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Chapter 7: Break Stuff

Break Stuff

Jack, October

Sometimes you just have one of those days. Nothing seems to go right. It's been building up all week, starting with the reporters at the Monday practice. They don't bother me, but all the shit-talking going on behind Peyton's back has been eating at my nerves. The stuff about her in the paper has really pushed Cash and crew over the edge. I was in the locker room after practice Wednesday when I overheard them in the showers.

"One tackle—one fucking tackle—and overnight she's a goddamn star just because she happens to have a pussy," Cash shouted over the sound of running water.

"It's such bullshit," Nolan agreed.

"Are you sure she has a pussy?" Baker asked. "Maybe she's packing sausage."

"Dude! Bro's gotta be a total tranny." Cash laughed. "Anybody wanna place a bet on whether Thomas has a dick?"

It took everything in me not to go ballistic on those motherfuckers. I stood there at my locker clenching and unclenching my fists as I did some deep breathing. I glanced at Marshall to gauge his reaction. Stoic as usual, blank expression. But when he walked out of the room, he pounded Cash's locker with his fist, leaving a sizable dent right next to the latch.

Probably won't be so easy to open now. That made me feel a little better until Thursday when I was on my way to lunch. I saw her and Marshall walking in the hall together, deep in conversation about something.

So when he sat down next to me and Darius, I just up and asked him. "What were you and Thomas talking about?"

He cocked his head to one side, shrugging. "Our English test. And the game tomorrow."

"You guys friends or something now?" I was trying to sound breezy.  

He shrugged again. Man, sometimes he really pisses me off.

"You think she'll play?" I asked.

He raised his eyes from his lunch and stared at me through his hair.

"Marshall, will you stop hiding behind your dreadlocks and have a conversation like a normal person?" I was getting pretty irritated.

The corner of his mouth ticked up ever so slightly, like he was amused or some shit.

Darius chimed in. "They're not dreadlocks, Chaplin. They're two-strand twists."

I stared at him. I really didn't give a shit at that moment.

It's ridiculous. I wanna punch the guys being assholes to her. And I wanna punch the ones who are being nice.

I don't know my ass from my elbow right now.

And then there's Bree.

She's really laying it on pretty thick. I mean, I get it. She's doing everything in her power to hurt Cash the same way he's hurting her. But it's gotten to be like a contest. The more he flirts with Emma, the more Bree hangs all over me. I really don't know how I stumble into these messes.

So when I board the bus for the game in Magnolia, I'm ready to break stuff. I sit by myself toward the back, put in my earbuds, and try to ignore all the chatter. Peyton is two rows up on the other side of the aisle. When we're about halfway there, she pulls a bottle of Pepto Bismol out of her bag and takes a few swigs. Aw, girl. Drowning anxiety in Pepto again. She looks over her shoulder and catches me watching her. She smiles weakly.

That's my cue.

"You excited, Thomas?" I ask as I slide into the seat next to her.

"About to have a nervous breakdown," she replies.