Page 40 of Reckless At Raleigh High
“Whoa, man. What the fuck is that? Didn’t know they made jock straps in extra small.”
Monday morning brings with it a hail of fresh snow and yet another indoor practice session for the newly named Raleigh Rebels. I’m half-dressed and glowering at the inside of my locker, wondering why the fuck I’m still doing this to myself, when Zander appears out of the showers, towel wrapped around his waist, scrubbing a smaller towel through his wet hair. He lunges forward, grinning like a moron, attempting to flick my boxed-up junk, but I give him a look so evil that even he can’t mistake the warning:Do it. Go on try. I will fuckingkillyou.
“Whoa now, Susan!” He dances back a couple of steps, putting himself out of reach. “No need for any of that. Someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“Fuck off, Hawk. I’m not in the mood.”
“Yeah.” He props himself up against the lockers, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. “Yeah, I can see that,” he muses. “Your pretty girlfriend not putting out or something?”
I slam my locker door, growling low in my throat. “Don’t you fuckingdare.”
“Okay, okay, man. Fuck. Calm yourself.”
“Calm isn’t on the agenda today.” Grabbing my gear, I turn away, showing Zander my back—something he explicitly taught me not to do in juvie. Showing someone your back in an environment like that is way worse than shoving your middle finger in their face. It means you don’t respect them, don’t consider them a threat. And while Zander is most definitely a threat, what with his close ties to Giacomo, I sure as fuck don’t respect the bastard. I set my shoulder pads down on the bench, flaring my nostrils as I wrestle the brand-new jersey Coach Foley tossed at me when I entered the change rooms over the hard plast—
Hold up.
What the fuck isthat?
“You’re still pissed about your dad. And I get it, Alex. I should have fucking told you that I knew him—”
I bend at the waist, squinting at the jersey material that’s half stretched over my pads, as if narrowing my eyes at it is somehow going to make the small embroidered patch on the right-hand shoulder disappear.
“You need to stop being such an asshole, Alex. When are you gonna let bygones be bygones?”
“You still working at for Monty?” I ask distractedly.
“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” he replies.
“You still mixed up with the Dreadnaughts?”
“What doyouthink?"
“Then you’re still mixed up with Giacomo. I’m not interested being friends with my father’s fucking spy.” I yank the football jersey off of my shoulder pads and shove past Zander, forcing a path through the other guys who are getting ready for practice, heading for Coach Foley’s office.
“You don’t just walk away from the Dreadnaughts, asshole!” Zander calls after me. “Don’t be such a shit, Alex!”
I knock on Coach Foley’s door, waiting a second before pushing it open. Inside the small office, still crowded with Coach Quentin’s trophies, framed awards and weird bobblehead knick knacks, Coach Foley sits behind the desk, scribbling furiously onto a game-play whiteboard. She looks up at me and rolls her eyes dramatically. “Lord. Don’t start. Just say thank you and move on.”
“Thank you?Thank you?”I wave the jersey in the air, scowling at the ‘captain’patch that’s stitched onto the fucking sleeve. “I’m not team captain. I’m barely on the damn team.”
Coach Foley groans, slowly capping her whiteboard marker and setting it down the desk. She leans back in her chair, her expression displeased. “Youarecaptain, Moretti. I made you captain.”
“You can’t do that. I didn’t apply for it. None of the other guys voted me in—”
“Ha! Hah hah hah!” Coach Foley’s fake laughter is loaded with sarcasm. “Oh, poor kid. You seem to be under the illusion that we have some sort of high school football democracy going on here. There is no application process. The shit-for-brains douche bags out there in that locker room don’t get a goddamnvote. I decide what the team’s called. I decide who captains the team. I decide when you morons eat, shit, sleep and fart. Now go finish getting ready. If you boys aren’t in the gym in the next five minutes, I’m going to adjust the thermostat and make you all shower in cold water.” She picks her marker back up and returns to her game plays.
I don’t budge. Coach Foley sighs loudly when I take a step toward her desk, dropping the shirt in front of her. “You can’t just force this on me. I don’t have the time. Plus, in case you missed it, I really don’t give a shit about this team. You’re better off picking someone else.”
“Youwillgive a shit about the team,” Foley fires back. “You’ll care very much when we start winning games and people notice you. You’re late to the game, Alex. Literally. Any player here worth their salt has been made a scholarship offer. It’s February. Your high school career ends in approximately five months. A good football player is gonna have a hard time finding a place at a college at this late stage. You’re gonna have to be excellent if you want a scout to notice you now.”
“What? What makes you think I want a football scholarship?”
Coach Foley spreads her fingers, showing me her palms. She’s acting as if she’s exasperated, but shit. She doesn’t get to be annoyed.I’mthe one who’s annoyed. “Your grades are amazing, kid. Don’t get me wrong. Somehow, amidst the knee-deep horse shit you’ve been wading through since you enrolled at this school, you’ve come out of the other side academically smelling of roses. But your criminal record? That stinks like dog shit. Honestly, I couldn’t quite believe half the crap in your file when I flicked through it the other day. Your grades alone aren’t gonna be enough to secure you a place at college, and I think it’d be a shame to waste—”
I shake my head, trying in vain to understand what the hell is going on here. “Aren’t you, like, asubstitute?”
Coach Foley smiles. “I sure am. See. Proof! Youareone of the bright ones.”
