Page 117 of Necessary Roughness
I was fucking it all up.
We were doing okay until I fumbled the ball. Our defense was stopping Orange Coast from scoring. But when that ball was punched out of my arms, our exhausted defense—who had just sat down to rest—had to get back up and jog onto the field again. They were gassed, and they gave up a touchdown soon after.
The pressure ramped up after that. We were in a hole, and knew we had to start scoring. Knox looked tense, like he was trying to put together big plays even though the other receivers and I weren’t able to get open. That led to another interception, digging our hole deeper. It felt exactly like the game last week, exceptthisgame actually mattered. The trophy prominently displayed on the sideline, reflecting the afternoon Florida sun, was a constant reminder of what we were playing for.
Orange Coast was full of veterans that had been here before. After winning three straight conference championships, they probably felt none of the pressure that was smothering us. Their players prowled around the field and celebrated every play liketheywere the home team. When they scored their third touchdown, the cheers from their student section drowned outall other noise in the stadium, intensifying the feeling that we were the visiting team, that we didn’t belong here.
Roman was champing at the bit to play, but had to settle for mentoring the linebacker that had replaced him, and all the other players on the defense. To his credit, it was working; the defense was fighting, punching, and screaming on every play to keep the game close. To stop it fromreallygetting out of reach.
When the clock hit zero and we walked into the tunnel at halftime, the only cheers came from the Orange Coast student section. From the rest of the stadium, our fans gave us a scattering of boos mixed into the silence.
“That stings,” I said to Knox.
He only stared straight ahead as we left the field.
His catatonic state continued into the locker room, where he sat on a bench and stared off at nothing. He reminded me of a soldier who had seen too much and hadn’t processed it yet. Coach was giving a speech, trying to rally the troops by pointing out all the mistakes Orange Coast had made, but I wasn’t really listening.
I nudged Knox with my elbow and whispered, “Just relax. We kicked Orange Coast’s ass earlier this year. We can do it again.”
Knox let out a long sigh. “I just don’t have it today. Whatever spark is usually inside me is gone. It’s like a chunk of my soul is missing.”
“I know what you mean.”
It was true; I knewexactlywhat my best friend meant. Breakups always hurt—was that what this was? A breakup?—but the past week without Sloane had beenexcruciating. It was like a drug withdrawal, tightening my muscles and causing a deep, aching pain in my chest whenever I thought of her. Like a chunk of my soul was indeed missing.
“We’ll handle it after the game,” I said, as if I could push it away via willpower alone. “Figure out where we stand with her, what we all want to do.”
“If she even wants to be with us after we’ve lost,” Knox muttered. “After what I said to her last week…”
“That’s why God invented apologies, bro,” I said. “To admit when you’re wrong.”
Knox finally glanced over at me. “God’s the one who invented apologies?”
“Sure,” I replied. “On, like, day five. Somewhere between creating the sun, and the Double Whopper with Cheese.”
Knox laughed, which lifted my own spirits. “I think you made that up.”
“My creative writing class has unlocked a lot of creative energy in me,” I said, but that just reminded me of Sloane again. The hole in my chest got a little bit deeper.
Coach had finished talking, and Roman walked up to us. It was weird seeing him without his pads or jersey on. “Are you just going to sit there and mope?”
“I didn’t realize I was moping,” Knox replied.
I bit back a joke. Roman looked serious.
“I’ll make it very clear to you,” Roman said. “You can either keep struggling and lose this football game, or you can fix the root issue.”
“If I knew what the root issue was, I’d fix it,” Knox said.
“It’s Sloane,” Roman said impatiently. “Sloane is the root issue. You’re going to keep playing like a shitty knock-off version of Knox Maddox until you tell her how you feel about her.”
“I wouldn’t know what to tell her.”
“I know exactly how I feel about that woman.” Roman leaned in, putting his face very close to the quarterback’s. “Don’t you?”
When Knox didn’t respond, Roman shoved him in the chest. Not enough to knock him off the bench, but enough to jolt him awake. “Hey—”
“Don’t you?”Roman insisted.
