Page 33 of Dirty Roulette
Professor Hays orders us to switch groups again. I’m incapable of focusing. The French lines I wrote down on the paper are ruined by the holes I poked through it with a pencil. When we finish, I sulk back down at the round table with Charlie across from me. I sit with the woody taste of a pencil in my mouth and jot nothing down in my notebook. I stare at my bruised knuckles, reminded of my embarrassing outburst hours ago.
Dread coils in my stomach. My brain runs wild with endless thoughts of something terrible happening to Ryder. I fold the paper and hide it in my palm. Once the professor turns her back, I slip Charlie the note. She flips it open and scribbles on it. We take turns scribbling and passing before the professor turns to face us again.
Are you mad?
No... but what the hell is going on?
I got mad at Brody.
If only a time machine existed. Then I could rewind and stop myself from opening that beverage fridge to begin with. I would have never stolen the bottle of vodka. The note slides across the smooth tableagain and I receive the nasty eye. She unfolds it and I pretend to be interested in the book with an 8-point font. After two minutes of no response, I glance over my shoulder again and mouth “hello...?”
Charlie shrugs in my direction and whispers, “Will you stop hiding shit?”
She douses lighter fluid on my nerves and lights me up like one of her cigarettes. She’s right. I can’t admit it. None of it. What happened with Brody in the locker room is painted on my knuckles. The kissing session with Ryder the other night is on videotape. Then I did it again – I kissed him and I hate myself for admitting I want more.
When class ends, I gather my textbooks and trudge along. I need to head back to the dorms and get ready for practice and our first team meeting.
Chapter twelve
Ryder
“Hurry your asses up! Are none of you watching the clock?” Coach hollers and has us lined up for warm-up, and his whistle slices through the air.
Sweat trickles down my back, soaking into my jersey, as we break out into a jog. I smoke everyone. The thickset linemen and linebackers struggle to keep up with my pace racing across the field. My best time running a mile was a little over four minutes, while it took everyone else at least six. We go through the routine I’ve had drilled into my head for the past three years straight.
Linemen hit the sled. Coach is at their throats, already grilling into them. “Be physical! Don’t have me tell you twice!” Metal scrapes against the turf with angry grunts. “Use your hands!”
I run a few plays. The wide receivers stretch out on the sidelines, preparing to sprint down the field. “You better hold on to the ball, or you won’t be carrying it!” He spits, pointing a finger at me out on the sidelines. I take my position, my cleats digging into theturf as I scan the opposition.I’m ready. The snap comes and I sprint forward, weaving through the defense, and my eyes are on the ball like it’s my wife. When it’s handed off, I’m injected with a rush of adrenaline, running the ball through the gaps until I reach the end zone.
After several plays, Coach calls for a break. I jog to the sidelines, pulling off my helmet and snagging a cold bottle of water from the ice chest. Popping the cap, I swallow the contents in two gulps before I chuck it into the overflowing trash bin infested with bees.
Brody brags to the offensive linemen. One of them is Samoan, a mountain of a man. We call him Bustling Tito. He’s scary with his feet stomping and growling at anyone with the football; but when handed a box of cinnamon rolls, he’ll cry and frolic with butterflies.
Another is Officer Farva. He’s right out of the Super Troopers movie. If he put on a pair of sunglasses, he’d look like an officer riding on a Segway. I can’t take him seriously with his high-pitched voice. I have a hunch his voice never fully cracked in middle school. The funny thing is his drug of choice – a liter of cola – and he’s notorious for getting us in strange predicaments at burger joints.
I’m half listening to Farva’s raunchy recap about the party on Friday. Jared and Nick sit adjacent to me, hunched over on the benches drinking water and sweating it back out. I guess Farva was one of the first guys to lose Roulette and has no filter about how slutty this girl was. Chicks, booze, and football are the only words in the team's vocabulary.
“Hey Crab...” Brody dumps the remains of his water bottle over his sweaty hair and shakes his head like a dog. “Care to explain why Trash crashed into the locker room?” he asks, tossing the empty bottle in the trash. I glower at the nickname, but he doesn’t seem to notice. To my surprise, he doesn’t have a black eye from how Payton was going to town on him with her kicks and punches.
“Yeah,” Farva repeats behind him, rubbing his palms together and licking his lips. “This is gonna be good.”
“Shut up, Farva.” Brody snaps at him.
I rest my arms over my legs, leaning over. "Depends...” I swallow down the boulder stuck in my throat. “Do you care to explain why you screwed my girlfriend?” A cold chill runs down my back. Heat licks my skin, and my limbs vibrate. “Or explain why I didn't get the invite to the damn party?” I run my teeth over my bottom lip.
“Look, Brittni had been hounding me for months. Something about you always cheating on her.”
“Right.” I scoff, staring hard at the turf below my cleats. My white gloves stretch and tighten around my clammy hands as I clench them into fists. “So you cheat on my sister and steal my girlfriend. Then you try to sleep with Payt... You’re a great person.”
“Let’s not go there.” Jared slaps the back of his hand against my chest, and his mouth folds into a grim line, his jaw tense. I throw myself off the bench with the onslaught of my heart pounding.
Nick licks his lips and gets up, fuming and throwing his hands down. “Man, if you two don’t settle your shit, not a single team will wanna touch us. None of us will get drafted.” He paces back and forth, with sweat skating down the side of his face. “Damn, bro...”
“Not my fault his sister and her trashy friend wanted to play,” Brody laughs through his nose. “You should be thanking me. You get a tight-ass virgin.”
“If he doesn’t want her, I’ll take her.” Farva pants like a dog but doubles over when Brody knocks an elbow into his stomach.
Jared brushes the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. “Wait, what happened?” He turns to me with the question.
