Eastshore Tigers 01 - Strong Side (5 page)

He lifts his glass in invitation, and I clink mine against his.

"At least I'm not the only pathetic one out here."

I laugh. "Glad to be of service."

I don't ask him anything more about his personal life, and he doesn't really seem interested in mine. We watch the rest of the inning, and see the Mets shut out the Cardinals. A few displeased groans and shouts come from the tables around us, and I see beer money change hands. Once SportsCenter comes on, Hawk fishes out his wallet and pays for the meal, just like he said he would. I want to argue again, but for the sake of my finances, I know I shouldn't. It's hard enough having to pay either for gas or a hotel room until the dorms open up again.

With the bill settled, Hawk stands up and sways a little, catching himself on his chair. From the expression on his face, I'm guessing he didn't realize how quickly he downed those beers. I'm surprised he hasn't had to wander off for a piss or two by now.

"Shit. I'm gonna have to call a cab. I can drop you off wherever."

Leave it to Hawk to be the one responsible college student in this bar. I want to offer to drive him back so he doesn't have to waste even more money on my account, but I've got a bit of a head rush too. And I don't have any desire to be scraped off the asphalt.

"Don't worry about it. I can walk."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Bus stop isn’t far from here."

He nods, and before he can pull out some cash for the tip, I beat him to it. A small smile is my reward, and it's definitely reward enough.

"Remember the schedule," he says, tapping his finger on the napkin.

I pick up the napkin and slip it into my pocket. At this point, there's no chance of me forgetting.

CHAPTER SIX

- Jason -

The first few training sessions go pretty well. Griff is a hard worker just like I guessed. And even the sessions scheduled just a couple hours after practice get his full attention and effort.

If everybody on the team took it as seriously as him, there'd be no way we wouldn't get a seat in the top four.

I'm still a little blown away by what he told me. Watching him move, seeing the way he pivots and cuts across the field, sprints and breaks away from defenders, there's no way I would've ever guessed he suffered an injury that bad.

And yeah, I'll admit I had to look it up. It's not that I didn't believe him. The guy seems trustworthy. I just wanted to see if it made the news back in his hometown.

What I found was pretty fucking chilling.

Griff is from a small town in Texas. He’s said it's exactly like Austin, except everybody is stuck in the same ass backward mindset, and the music totally sucks. Oh, and there are a few thousand less people, and three times the churches per square mile.

The article I found online was published in 2010. He played as a receiver for the Brighton Bobcats, and wasn't far off from being considered as an All-American. If he would've been able to complete his senior year, it seems like he would've been a shoe in.

But while his stats are impressive, it's the details of his injury that catch my attention. The article said that it was an accident, but the video that accompanies it says otherwise.

It's grainy as hell, and shot from somewhere high up in the stands. The first time I watched it, I heard the contact more than saw it. Hell, I felt it, deep down in my bones. My own back started to ache as I saw Griff just lying there on the ground, not moving.

But the second time I watched, I noticed something more than an overly aggressive tackle.

Griff's blocker slowed down. He was keeping time with him, but as soon as the safety started to put on speed, he slowed down. Didn't even try to get the block.

And the tackle wasn't just a case of getting a bad angle. That guy had every chance in the world to line it up, but he chose to go for the hit that would make the biggest impact. He chose to grab Griff low, crushing his helmet into Griff's back. Just watching it made me grind my teeth, and the more I played it back, the more pissed off I got.

If it
was
intentional, though, that's one more reason for me to admire him. He's getting out there. Coming back from one of the worst things that could happen in high school football, and even though I can tell he's about one step away from shitting bricks, he seems to trust me enough to let me help.

I researched the topic online, and ran my plan by Coach Garvey. My goal was to set up a controlled environment in which Griff could take a tackle on his terms. Coach was impressed, and so far, it seems to be working out.

I've had a few friends help me. Mills, West, and Carter. They're all pretty big guys, and definitely imposing. We’ve worked on the field, with me setting up passes and the other guys running interference. The first time, they just got close and put pressure on him.

Even then, I could see him go pale. His legs locked up and he dropped like a stone. One thing I can say in his favor, though—he made sure to protect the ball. The guys gave him hell, getting up in his face, trying to bat it away from him, but he never let go.

Gradually he got more comfortable with that, and after a while we started doing contact. I told the guys to take it easy, but Mills got a little enthusiastic. By the time we were through, Griff had more grass stains on his practice jersey than a peewee player with untied shoes. None of the guys did a full tackle, but everybody was definitely winded by the end of the session.

The five of us grab a table at the Den, along with a couple pitchers and two large pizzas. West and Carter pull up extra chairs, and it’s almost comical how small Griff and I look next to the linebackers.

It’s Friday night, and Coach is laying off the practice for the weekend. Even I’m grateful for a little break. The other guys must be, too, because those pitchers are disappearing fast, and so is the pizza.

“Okay, best quarterback of all time?”

It’s just the next in a long line of opinion questions Mills has asked, and just like the rest, there’s no way it’s going to end well.

“And if you say Brady, I swear to God I will kick your ass.”

“What’s wrong with Brady?” West takes the bait.

I cringe. “Don’t ask, man.”

“Marino,” Carter says, raising his glass to his lips.

Wrong answer. I can already tell by the way Mills leans over the table.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Marino doesn’t even have a ring.”

“Still has the most completions,” Griff says.

“Dude, don’t encourage him.” Mills leans across the table and punches Griff in the arm.

For some reason it feels good to see Griff getting along with the guys. Taking and giving shit. I guess it feels like hope. If he can survive typical locker room bullshit, he can survive out on the field.

“And yards and TDs.”

The debate continues for a while, with Mills rejecting everything but his own pick. I give my input—Montana, of course, which Mills says is predictable, even if Griff agrees with me—and we finish off our beers. It’s pretty crowded at the Den tonight, and for once we’re not surrounded by other football players. The guys who don’t have a place to stay around town have probably already gone home for the weekend.

Around midnight or so, West and Carter get into a heated battle at the air hockey table. Mills, lightweight that he is, checks out. It’s just me and Griff left, and I’m starting to feel a serious need to ditch this place.

“You heading home for the weekend?” I ask.

“Planned on it, but my gran’s playing in a bridge tournament Kissimmee. Apparently she’s hot shit,” he says with a smile that shows off his dimples. “Won’t be home all weekend, so it would just be me, stuck in the middle of a retirement community.”

“And spending the weekend being asked to clean out gutters and lift heavy boxes isn’t your idea of fun?”

“You got it,” he says, lifting his glass up.

“Shit, have you been driving all the way back to Kissimmee every day?”

That’s got to be at least a four-hour drive round trip.

“Nah, staying in a motel.” I must make a face or something, because he continues. “It’s not that bad. Makes me grateful the bank practically begged me to sign up for a credit card as a freshman.”

“Why don’t you come stay at my place this weekend?”

The offer comes out before I even really think about making it, but… I’m okay with it. I haven’t had anybody over since high school, and that was back in Michigan, but I’m sure Dad won’t mind. He loves football players. Especially other guys who play offense. And I’ve told him about Griff, so he already knows his story.

“What, like a training thing?”

I shrug. “Like a hanging out thing.”

It’s been a while since I’ve taken a weekend to kick back. At least since the end of last season, if I had to guess. Dad will be all over me Monday morning, but I think he’ll understand. And it’s not like I’m a kid anymore.

“Yeah. Sure. If your Dad’s cool with it.”

“He’ll be fine. Let me finish this up and we’ll get outta here.”

Ten minutes later, we head out. Usually it makes me anxious to even think about spending a weekend not working on my form or at least putting in some serious time at the gym, but this time I’m actually looking forward to it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

- Derek -

When we make it up to Hawk’s apartment, I feel like an imposter.

I don’t know why. I guess it’s because he’s only known me for a couple weeks. I’m not going to complain, but it makes me wonder if Hawk hangs out with anyone outside of practice and the Den, or if he’s just giving me a break because I’m the poor, homeless new kid.

Okay, so maybe the homeless part isn’t true. My parents are back in Texas, and my grandma told me a million times she’s fine with me staying at her place even if she isn’t there. But the rest of it still stands.

Plus, I’m a little nervous about meeting his dad.

As Hawk fishes out a key, I feel like I should be thinking up some kind of excuse for why I kept his son out so late. And why he still kinda smells like beer. But Hawk’s a grown ass man, and his dad probably doesn’t care what he does or who he does it with.

Hawk flicks the light on as soon as he gets inside, and I step in behind him to see a pretty decent apartment. Definitely a bachelor pad. Sparse on furniture. Looks like most of it is from IKEA, but I can’t judge. There’s a shirt on the back of the couch that Hawk picks up, and a Heineken bottle sitting out on an end table that he also snags, but other than that it’s not too messy.

“My room’s down the hall, second on the right. Bathroom’s all the way at the end if you gotta take a piss.”

Hawk goes to take care of the shirt and bottle, and I make my way down the hallway, trying not to make a big deal out of the fact that I’m going to be staying in his room. This isn’t high school. I’m not sneaking upstairs with him and trying to keep quiet while he palms me through my jeans.

Not that I’d mind…

Loud snoring from across the hall breaks me out of my stupid little fantasy, and I hang a right into Hawk’s room. It’s tidy, but pretty spartan. More than the rest of the apartment. The essential pieces of furniture are there, but nothing really feels lived in. No decorations on the walls, and even the area around his computer is pretty clean.

Then again, he’s got to be twenty-two or twenty-three, at least. Not like I’m going to find posters of some supermodel plastered on the ceiling and a waste basket filled with used tissues.

After that distracting thought, Hawk comes in behind me and closes the door. "There's a roll-away in the closet. Up to you if you want to take that or the bed. Doesn’t matter to me either way."

"I'm cool with the roll-away. You're the one who's letting me stay here."

He chucks his bag into the corner and starts over toward the closet. It's a small room, about the size of an average dorm room, and I have to make space for him. That doesn't stop him from accidentally brushing against me as he goes past, and a little shiver races up my spine at the contact. Apparently I had way too much beer at the Den. It's messing with my judgment.

"Need a hand?"

"I got it," he says, lifting the roll-away out of the closet.

He sets it up on the floor beside his bed, then stands above it, raking a hand through his hair.

"You need a blanket or anything? I can toss you an extra pillow for my bed."

"Nah, I'm good."

He nods, then blows out of breath through mostly closed lips. He seems a little nervous, and it's definitely endearing. Even if I know he isn't having the same thoughts I am. He just doesn't strike me as a guy who has a lot of people over to his place. And if he ever did, it was probably back in Michigan.

"You don’t have to entertain me or anything, man. I'm just grateful for a place to crash."

He lets out a relieved laugh. "It obvious I don't do this all that often?"

"Not exactly a social butterfly myself."

He nods again and then makes a face. As I watch him, he tugs the collar of his shirt up to his nose and inhales. "My clothes smell like beer. Need to change. You mind?"