Handful by C.R. Grissom

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Everest

The grass field at our practice facility shows rough patches where the cleats of seventy-five men have worn a path down to bare dirt. My knee has held strong during practice this week and for that I’m grateful.

I’ve been cleared to play this week for our yearly grudge match against San Jose State University. I had a bad moment earlier this week when I first suited up for practice and strapped on the knee braces. They’re heavy and unwieldy and deemed mandatory since my injury. Getting used to the weird and robotic feel of the devices will take some time.

The calm October weather is a contrast to the blistering heat of September. Temperatures won’t top eighty degrees this week, a huge relief from the previous week’s sweltering heat index. House fans don’t do much but swirl around hot air. It’s been a miserable few days.

Too hot for sex, unless you climb into the shower. I grin at the memory of how Kirsty wrapped her legs around my waist and clung like a monkey, but we managed not to kill ourselves in my shower last weekend.

Of course the next thought has my eyes narrowing remembering Gabe’s story about how one of the people in her group complained about Kirsty to their professor. Gabe, Gladiator statistician, Fortis brainiac, and good friend overheard the jackass bitching about her.

Gabe—knowing full well I’ve called dibs and am hanging out with Kirsty—told the little whiner I wouldn’t appreciate trouble coming down on my girlfriend’s head, especially since she’d been instrumental in getting me back on the field.

Tim, I’m told, had an immediate change of heart. I didn’t have to do a damn thing to try to protect Kirsty from the fallout of her schedule slip. It shocked the hell out of me. Friends, both on and off the field, act like family.

When Coach blows the whistle signaling the end of practice, I head toward the door to our locker room.

CW runs up to walk beside me. “Good practice. How’s the knee?”

“Okay, actually. The brace takes a bit getting used to since it’s different than the one I used to heal. Feels bulky and too stiff, but I’ll manage.”

He nods. “I’m glad you’re back. We need you against the Spartans.”

Chrysler joins us. “No shit. We could have used you for weeks.”

“Thanks. T-Rex will be a force on the field.” I feel it necessary to defend him. He’ll figure out how to be a brick wall on the o-line—he’ll have to.

“For sure,” CW mutters. “I’m still relieved you’ll have your knuckles on the line come Saturday.”

I grin and slap hands with CW first, then Chrysler. TJ waits at the door, holding it open for us. “How’d it go?”

TJ practices at the opposite end of the field kicking footballs through the uprights. He doesn’t necessarily get a chance to watch either offensive or defensive lines during practice.

“Ready to kick Spartan ass,” I say knowing it’s exactly what my teammates want to hear. I’ll be back on the field against San Jose State and for that I’m relieved. They’re favored to win. We’ll prove everyone wrong.

I shower and dress, grabbing my phone as I head out of our training facility. It rings in my hand. A glance at the screen, which shows Shane calling. I let out a breath. Damn. I’ve avoided contact since he showed up at the house after the game where I got injured. I’d checked his birth certificate. It’s real. He’s my younger half brother by seven months. Our mothers were pregnant at the same time. He’d also sent a link to an article in The Guardian with details on a small fishing boat capsizing off the coast of Timor-Leste. Eight souls lost at sea, including Dad and Jessica Parrish, Shane’s mother. We’ve accepted Dad’s death—the article didn’t change anything for my family—we’ve lived with his absence for years. Shane makes a noise into the phone, and I belatedly answer, “Yes?”

Shane says, “You’re expected to play this weekend.”

Not sure where this conversation will lead, I agree. “That’s the plan.”

“So your knee is better?” His voice sounds strained.

I doubt it’s due to concern for me. “Yes,” I answer.

“I’d like to see you play,” he admits grudgingly.

“Okay.” I’m not sure how I feel about this new tack. Is he trying to get to know me or just worming his way into my life? The second thought fills me with shame. I have family. I have friends who are family. He has no one. “Want me to leave you a ticket at will call?”

Then I wince thinking about Kirsty and Faith sitting in the same row as Shane. Shit.

He breathes into the phone. In then out. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m going to warn you that Kirsty and Faith will sit in the same row. I hope I can count on you to be civil.”

“They started it,” he grumbles.

Seriously?“How old are you again?”

“Fine.”

“Excellent. Anything else?”

“Not now.”

“Great,” I say. “Check will call on game day.” And I disconnect the call.

*

Suiting up forthe game I calm myself by mentally reviewing plays. It’s a ritual with me and the best way to focus on the task ahead. Kirsty hasn’t come by the house all week. We grabbed lunch at The Canteen once, and I saw her hanging out at the fence at the practice facility on Thursday afternoon, but by the time we worked through a particular play, she was gone.

She’s been skittish about carving any personal time away from her studies. I get it. I also miss her more than makes me comfortable.

I’ll see her tomorrow at the brunch we’ve all been invited to at Alan and Molly’s place, friends of the senior set. He offered to arrange for transportation, but we declined. If I drink more than one beer, we’ll get Rides; otherwise I want my car. I’ve got to swing by the dorms later and help Baloo, my teammate, set up his new computer. Easier to have my own transpo.

Coach delivers his pre-game speech, firing us up for the battle against the Spartans. I won’t allow anything else to creep into my mind. I need solid focus. I need to prove to myself and the coaching staff that I still deserve the full ride to Fortis. Anything less is unthinkable.

I can’t allow myself to worry or consider what might happen in the stands between Shane and Kirsty. Nothing will happen. Please, God.

I have no time to obsess. We’re heading onto the field amid pyrotechnics and the roar of the crowd. I missed this so damn much.

The jitters stop after the first play. I melt into motion, muscle memory taking me through each play. Determination strengthens with each block, and I no longer pay attention to the awkwardness of the knee braces. I’m a brick wall. I’m the mountain no one can push through or get around.

At halftime we head into the locker room. The score remains tied at seven all. We’ve fought for every square inch on the field. We’ve gone to a running game on offense, passing the ball off rather than allowing Dallas to throw the pass. Coach wants no chance of interception. Run the ball, move down the field, and get within range to score. Get it done. Simple. Methodical.

The only sounds heard are the shifting of pads and the occasional scrape of cleats against the cement floor. The thrum of energy pulses within each one of us. We harness our focus without any chatter, resolute and ready to battle when it’s time to head back out onto the field. Superstition keeps our mouths closed and our thoughts inward.

The thunder of cleats echoes through the tunnel as we take the field once more. The Spartans change up their defensive front line and a different guy lines up in front of me when we get the ball. He’s wider than me and maybe an inch shorter. I shoot him a wide smile, baring my black mouthguard at my opponent before placing my knuckles on the ground, ready for the snap.

Midway through the third quarter my leg aches like a molar needing a root canal. Ignoring the pain takes more effort than I want to think about. We push down field, fighting for first downs and eating up the clock. We get within twenty-five yards of the goal line and bring in TJ to kick on fourth down after missing the first down by four freaking yards.

TJ scores the field goal and we’re up by three with a score of Fortis ten, and San Jose State seven, with thirty-three seconds left in the third quarter. The Spartans take possession and push down field. They’ve gone to a running game, too.

Time evaporates from the clock.

Baloo, our defensive end, bullets past the nose guard to sack their quarterback on third down with three minutes left in the game. The Spartans send their place-kicker in for what will be a forty-five-yard field goal attempt.

Their kicker isn’t half as skilled as TJ, and the ball bounces off the uprights. While we don’t score again, we hold our three-point lead to win the game.

The colosseum fans are so loud I can barely hear Chrysler when he pounds me on the back and yells, “We fucking won.”

I take out my mouthguard. “Did you doubt it?”

He shrugs sheepishly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Baloo, and Rio, our long snapper, give Coach a Gatorade bath.

CW and TJ run up to join us. CW pumps his fist in the air. “Fuck all nonbelievers.”

I assume he’s referring to the oddsmakers who predicted our loss, and not agnostic peeps. I grin at him. “Absolutely.”

Wrapping my arm around TJ’s helmet, I brush the top with my knuckles and give him a congratulatory noogie. “Great job. Your foot is worth its weight in gold.”

“Damn straight,” he agrees once I let him go.

“Meet at my place. We need to celebrate. Pass the word.”

We head back to the locker room. Coach has a few words for the team. He recognizes both offense and defense and gives TJ a shout-out for the winning field goal. He releases us and we head to the showers. The silence of halftime forgotten, my teammates’ shouts bounce off the walls.

At home an hour later, my teammates arrive in a steady stream. I’m on the couch, knee elevated and iced. I’ve downed three ibuprofen to help the slight swelling of my knee. Most of the Gladiator starting offensive line arrives with pizza, beer, and soda. Baloo and Gabe wander in as well. A little drinking might be overlooked by the coaching staff but getting shitty would bring down their wrath. They’ll keep it to one or two, and no one will get drunk.

When Faith steps into the living room, I don’t see Kirsty, and I feel a stab of disappointment in my gut. Faith moves to hug CW, and Kirsty walks around them heading toward me. She’s wearing black leggings and a Gladiators jersey with the number sixty-six. My number. She could have knocked me flat with a nudge.

She smirks at something CW says and her dimple pops.

I’m a goner. The realization is like a blindsided kick to the head. Propped on the couch in my living room, it drops on me that I’ve fallen in love with her.

Well, fuck.

She cocks her head and raises her eyebrows at me. “Was it something I said?”

I nod without thinking. It’s everything she’s said and done for the past ten months. She’s managed to do something no three-hundred-pound defensive lineman has ever managed. She pushed through the brick wall of my stance and knocked me flat on my ass.

“Pray tell,” she asks.

No way in hell I’m fessing up without any sort of declaration from Kirsty. God knows people you love just leave you. Like Dad. Stop. “Your other superpower is the ability to hide in a crowd, Lilly. I didn’t see you come in.”

“You’re nearly taller than me even when sitting,” she huffs. She joins me on the couch. “Does it hurt?”

“Better now that I’ve got ice on it.” I’m tempted to remove the pack and take her somewhere private, which isn’t here considering how many people are at the house right now. “Can I get you anything?”

“I want pizza. I’m starved.”

“Let’s make it happen.” I take the pack off my knee.

“No you don’t.” She takes the pack from me and gently lays it on my knee. “Stay here. I’ll bring us both food.”

In between bites of pizza, I ask, “Did Shane behave?”

She shoots me a glance filled with sass. “What makes you think he started something? Maybe I did?”

I stare at her blandly. “Did you?”

She smirks, and that damn dimple pops. “No. He doesn’t understand the game, and mostly asked questions about what was going on. He did ask if your knee was healed.”

Huh.Why doesn’t Shane know the sport? Some of my earliest memories of Dad involve watching football with him. How he patiently explained what was going on, teaching me the rules, and sharing his love of the sport. How the fuck did Shane live with him for years and not learn about football?

The thought makes me question just what the fuck they did together. I can’t imagine Dad not watching football. It’s like being told the sky is green instead of blue, and you just have to accept it.

Kirsty touches my arm. “What’s wrong?”

I shrug. “My dad was a fan of the game. I can’t process the fact that Shane doesn’t know the rules.”

She leans against me, rubbing my hand between her palms. “I’m sorry. This bothers you and I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“No. I’m glad I know. It’s just weird.”

Just then Crikey, Rio, and Dallas approach the couch. I introduce Kirsty to them. Gabe joins us and after a few minutes I realize he’s crushing on her. Why not? She’s pretty freaking awesome. She’s funny, sarcastic, and wicked smart.

Thank God for dibs.

An hour later, I want everyone gone. I want Kirsty in my room and on top of me. My thoughts must have telegraphed because she looks up at me sharply, her feline eyes sparkling, and motions me close.

“I can’t stay,” she says softly next to my ear. “I have to study before brunch tomorrow. How about tomorrow night?”

“That works.” I can get Baloo’s computer set up then swing by to get Kirsty and bring her here.

Christ, I hope I’m not behaving like a needy bastard. Maybe I should give myself time to decide if I’m really in love with Kirsty or if it’s just a fleeting thing, like an upset stomach or a twenty-four-hour plague?

I’ve never been in love. I could have misdiagnosed myself. It’s not like you can google symptoms to confirm.

I take one more look at Kirsty—at her damn dimple—and concede the fact I’m screwed.