Page 45 of Game Face

“I . . . guess? I mean, we got in late Saturday. But I’ve had a lot going on, and?—”

“Yeah, yeah. You and the other six guys who came in this morning filling out the same form.” He laughs to himself, the kind of laugh a person lets out when they’re not amused but rather . . . miffed. And if six of us, seven including me, all cashed in our free passes at once, maybe he has good reason to be fed up. Except, I’m not being lazy. If anything, my problem is I’m trying to be too much—too many places all at once. And my head is vacillating non-stop between guilt and paranoia.

I put the pen down about halfway through the form and stare at it for a few seconds while Dr. Ambrose busies himself typing something—probably an email to a colleague about what a loser I am for taking a freebie.

“You know what?”

I stand up, tearing the top sheet in half. I push the stack across the desk, the pen resting on top, and wad my free pass into a tight paper ball in my fist. Dr. Ambrose pushes away from his computer and leans back in his chair as his eyes settle on me.

“You’re right. I deserve what I get. I’ll keep that score, whatever it is, and if it means I need to be perfect from here on out just to pass, then so be it. That’s what I get. Hell, maybe you’ll get to mark me ineligible for the grades. I won’t even fight it. To tell you the truth, I could use the fuckin’ break.”

I toss the paper ball into the trash by his door on my way out and walk straight to the weight room where Bryce and Whiskey are waiting for me. I don’t remember taking a breath the entire way, though I must have. I’m still standing. And I have enough of a voice left to tell Whiskey to fuck off when he comments on me walking in late. He has a point—I did set the time for today.

But still.

“Fuck off.” I say it again.

The silence between him and Bryce while I move plates to the bench press bar is palpable. It’s full of judgement. I pop my head up after I put a clip on the right side of the bar, and when my eyes meet Whiskey’s, he immediately looks away. I’m like a predator sniffing out weakness. Or maybe I’m the weak one looking for an easy kill.

I grab the forty-five-pound plate from Bryce’s hands and push it on the other side, snagging the clip from Whiskey’s grasp before he has a chance to help. Without looking either of them in the eyes, I flop down on the bench and center myself under the bar. Perfectly still, I wait for one of them to get in position to spot me, but when it becomes clear neither of them intends to, I drop my hands to my forehead and growl like a wild animal.

“Dude, you’re still in your jeans. You want to talk about what’s up your ass this morning?” Whiskey kicks the edge of myshoe lightly after he calls me out, and I lift my head enough to see I’m not only in my jeans, but I’m also still wearing the polo shirt I slipped on for my meeting with Dr. Ambrose.

I might have had a mental breakdown.

“I’m a little rattled today, is all,” I say, pulling myself up to straddle the bench. My gym bag is by the door, my change of clothes inside. I vaguely remember tossing it there when I marched in here.

“You don’t need to be here, you know.” Bryce’s observation, however right, eats at the source of my anxiety.

“You’re right. I don’tneedto be here,” I say, meeting his stare. “But Ishouldbe here.”

We lock eyes for a few seconds while Whiskey looks on. I give my friend enough credit to understand how fucked up this co-quarterback relationship I find myself in is.

“Do you want to know the difference between us?” Bryce finally says.

I shrug and shake my head, my anger and frustration quickly morphing into defeatism.

“I don’t know, Bryce. What is it? Your determination to just keep pushing until our roles are reversed? Or the fact that if you blew a test like I did this morning, you’d have no qualms taking the free do-over. Because why shouldn’t we take advantage of our perks. Or is it that you sleep fine at night, while I . . . ha! Bryce, I hardly fucking sleep at all!”

My face feels hot, and my chest is heaving with my ragged breath. I’m so emotionally spent that I’ve exhausted myself. Peyton and I barely got to talk yesterday. And I couldn’t visit because of some nerve tests she had, and I needed to watch film to make sure I never throw an interception again.Ha! Like that’s a curable fault.

“You done now, jackass?” Bryce sits on the bench across from me and leans forward, his elbows balanced on his knees as he levels me with a hard stare.

I breathe in deeply, then exhale, blinking away the latest rush of rage attacking me. I don’t like feeling like this, like life is unfair. I haven’t felt this way since my dad died.

“I’m done. Sorry,” I say, lifting my hand in gesture.

“You’re forgiven. Now, do you want to know the serious answer?” He’s reminding me a lot of Peyton’s mom right now. Maybe a little bit of my own, too.

I nod.

“The difference between us is I would have picked football. Every time. Tough test I should study for? Fuck that—football. My teammates need attention? Screw them, football is mine. They can get their own game.”

I pull my mouth into a wry smile and lift a shoulder, not sure where he’s going with this. I mean, it’s big of him to admit he’s a selfish asshole, but not sure I’m getting clarity from his?—

“The best person to enter my life needs my help? I’m busy. With football. She’s broken and hurting? Fighting for her self-worth? Her dignity? Her life? That sucks, but man . . . I have football.”

Oh.

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