Hail Mary

Liam

As the shower comes to life and the water hits my chest, I inhale a deep breath of steam and let it clear my head. The warmth soothes my aching muscles, and I hold back a groan of pleasure. Not really the kind of thing I want to share with my teammates. This is my time. There's an unspoken code here, and every guy knows not to talk in the shower. Unlike in the locker room, I don't have to expect somebody to come up to me and interrupt my thoughts. I'm fair game in the locker room. Guys interrupt me mid-thought there. But here, I can play back the day in my mind and pick apart every detail. Coach Garvey says I obsess over every tiny thing. I always figured a college coach would like that, but maybe I am a little intense about it. I can't really help it. This is all I know. It's the only thing I know how to do, and the only thing I'm good at. If I don't put my all into improving, then I'm not working hard enough. At least, that's what my dad always says. From the time he coached my peewee team, through my high school career, and now even in college, he's informed a lot of my views and behaviors when it comes football. I know what the outside observer would say: he's just a washed up old athlete who's pressuring his son to finish what he started. But football is the only thing that really brings us together. So if he's pushing me to accomplish something he couldn't, I guess I feel like I have to give it all I've got. For the first practice of the season, today wasn't too bad. A lot of the guys are sluggish, but right now, I'm focused on my own performance. Coach Garvey made it pretty clear my freshman year that if I tried to do his job for him, he'd throw me on the bench faster than I could blink. And after years of getting agitated by the guys who don't take it seriously—the guys who would rather get fucked up every night—I'm over it. There are definitely a few things I'd change from today. I might have thrown poorly to Horan on purpose, but there were a few plays where I could've set up better. A few situations where I could've made something out of nothing. I run them back in my head and try to think of the outcomes if I would've carried the ball instead of passing it. Or if I would've put a little more spin on it, or tried for a higher arc. I'm still thinking about it as I head to my locker and grab my gym bag. I pull out my change of clothes and start ranking my performance for the day. It's something my dad always does, and I guess it just sort of carried over to me. Today, I give myself maybe a 4/ 5 for endurance, a 3.5/ 5 for accuracy, a 4/ 5 for speed, and a 3/ 5 for consistency. It bugs me that I don't have an even spread across the board, but I don't have much of a chance to work out a plan before I'm interrupted. "Looking good out there, Payne. Guess you didn't take the summer off like the rest of us." Dante Mills and I have been friends since freshman year, when we roomed together in the Thompson Building. He knows how to push my buttons. "Have to keep on top of it. We can't all be naturally gifted like you." Mills grins, leaning against the locker beside mine. "True. You mortals have to work for a godlike body like this," he says, patting his stomach. Dante is a big guy. He was probably 6 feet tall and at least 300 pounds in the seventh grade. It's all solid muscle, though, and as much as I'd kill for the kind of strength he has, I'm pretty thankful for my lean frame. Quarterbacks aren't built to be trucks. But offensive tackles are. And Mills is the one lineman who's always had my back. Last year, he completely steamrolled a guy who took a sack after I'd already gotten rid of the ball. Both of them were ejected, but Mills was slapped with a three-game probation, too. After the game, he just gave me one of his trademark shit-eating grins, shrugged, and said it was worth it. "Hey, I heard about your little pet project." He lowers his voice, and I turn to him with one brow raised. "That supposed to be some kind of secret?" "I guess not if you don't want it to be." He shrugs. "Just haven't seen you take on anybody but a QB before. You trying to get in good with Garvey for that captain's patch?" In football, team captains don't mean as much as they do in other sports. It's still a badge of honor, though. Something I can put on a resume, and something the NFL will definitely notice. "Figure it can't hurt. And if we're going to take it all the way this year, then every guy out there has to be at the top of his game." "You really think he can start? Shit, with the way Matthews was looking at him earlier, I wouldn't be surprised if he ends up in traction." I search the locker room, finding Matthews easily. He's still wearing a scowl, and pulling his clothes on like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum. Fucking A. Part of me wants to let Coach know there could be trouble, but I don't want to be that guy. "Yeah, I think he's got a shot. He's as good as any of the starters from last year." Or better. But saying that in the middle of the locker room is just begging for trouble. "He caught every shit pass I threw him." "Yeah, until he didn't. You can't count on a receiver who's pissing his pants every time somebody gets near him." Mills leans back against the locker, folding his arms over his chest. He puts on his best analytical face, and in between pulling on my shirt and then my boxers, I watch him scan the room. "Just don't hit it too hard, okay?" The little edge of humor that always accompanies his words is gone. He's staring at me, and for once his expression looks gravely serious. "Okay...?" "I mean it. I know how you get, Payne. You spend enough time on yourself. Just make sure you aren't putting too much into this guy. For his sake and yours."I guess I should take it as a compliment. I never do things halfway. But he's right. There's already a really good chance I won't graduate this year. I've almost guaranteed it, taking the absolute minimum class load to make sure I have enough time to dedicate to football. Taking on another project pretty much ensures I'm going to need to cut some corners as far as school is concerned. I don't feel great about it, but I didn't come to Eastshore for the education. I came to play football. "Don't worry about it. I'll figure it out." I tug on my jeans and grab my bag before closing my locker. Mills meets my gaze one last time, shrugs, then wanders back to his own spot. I find Horan in the crowd and head toward him, slinging my bag over one shoulder. "Meet me in the parking lot when you're ready." "Just give me a sec and I'll be right out." He's half-dressed when he says it, wearing jeans but no shirt. He's a lot more cut than I would've expected for a receiver. Most of them are built for speed, lean and able to run as soon as they have the ball. But it's clear Horan has put a lot of work into his body. His arms are built up, especially, and I feel a weird sort of flush pass through me as I look at him. Damn, I've been here too long. I loaded up on carbs during breakfast, but after the intense workout, I'm starving again. That must be what it is. Putting that weird sensation behind me, I head out into the parking lot near the stadium. During the off-season, it's easy for players to get a spot nearby. My blue Accord is parked between a beat up old Volvo and a hatchback that's missing two hubcaps. Not that my ride is in much better shape. I take care of her, but she's nothing fancy. Mostly just a way to get from point A to point B. As I survey some of the other cars in the lot—especially the ones that look brand-new, waxed and just begging for rain—I wonder if my teammates just come from loaded families, or if they're blatantly breaking the NCAA's rule to not accept handouts from recruiters. I guess it's none of my business either way. It only takes a few minutes for Griffin to get out here, and he jogs until he spots me. A tiny smile tugs up the corner of my lips. It's nice to see somebody with so much enthusiasm. I know the freshmen and new walk-ons sometimes grate on the veteran players, but to me, the rookies are the guys I usually connect with most. They know they have to make a name for themselves, so they're completely focused and committed. "Got a car?" "Nah, I took the bus." I hit the button on the key fob and hear the click of the lock as it slides out of place on all four doors. "Come on. I'll give you a ride. You can put your stuff in the back." I slide into the driver's seat and turn the key in the ignition. A Kansas song blares over the radio, and I reach for the volume button to turn it down. "So," he says as he ducks into the seat beside me. "Should I call somebody and give them your description? Just in case they find the body later." I can hear the nervous edge to his voice, and when I look over at him, he's smiling. I just laugh. "Don't bother. I'm a professional. They'll never find the body." "Good to know. Where you kidnapping me to, then?" "There's a sports bar downtown that a lot of the guys hit up after games. I figure we can work out a plan there. You're old enough to drink, right?" "Kidnapping me and trying to get me drunk?" I grin, hooking my arm around his chair so I can see behind the car. "I don't half-ass anything." The ride is quiet, with both of us just listening to the music. When I look over at Horan, he's watching the scenery pass by. As somebody who grew up in the Midwest, where it's winter three quarters of the year, I can appreciate the view. Eastshore is, predictably, right on the east shore, a little south of Jacksonville. It's a pretty small town with a lot of history. At least it was before the college blew up. The athletics department really put it on the map, and now it's a certified college town in its own right. And that means plenty of bars. The Tigers' Den is the requisite college-themed sports bar on the downtown strip. Surrounded by ancient buildings made out of coquina, the Den definitely stands out. It's got the same sort of rustic finish, but the inside is all neon and typical bar atmosphere. There's at least a terrace to make the place look respectable, but none of the Eastshore guys actually use it. The door's propped open, and as Horan and I pull up I can hear my teammates inside. Right now, the college is still between semesters, so it's just us here, working our asses off. I lead Horan in, greet the guys I'm used to seeing here, and find us a booth. Everybody seems pretty happy with their own tables, and to my surprise, nobody invites themselves to sit at ours. It's a good thing, considering the fact that I need Horan to be real with me. "Nice place. I think part of my shoe is permanently stuck to the floor." I laugh, lifting my own shoe off of the tacky floor. "Yeah, college bar. What are you gonna do?" "Hey, I get it. My dorm floor is usually the same way." "What building are you in?" "Masterson." "Ah, shit. I was there last year. Know exactly what you mean. That and all the fucking stains on the walls." Griffin laughs. "Thanks, man. I almost forgot about those." "No problem." A server comes to our table, and I put in an order for a cheeseburger and a pitcher of whatever's on tap, then let Horan get his own order in. The server heads back to the kitchen, and I briefly flick my gaze to the TV, then back to him. "This is on me, by the way." "You don't have to do that. Really. You offering to work with me is... More than enough." I don't know why, but the sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. "Bringing you up helps the whole team." "Yeah, but you could just as easily let me ride the bench. That would've only affected me, not the team." I shrugged. "Maybe. But I think benching you would be a waste." The pitcher comes and I pour us both a glass. The familiar tickle of the foam is almost like a rush all by itself as I raise the glass to my lips. I take a drink, and it clings to my skin. Before I can wipe it away, I see Griffin staring at me, his gaze fixated on my lips. Another strange feeling flutters low in my gut, and I shift a little in my seat. I can't even manage ribbing him right now. Instead, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and Horan quickly turns his attention to the TV. We both watch for a while, complaining about the same shitty call on a baseball game. I'm not a huge fan, but it's a distraction. And it's not like there's much else to watch when it isn't football season. Once I pour us both a refill I figure it's about time to get down to business. "So. What is it you're afraid of?" "Needles. Plague. Mice kind of freak me out, to be honest with you." I roll my eyes, but a smirk tugs at my lips. "Very funny, smart ass. Is it the pain?" "No, I'm not worried about the pain." From the expression on his face and the brief shadow that passes across his eyes, I'm willing to bet he's experienced a lot more pain than the kind a skilled defender can dole out. " It's... Kind of a long story." "I got time." With all the other football players here ordering the exact same thing, we're still waiting on our meal anyway. But I don't pressure him. Instead, I lean my elbow against the table and take another drink of my beer. It takes a hell of a lot to get me drunk, but I'm starting to feel a tiny buzz. "I was injured back in high school." Both his hands are around his glass, and he looks down at the table when he says it. "No shit? Torn ligament? Hairline fracture?" Injury is a big part of football, but I'm not going to be the asshole who says that right now. Nobody likes to be laid out on the field. I've been there, and it definitely fucks with your head. For me, every sack rockets my anxiety up to 11. Every time my back hits the grass I wonder if it's going to be the last time I take the field. And I haven't even gotten hit with a concussion yet. "Paralysis, actually." That gets my attention. My gaze snaps up to him, and there's no hint of a joke in his eyes. Not that anybody would joke about that. "Temporary. I guess that's obvious, though. Got hit just the right way that it shifted one of the discs in my back. Put pressure on the spinal cord, made my legs useless for a while." I can feel my jaw move as I try to form words, but it takes a few attempts to get them out. "Shit. Did you just eventually get feeling back in your legs?" "Yeah, after about four months. Took longer to relearn how to use them." "When did this happen?" "Junior year of high school." "So what, four of five years ago? And you're already playing ball again? Jesus, man." I can't even imagine. Even just having to go through physical therapy after fucking up my shoulder was a big deal for me. You never realize how much your body works to move things until you mess something up. All of the practices I've been through, all of the drills I've run, and those six weeks were still the most intense of my life. But learning to walk again? Getting to the point where you can actually play a sport like football? My respect for Griffin just multiplied tenfold. "Yeah. The physical stuff is pretty much behind me, and I thought the mental was, too. Guess not." Any normal person would probably tell him to cut himself some slack. But I don't think that's what he wants to hear, and that's not who I am. "We'll figure it out," I say as the server brings our burgers. We talk about sports between mouthfuls, and I scratch out a plan on a cocktail napkin. Niall Horan put in the time, and he deserves to get past this. There's no way I could ever do anything close to what he did, and I want to have a part in it. I want to help him get his comeback. He deserves it.