You ever hook up with him?"

"Nope. Unfortunately."

"So, what about his friend Mike?"

"Not him, either."

"Interested?"

"Ahhh ... What? Trying to get rid of me?"

"Nope."

"Welllll ... Not now. Too much on my plate."