Hate You Still by Lyssa Lemire

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

KNOX

My eyes are locked on the ball as it sails through the air. It’s a choppy pass. Garrett, our quarterback, was only barely able to release it before getting slammed by the Carolina defense.

The ball wobbles but continues its trajectory on an imperfect arc. Although the pass isn’t pretty, it got the distance it needed.

Now all that’s left is for our second-string tight end – my temporary replacement until this community service bullshit is over with – to make the play we need to put us on the scoreboard and give us a fighting chance to break the losing streak that’s weighed on us early into the season.

Jerome, the tight end, extends his hands while maintaining his stride, reaching out for the pass as it falls towards him …

Only for the Carolina cornerback to undercut him and snatch the ball right out of his unsuspecting hands. Jerome trips, giving the Carolina defender a chance to run down and gain about forty yards on the turnover before being taken down by Lars.

The entire sidelines break out into groans and curses. A couple of the players shoot me the evil eye.

What the fuck? It’s not my idea to have me benched for the first two months of the season. Blame Coach.

Hah. Fat chance. I know that everyone blames me for being benched. I have no involvement in our games whatsoever, but every time we pick up a loss, all the blame and scorn are directed squarely on my shoulders.

Frankly, some of our other positions have been playing so shitty that even if I were out there, I’d hardly be able to turn the whole team around. But I’m just a convenient enough scapegoat for all our problems this season to be pinned on.

I look at Coach. For a moment, I think about daring to go over and beg him to put me in, just for one possession. But the forbidding and icy look in his eyes tells me it would be useless to try. I can only sit here and continue to stew in resentment and frustration.

What a fucking couple days.

Yesterday was Friday. The season opener for my Marshall Middle School team. And, well, if today is a disaster for the Alton Eagles, I’m going to need to walk to campus and find an English professor to come up with the right word to describe how the high school game went.

Debacle? Catastrophe? Clusterfuck? Catast-bacle-fuck? Let’s go with that one. It was a mess.

None of the players could even remember the plays we spent all week practicing. They’d just line up and do their own thing once the ref blew his whistle, which resulted in sloppy and uncoordinated playing the likes of which I’ve never seen.

And the penalties. I’ve never seen so many off-sides and late hit penalties in my life.

I know the judge who sentenced me was there in the stands watching. He probably regretted not just throwing me in jail when he saw how pathetically the team he supports played under my coaching.

It probably didn’t help that I was only just getting over a hangover when the game was staring last night. Because on Thursday night, the night before, I got more wasted than I’d been since that night I saw Emma in my room for the first time in four years.

It started with me just wanting to screw up her date with that douchebag.

It had nothing to do with being “jealous,” as Gavin accused over and over again.

Jealous? Jealous of what? Douche-nozzle the third with the pink polo shirt and styled hair who she was going out with? Ha, yeah right. My pinky nail doesn’t have anything to be jealous of a guy like that over.

And it’s not like I care that she’s on a date in general. Why would I? That would imply I have some kind of … interest in her. Which I don’t. No way.

Sure, she’s hot as fuck. No point denying that.

Sure, my cock gets rock hard every time I look at her.

But she and I are the least compatible two people in a three-hundred-mile radius, at least.

But when I saw that, despite my best efforts, their date was going well … fuck, that didn’t sit right with me. It brought a taste of bile to my mouth and made my muscles tense in anxiety.

The thought of her being with that jerk. The thought of them holding hands … the thought of him even daring to kiss her round, lush lips … fuck it pissed me off. I don’t know why. Probably because he looked like such a tool, I’m sure I’d be annoyed about any girl being with a guy like that.

Right?

I stayed behind about half an hour after they left. I thought about taking some of the girls I’d spent the time there loudly flirting with home, but I just wasn’t feeling it. As hot as they were, and they were smoking, they just didn’t awaken any desire in me. Gavin and I went home by ourselves.

And what really didn’t sit right with me … was that about an hour after we got home from Gilliam’s, I saw Emma walking home.

I had thought that she must have already been home, since they’d left so long ago. Her coming home that much later could only mean that she had spent the time at her douchebag date’s place … and a long time there, at that.

Just the thought of it even now has my hands contracted in a tight fist and my nostrils flaring. The thought of that guy’s hands on her, touching her body, taking off her clothes …

I notice that my knuckles are stark white, I’m gripping the bench I’m sitting on so hard. Suddenly, the final whistle blows, and the game is over. It feels like just a minute ago the second half had just started. It’s like I’ve been sitting here in a trance thinking about last Thursday.

Another loss. Our third straight.  And against a team that, last season, no one would have even believed to have any business being on the same field as us. Forget about a downward spiral: we’re entering a fucking tailspin.

We all head back to the locker rooms with our heads hung low and our spirits even lower. After leaving the showers, I notice Jerome sitting alone in front of his locker, his eyes fixed on the ground. He’s bent down at a sharp angle, his emotionless expression broadcasting a total lack of confidence.

It tugs at my heartstrings. Shit, his playing has been pretty weak, but he’s taking way too much of the blame from the media and fans.

For one, it’s not just him who’s been shitting the bed this season. Our defense has been in shambles, and that has nothing to do with my absence at tight end. Garrett’s been holding onto the ball way too long, leading to a lot of sacks. We’ve had injuries on our offensive line.

But because everyone’s talking about me and the reason for my absence on the field, everyone’s attention is naturally directed at my replacement. Any mistakes he makes are amplified and treated as if they’re the explanations for the pathetic start to our season.

Really, he’s been thrust into a position where he has little chance of success. He wasn’t expecting to start this season, not until just a couple days before the opening game when Coach announced that I’d be glued to the bench for two months.

And since Coach won’t let me even run any plays in practice, or do anything other than just jog around the damn field, I haven’t even been able to work with Jerome and give him any pointers.

“Hey, Jerome,” I greet him.

He looks up to me as I stand next to him, his eyes dim and demoralized. “Hey, Knox.”

“You busy on Tuesday?”

“Tuesday? Uh, no, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Why don’t you and I meet up at the practice field and I’ll coach you on some of the routes?”

His eyes light up. This is the first time we’ve talked one on one, and given my reputation on the team, he probably expected that I’d ride his ass rather than offer to help him. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“Mind? Shit, I’d be glad to. Helping you practice route running is about the closest I can get to actually playing the damn game, you know?” I laugh, trying to lighten the mood for him.

He returns my levity with as much of a smile as he can muster: which isn’t much of one, but at least it’s some improvement in his countenance. “Thanks, man. That’d be great.”

I have a reputation of being a cold, callous dick. Maybe I’ve earned it. Shit, I know I’ve partly earned it. But I can’t stand seeing people kicked when they’re down, or people suffering without help. For putting Jerome in this position in the first place, doing everything I can to help him make the most of it is the least I can do.

I just hope I have more luck helping him than I do helping the kids on the Marshall football team. I still feel like a useless pile of rocks for all the good I seem to be able to do with them.