Hate You Still by Lyssa Lemire
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KNOX
“Yo! Break it up you two!” I shout while I run over to break up a scuffle that’s erupted between three of the players after a practice play that turned rough.
Holy shit, was I this bad when I was a kid?
These kids are a fucking handful and a half. If the official “coach” of this team – the English teacher who does nothing but sit on his ass in the shade every practice, and probably gets an extra stipend from the school for it – wasn’t submitting reports to the court to make sure I’m on my best behavior, I’d be losing my temper with these brats every other minute.
Instead, I try to restrain my tongue from spewing streams of obscenities while I break up the three kids trying to get at each other.
Finally, they’re calmed down and no longer at each other’s throats. I try to coach them through running the play again – this time without accumulating a dozen personal fouls and ending up taking swings at each other afterward.
How fucking sad is it that having to corral these knuckleheads into behaving long enough to run one coherent play is the only kind of football I’m involved with right now?
For the last two weeks I’ve been riding the bench hard. Our opening game was a narrow victory; our second game was a crushing loss. Even as we trailed 7-28 going into the fourth quarter, Coach wouldn’t even consider putting me in.
He told me I’m on the bench until I’m through with my two months of community service, and that’s the bottom line. I have a feeling he’d rather lose every game between now and then instead of breaking that vow.
On top of that, Coach won’t even let me run plays during practice. Just like the first practice of the year, he’s got me running laps while the rest of the team actually goes through the playbook. So, once I finally am able to play again, I’m going to be rusty as shit.
Not exactly what I need to maximize my draft appeal, which is something I need to start thinking more about. I’m going to need to have a blow-away season senior year to make up for this bump in the road.
This Friday is the first game of the middle school season for the Marshall team I’m coaching. So, at least I’ll have some kind of active involvement in a real football game soon. I’m sure the time I’ve spent as a player at the top reaches of college football will put me in a league above the other coaches, even though I don’t have any experience designing or calling plays.
I check the time. 4:30. I blow the whistle signaling the end of practice today. Finally, time to head home.
I’ve got a walk ahead of me though, and in the late-summertime heat that shows no sign of abating. Is the humidity really supposed to be this brutal in the Midwest in early September? It’s like Mother Nature herself has conspired to contribute to making these two months as shitty as possible.
I’m drenched in sweat by the time I finally get home.
I find Gavin on our front porch, in the shade, sipping on a cold beer. He’s got a cooler full of cans of beer, a perfect light lager for the weather, sitting right next to him.
The drinks look so tempting that I don’t even bother going inside to cool down in the air conditioning first. I just rip off my wet shirt, drop it next to me, and sink down into a lawn chair next to him and pop the cap on a beer myself and start sucking it down.
“Thanks for telling me you were done class early and offering me a ride home, dick,” I say to him after chugging about half of the can.
“Don’t mention it,” he deadpans back.
Gavin’s not exactly in the mood to go above and beyond to lend a helping hand and make my walks back and forth from Marshall Middle School any easier.
Given the circumstances, it’s hard to blame him.
“Getting a handle on those kids?” he asks to make small talk.
I laugh. “Barely. They’re a fucking handful. Won’t listen to anyone. Always think their way is the right way even though the person coaching them is a fucking college football superstar on his way to the pros. Always goofing off. Always making trouble.”
“Now you know how it feels, huh?” Gavin flashes me a smile.
“Like you’re a fucking boy scout,” I bite back.
“In comparison.”
Lacking any comeback, I down the rest of my first can of beer and immediately pick up a second. I’ve been trying to cut back – honest, I have, especially at night – but a couple low alcohol content light beers after a scorching afternoon in the sun, I think that’s still something I can allow myself.
As my muscles are finally relaxing, something happens that makes them tighten up again.
A car pulls up and stops at the curb in front of us, and a guy walks out. Headed to Emma’s house. What the fuck is a guy doing walking up to Emma’s front door?
I shake my head. What does it matter to me? Might be someone who lives on the first floor – I know the house is split up into a duplex. Or it might be a guy there to take out her roommate.
Or, shit, it might be a guy coming to pick up Emma. What does that matter to me? It doesn’t matter to me at all.
Then, why can’t I rip my eyes off of him as he rings the doorbell and stands there waiting for someone to come to the door?
The guy looks like a grade-A douchebag. Wearing a tucked-in pink polo shirt and faded denim skinny jeans. His hair is way over styled, with way, way too much gel. I can practically smell it from over here.
“Get a load of this asshole,” I say to Gavin, nodding my head in the guy’s direction.
“Huh? Who?” Gavin asks, swiveling his head.
“The guy in front of Emma’s door.”
“Holy shit, bro,” he says, his voice marveling. See, it’s not just me! I’m not casting undue judgment on this guy because of some unresolved feelings about – not for – Emma, but because he really does look like jerkface numero uno.
“I know, right?” I answer, feeling vindicated.
Gavin laughs. “I don’t mean him. He looks normal. I’m holy shitting at you.”
I squint my eyes at him. “At me? The fuck you mean?”
“I can’t believe it. You’ve got a thing for that girl.”
“A thing? Are you nuts?”
Gavin ignores my admonition and keeps laughing to himself. “I should’ve known.”
I try to scoff at his line of thinking. “No way, man. You’ve got this all wrong.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s why you look like you’re about to kill some guy you’ve never seen before, who looks totally average.”
I’m about to open my mouth to protest again, but suddenly my breath is taken away.
Emma answers the door.
Holy shit.
She looks so fucking good it’s unreal. Tight black jeans that hug her hips and show off the curves of her ass. Fuck, I’ve never wanted to be a strip of denim fabric more in my life.
I mean, I’ve never wanted to be a strip of denim fabric before, period. But fuck me, I do right now. Those fucking jeans on her legs, thighs and ass should be a crime. It’s not decent for anyone to be in public looking that fucking good.
Her top is made of light, white fabric, fitting for her angelic aura. The short sleeves show off her long, slender, smooth arms. It’s a button down, with the topmost button undone, affording only the briefest and most tantalizing tease of her cleavage. My jaw clenches and my legs naturally spread wider, yielding room for the raging, insuppressible erection that’s now straining against my khaki pants.
She greets him with a hug, and I see his hands press against her back. The beer can in my right hand crumples as my hands contract in rage. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Hugging Emma like that?
The bigger question should be: why do I care?
But I’m past the point where the rational part of my brain is in control of my thoughts and feelings.
“Not into her huh?” Gavin smirks, obviously noticing my face is contorted into a grimace that would make a stone-cut gargoyle blush, and that sparks are almost shooting out of my ears.
An inarticulate snarl on my part tells him not to push it right now.
I strain my ears to try and overhear their conversation when I see they’re talking. I can’t pick up much over the distance between our front doors, but I am pretty sure I make out one word: Gilliam’s.
Gilliam’s Grill is one of the top restaurants-slash-bars in town with students. Probably where they’re headed for their first date.
My gaze follows them as they walk to douche-nozzle’s car. I alternate between throwing red-hot daggers of evil eye at him, and burning looks of desire at her.
When they drive off, I turn to Gavin. “You hungry?”
“I could eat. What are you thinking?”
“Gilliam’s.”
He cocks his head and looks at me with an expression of caution. “Dude, are you for real?”
I get up and practically sprint upstairs to my room to find a dry, clean shirt. When I walk back out the door downstairs, Gavin is still sitting down, shaking his head.
“You coming or not?” I ask, already stepping off the front porch. Gilliam’s is close enough that I’ll just walk if Gavin won’t drive.
“If only to make sure you don’t make a fucking idiot of yourself,” Gavin sighs, heaving himself up from the chair. “At least, not any more than you already have.”