Page 103 of The Jock
“Don’t get ejected from the game.”
Colton’s eyes flashed. “Then they’d better shake your fucking hand.”
They walked out for the coin toss together, and Colton didn’t extend his hand until both Mississippi captains shook Wes’s. Then he held his out, but the handshake he exchanged with the defensive captain looked painful, like they were trying to crush each other in a test of strength. The referee eventually separated them, eyeballing each for a long moment.
Mississippi won the toss and chose to kick, so Texas started with the ball.
Nerves thundered through Wes, electrifying his muscles and his veins. In the huddle, his breath shook. Everything was so bright, so vibrant. The grass had never been so green beneath stadium lights. The crowd had never been so loud. He watched Colton’s lips to hear the play over the roar.
After they lined up and set, one of the linebackers came up, leaned over his defensive end, and called out, “Hey, fag. Remember me?” He blew a kiss to Wes.
Josh, set on the offensive line and next to Wes, roared. He lunged across the neutral zone, trying to tear his way through the Mississippi defensive line to get at the linebacker. Mississippi’s players shoved him back, and then Patrick, Art, and Quinton were there, shoving Mississippi players off of Josh.
Whistles blew. Flags were thrown. The refs came running, and they hauled players from both teams off each other by the backs of their jerseys. The line ref pushed Josh back ten yards when he wouldn’t stop shouting. Colton took the head ref aside, and Wes watched as he tried to explain what had happened. The head ref shook his head.
“False start,” the ref called, reciting Josh’s number. “Five-yard penalty. Repeat first down.”
Colton called a huddle again. He looked at Josh and Wes. “What was that?”
“That fucking linebacker,” Josh spat, “said some fucking bullshit to Wes!”
“He was saying it all last game, too.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Josh spun out of the huddle, grabbing his helmet. He came back, cursing so hard his face was purple. “I didn’t fucking hear it last time. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine—”
“It’s not fine.” Colton ripped his helmet off. “Look at me. We teach these motherfuckers a lesson, right now. No one says shit to us, or about us. Any of us. Fuck the play. When I call the snap, fucking blow them away. Orlando, take the handoff and run it out. The rest of you?” Colton grinned. “Bring the fucking pain.” He clapped to end the huddle, and they all trotted out to the line again.
Wes’s heart hammered. The entire defensive line was blowing kisses at him and Josh, wolf whistling and making sex noises, grunting and groaning and moaning, just soft enough so the refs couldn’t hear. Wes could feel his teammates clench. Colton counted off the snap, far too quickly.
He breathed in, eyes locked on the linebacker who’d given him shit.
The linebacker grinned. Blew him another kiss.
“Hut!” Colton shouted. He took the ball from between Art’s legs and bounced back. Passed it off to Orlando in a flash of white and orange. Then he roared and charged.
The entire line exploded upward, two thousand pounds of raging linemen moving as one, thundering right through the Mississippi defense. They put each defender in the dirt, toppled them on their asses, and then kept going, charging the linebackers. The linebackers and the corners froze. This wasn’t a play from any playbook, and they had no idea how to react to it, to an all-out offensive charge. They shifted left and then right, trying to track the ball as the full fury of Wes’s teammates bore down on them.
Wes ran with Josh, and Colton appeared beside them, and all three of them ran down the middle linebacker and hefted him up, then brought him to the dirt as they heard the whistle blow.
“Listen up, you fuck,” Colton growled into the linebacker’s face mask. “We’ll fucking take you out every play if we have to. Until you shut your fucking mouth.”
“Man, get off me!”
“You just got tackled by the fucking quarterback.” Colton put his hand on the linebacker’s helmet and used it to push himself up. “Enjoy that replay on ESPN.”
Hands grabbed Wes’s pads and hauled him up. He spun, but it was just Art, grinning at him. He had grass stuck to his face mask, and his arm was bleeding from a six-inch scrape, but he was smiling ear to ear. Wes held out his hand for Josh, and they jogged back to the huddle.
The defense was still picking themselves up out of the grass. One player looked like he was about to hurl. Substitutions were running out onto the field. On the Texas sideline, Coach Young was staring at his clipboard with his play card over his mouth. Wes could see the crinkles around his eyes, though.
“Well done,” Colton said. He called the next play, giving the ball to Wes.
Wes caught Colton’s pass and ran for twelve yards before one of the linebackers brought him down. Not a single one of Mississippi’s players opened their mouth.
They fought for each down, grinding out yards in a series of first, second, and third downs, then fought for another first down. By the time they made it to the red zone, close enough to make a play for a touchdown, they were all sucking wind in the huddle, their hands on their knees. Colton called the play, a diamond sweep, and locked eyes with Wes. “Get to the end zone,” he said, panting. “I’ll put it in your hands.”
When the ball snapped, Wes burst off the line, running flat out before fading to the right and the back corner of the end zone. He had three defenders on him, jostling him, shoving him out of sight of the refs. He turned and saw Colton launch the ball.
