Chapter 11: Furry Bunnies Crapping on my Tongue

It was a good thing we were playing an afternoon game, because I was not in any shape to get up any time before noon.

Westy was already home and asleep by the time I crawled in. I had a hard time figuring out how to get up into my bed, and once I was there I couldn't get the room to stop spinning. I ended up climbing back down, stumbling down the hall, and barfing into a toilet to get rid of the poisons that were fucking up my system. I rinsed my mouth out, found my way back to my room, and collapsed down onto Westy's couch, where I pretty much passed out for the rest of the night.

Sometime around eight in the morning I woke up, needing to piss like a racehorse. I drank about a half gallon of water in an attempt to wash the tumbleweeds out of my mouth, and fell back into a troubled sleep again on the couch.

Westy tried rousing me for breakfast, but I batted his arm away and rolled over. I heard him grumbling, something about lushes not able to hold their liquor, and then he left the room, and blissful silence fell again. I managed to go back to sleep for a few more hours, unconscious to the guilts that were waiting for me, just out of sight.

By just around noon the noise in the hallway had reached a level that made it impossible to keep sleeping. I crawled up out of the couch. My eyes were nearly pasted shut by stuff caked in the corners and across my eyelids, and it felt like about a thousand nice, furry little bunnies had crapped all over my tongue, and then died in my mouth. It was a good thing Westy was gone, because I didn't think I could utter a word. I fumbled for my shower kit and felt my way down the hall to the johns.

The shower made me feel somewhat more human, but I had a long way to go before I would feel ready to play soccer. I went downstairs to the cafeteria and filled my tray to capacity, but I was only able to choke down a little overcooked and mealy spaghetti. I washed it down with three glasses of orange juice, another UF specialty, on the theory the vitamin C would help me out. I was beginning to worry that something had better help me out, or my so-called rise to the lofty heights of team leadership would be overshadowed by my even more spectacular fall from grace.

I decided the only way I was going to be able to purge myself was through sweat. I had two hours before I had to be in the locker room, so I grabbed my gear bag and headed over to the gymnasium to work out my demons.

For the next ninety minutes I did a rotation of Lifecycle, Nautilus, treadmill, and free weights. I forced myself to move from one station to the next, with only a three-minute break between. It was tough discipline, but I did it. At the end, I sat on a bench, my forearms holding me up as they braced against my knees, feeling pleasantly tired. I just hoped I hadn't worn myself out so much I couldn't run for the duration of our game.

I hopped in the shower and let the stinging water from the jets pound on my shoulders and back. By the time I was done, I felt like I just might survive the day. I grabbed a Gatorade from the front desk and jogged over to the soccer complex, my gear bag bouncing and banging against my leg the whole way.

Coach put us in his standard three-four-three lineup with Rick in goal. Frenchy, Brad, and I lined up on the defensive side from left to right. Offensively, we had Bryan on the left, Jesse in the middle, and Juan Maria Sandoval on the right. Jeremy Peters was our left midfielder, Spencer played up in the middle, Stuart Early was on the right, and Tad Artichenkoff, a senior from the Ukraine, played sweeper, or defensive mid. We were lined up against the University of Tennessee, a conference opponent. Tennessee, a team with a long history of good teams in many NCAA sports, this year was fielding what our scouts reported as one of the weaker teams in the SEC. Because it was a conference game, however, we played them with our strong defensive formation. We had enough firepower up front, but we didn't want anything unexpected to happen on our side of the field.

All I wanted to do was concentrate on the game and get out unscathed. I was feeling pretty good at game time, but I didn't know how long that would last. Fortunately, the recuperative powers of an eighteen-year-old athletic and fit body were very good, but I still didn't have a lot of confidence that I would have an abundance of energy to spare. I told my teammates I would take the throw-ins and corner kicks on the right side, figuring I could catch my breath and rest my legs a fraction more that way. I would let my teammates battle it out in front of the goal on the corners, and I could avoid a lot of the pushing and jockeying for position on the throw-ins, too.

The Volunteers didn't come to fight. They did a proper job of playing the best they could, but it really was no contest. In fact, Pick enjoyed an early, nearly insurmountable lead, and was able to play everybody on the bench for some significant minutes. Many of the starters, including me, got to ease down. I was happy to turn my spot over to Dan Ortega and watch the end of the game from underneath my damp towel.

By the time we had finished with our showers and team meeting, I was ready to collapse. I still had two papers to write, but I decided I would get up early, instead of trying to slog through the evening on sheer willpower. I ate dinner with Spencer and Jesse, managing to deflect Spencer's questions about my evening by asking him about the movie. He launched into a rehash of the funniest bits of Woody Allenry, almost making me wish I had gone with him to see it.

By the time we finally said goodnight, it was after seven, and I was dog-tired and barely able to keep my eyes open. I gave it up very soon, and crawled into my raised bed. I found I was a little reluctant to look at the picture of Luscious taped to the ceiling above me. I rolled over and closed my eyes against the light coming from Westy's desk lamp. I knew I could use the sleep.

The only other benefit to ending my day early was that I was able to put off the onset of a crushing case of the guilts until Monday.

And, right on schedule, the guilts did invade. I had set my alarm for six in the morning so I could work on my papers. The insistent rasping of the buzzer finally roused me from my bed, and I clambered down and slapped the damn clock to shut it up.

From his side of the room, I heard Westy complain, "What are you doing, Porter? Can't a guy sleep around here?"

"Sorry, dude," I said. "I'll try to keep it down."

"Yeah, whatever," he mumbled as he slid back down into sleep. Lucky bastard, I thought as I opened my notebook from my World History class to begin transcribing notes into something resembling order.

Even that early in the day, and with a good night's sleep, I had trouble concentrating. My mind kept on sliding back, trying to remember details of Saturday night, but everything seemed dreamlike and unreal. I could, however, vividly recall, with startling clarity, the moment of my climax. Something like that just isn't dismissed lightly. Besides, all I had to do was look on my bookshelf, where Amari's headband lay bunched up, right where I had tossed it when I got home that night. Just gazing at it made the entire evening coalesce into something more substantial than the alcohol-induced smoke and mirrors the beer had relegated it all to in my mind.

Jesus H. Christ in a bucket, I thought to myself. How was I going to justify what I had done? It all felt like a betrayal toward nearly everybody I knew. My teammates, especially Spencer and Luke, who were starting to look to me for leadership; Bryan and Melanie, for their obviously misplaced trust; Reggie, even though we were merely friendly companions.

Kayla.

Hoo, boy, my head reminded me. That famous Porter streak of self- destruction shows itself again.