Page 75 of Off Limits

Simon

Saturday dawns with a windy, gloomy rumble, the sky low and leaden. Cal and I shuffle around the house, going through the motions of our usual game-day morning routines—breakfast, resting, killing time until we need to leave—our moods equally subdued. At least a game today means no getting dragged to bars or parties to try to hit on chicks I have no interest in while Cal relentlessly tries to be the best wingman he can be. Since he’s easily distracted by beautiful women, I didn’t have to put up with it for too long the other night before he abandoned me to my own devices in favor of chatting up someone who’d caught his eye.

I have no idea how that went, because not long after that, I Ubered home. Cal’s plan of helping me move on sounded good in theory, but was not so great in actual practice. Cal’s the one who likes to go out and drink and have fun. I’m more of a chill with a beer and a few friends in someone’s house or stay home kind of guy. I’ve never known what to say to a girl at a party or in a bar, so they all think I’m a grumpy asshole, and the fact that I’m still hung up on someone else doesn’t make that any easier.

Fortunately, Cal hasn’t brought up taking me out to find someone to help me get over my last relationship again. Even so, when it’s time to leave for the stadium, it’s a relief. The waiting is always the hardest part.

Or so I thought before this game.

I don’t know if it’s the weather or something else in the air, but this game is the worst we’ve played in … I don’t know. Maybe ever. We’re getting slaughtered. Our defense can’t hold them back. No interceptions. No turnovers. Nothing. And our offense …

I don’t even want to think about how many people I’ve missed on their way to sack Kilpatrick. Fortunately, he’s managed to get the ball off every time, but between incomplete passes due to wild throws forced by the other team’s defense about to take him out and our running backs unable to get through the defense, we’ve barely managed to move the ball down the field at all. The only reason we’re on the board at all is because of a field goal Coach called just to give ussomethingand the last play just before halftime that actually goes right.

I manage to pull my head out of my ass long enough to block effectively and Kilpatrick gets off his specialty—a beautiful Hail Mary pass that floats right into the hands of Martinez, who runs it the last few yards into the end zone for our one touchdown of the game so far.

“Gentlemen,” Coach says at halftime as we sit quietly on the benches in the locker room, his voice grave. “This is a travesty.” He paces, his arms crossed, his clipboard held against his chest. “We’re at home, on our own turf, and the Eagles are out there trouncing us like we’ve never set foot on a football field before. I know you all have lives outside of this room, outside of this sport, and I understand that sometimes that can affect your performance.” His eyes briefly meet mine, and I do my best not to flinch away from his gaze. “We get sick. We get injured. We’re all only human, after all. But for today, for just a little while, I need you to leave all that out there.” He gestures to the door that leads to the hall. “That has no place here. For just a little while, you have to rise above yourselves, join with your teammates, and do your best no matter what. Set aside whatever personal or academic problems you may be having, any beefs you may have with your teammates,” again he makes eye contact with a few players, “and start acting like you give a damn about this team. About this game. If we lose, we might still have a chance at making it to a bowl game, but it’ll be harder to pull off. Do you want to have the honor of making it to a bowl game in your first Division I season?”

A few murmurs of assent ripple through the room.

“I’m sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

A chorus of, “Yessir,” provides a more satisfactory answer.

“Then go out there and act like it.”

He stalks off toward his office, the assistant coaching staff trailing behind him, leaving us the remainder of halftime to rest or get joints re-taped before it’s time to get back on the field.

Coach’s pep talk seems to have some effect, though, because once we start the second half, we’re looking a little more lively. Our defense forces a turnover, and we take possession of the ball. Jogging out, I take position, ignoring the chatter and trash talk from the other team’s defensive line. They try that from time to time to get under my skin, but it never works.

Or maybe it does, because when the ball snaps, I’m caught off guard, and I don’t have time to get my feet under me or my hands up for grappling before I’m bowled over and landing on my ass.

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall!” The stupid cliche comes wafting back to me on the breeze as I roll over and climb to my feet. I shake my head, doubly irritated, because seriously? That’s the best taunt they can come up with?

But I guess you don’t get points for originality. All that matters is the score on the board, which has just gone up in our favor. Kilpatrick must’ve managed to get his pass off before the defense got to him at least.

I turn around to find him, only to see a mass of my teammates huddled around someone, and then one of the trainers jogs out from the sidelines.

Shit. Shit shit shit. What the fuck happened?

I jog over to where everyone is clustered around Kilpatrick. He’s lying in the center of the huddle, blinking dazedly up at the sky, flinching as the light sprinkle of raindrops makes it through his face mask.

“Kilpatrick, you alright?” I grunt, provoking a few glares from my teammates.

“What the fuck happened, man?” demands Wilson, but I ignore him.

“Hey,” I repeat. “Gray. You gonna be okay, man?”

A hand pushes on my shoulder pads, moving me back, making room for the trainer. She kneels next to Grayson, shining a flashlight in his eyes and asking him questions that he murmurs answers to.

She looks up at the circle of faces looming over her. “Alright, gentlemen, let’s give him some space. I’ll help him walk off the field, but we need to start concussion protocols.”

With her hand under one of his shoulders, she helps Grayson sit up. And I know women can be strong badasses—hell, Eli’s best friend Dani works out with us half the time, and she’s a competitive lifter, Iknowwomen can be strong—but she looks so tiny compared to Grayson and I feel responsible for him getting his bell rung, so I hold out my hand to him and help pull him to his feet. He grabs my arm, his dark eyes finding mine, his mouth set in a tight line. “Thanks,” he mutters, then allows the trainer to put his arm around her shoulders and help him off the field. He gives a wave to the fans, who clap and cheer for him, the rest of us trailing behind. We still have a game to play, after all.

* * *

Cal plops his ass down next to mine on the bench on the sidelines as we wait to get possession of the ball again and offers me his closed fist. I stare at it, then up at him.

With a barely noticeable shrug, he drops it and looks out at the field from beneath the helmet propped on top of his head. “I dunno if you did that on purpose so I could get some time on the field, but if so, thanks, man.”

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