Page 97 of High Notes & Hail Marys

He rolls his eyes. “That what’s got your panties in a twist? That whiny cunt, Gabrielle? You have no idea what happened there, Kaius. Respectfully, you need to mind your fuckin’ business. Back the fuck up.”

He goes to stand up. None-too-gently, you push him back down.

“Back the fuck up!” GoGo repeats, louder this time. “I like you, man. Don’t make me do somethin’ I’m gonna regret.”

Suddenly, the angry buzzing in your head stops. Clarity shrouds you like a cocoon of protection. You step back. Let GoGo stand up, looking indignant.

“That’s what I thought,” he spits irritably. “That lying bitch don’t need no white knight, asshole.”

The words have no sooner left his mouth than you’ve swung your fist and clubbed him across the jaw. You experience it all in slow-motion. GoGo reels and falls, blood spraying from the side of his mouth. An inhuman roar unseats itself from deep in your lungs, and you lunge to the floor after him, throwing yourself atop his body.

“Kai!” Jameson yelps. “Get the fuck off him, man!” He pulls ineffectually at your shoulder.

You jerk your arm straight back. Jameson lands on his ass, skidding on the floor.

A deafening chorus of shocked noises goes up from the crowded locker room. You hear it all, but, at the same time, you absorb none of it. You are straddling GoGo’s stomach, feeling his rippling abs contracting in agony beneath you. You’re taking in the sight of his bloody face, of the terror in his eyes.

“Fuck you, Reinhart!” he cries. “Fu--”

You hit him again. Immediately, GoGo’s hands fly up to shield his face. He’s babbling nonsense. It could be vitriol, it could be apologies, but you don’t decipher any of it. It’s all humming to you, the buzz of mosquitoes in a zapper light. You try to pry his defenses away so you can strike him a third time, but the man’s got thick arms corded in veiny muscle, and the adrenaline-fueled strength of a scared animal. Aggravated, you grab his entire head in your hands and smack it against the floor. It makes a sickening sound.

“Stop it!” you dimly hear. “Jesus Christ, someonestop him!”

“He fucking snapped! GoGo was mouthing off, and…”

GoGo’s got his head wrapped up tight in his arms, protecting it and his face. You rear back and get a shot in his side. He curls to the side you punched, pitiful, but doesn’t uncover his face.

“Fight me, you motherfucker!” you scream. “Fucking fight me!”

GoGo’s six inches shorter than you and at least seventy pounds lighter. Realistically, he’s not fighting shit. You’ve just about resolved that this is how it’s going to end: you, being led away in handcuffs, because you are going to killthis motherless fuck on the dirty locker room floor with your bare hands, all fifty-two of your teammates as witnesses, when you feel a firm hand on your shoulder.

About to turn and hit whoever’s interrupting you in your single-minded goal of turning GoGo into human pizza, you hear a voice that cuts through the haze in your head. Soft, but firm.

“Get off him, Kai. It’s enough. You did enough. Come on.”

It’s Sandy.

Your eyes rolling wildly, you push yourself off GoGo’s heaving body to the floor. Immediately, GoGo balls up in a fetal position. He gags and spits up a mouthful of bloody phlegm. He’s moaning something.

Your gorge rises in your own throat, and you hang your head. Sandy’s hand is warm on your bare skin, even despite the fact that you feel like the room is on fire.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs soothingly. “It’s okay, Kai. Everything is going to be okay.”

“The fuck you mean, everything is okay?” Jameson cries. Somehow, he’s ended up back beside GoGo. He’s peeling GoGo’s arms away from his face, and checking on his friend. “He nearly killed him! Fuck, man. His jaw’s broken!”

From your vantage point on the floor, you can see your handiwork. Sure enough, GoGo’s chin is slightly displaced. The side of his face that you hit him on is already puffing up, angry red and purple. Blood is streaming from his nose and mouth. It’s enough to make you want to vomit. You cough unsteadily.

“Ihopeit’s broken,” you mutter, loud enough to be heard. Your own speech is slurred, despite the fact that you didn’t withstand a single blow. “Won’t be able to talk any more shit.”

GoGo gurgles. Hocks his throat and spits up another mouthful of goopy, dark blood. Something else comes out. A broken tooth. (Not the one with the diamond.)

Sandy helps you to your feet. “Helps” is a strong word for it; he’s not brawny enough to get your body off the ground. But his arms steady you, and you are grateful for it when that first rush of vertigo hits you on your feet.Fuck, you realize. Your clothes are all scattered on the floor by your locker. You’re mostly naked.

The crowd of your teammates parts like the Red Sea when Sandy guides you gently across the locker room, your arm draped over his shoulder.

“Everyone get your shit together!” Sandy barks. “The press is gonna be in here in twenty or thirty minutes. Somebody scrape Heller off the floor andget him to the medical team. Call a janitor. I want that blood gone in the next five minutes. Stop looking gobsmacked and get ready for your interviews.”

Like magic, everyone listens. Sandy’s QB #1. He’s the boss.

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