He was learning to stop the outbursts in front of Duffy, but that just forced his anger to flow through more passive aggressive channels. And though everybody on the team was in danger of setting him off, the person who suffered most was Chase. When life had been good that summer, when Reshawn was in Blenheim and Errol had a long runway to develop as a leader and starting quarterback, he had clearly loved having someone like Chase worship him. But now he was exhausted and irritable, and more and more he needled Chase at team meals, withered Chase over his trademark stupid jokes. Chase tried to laugh it all off, as if Errol’s increasingly nasty ragging was a sign of deepening intimacy.
Reshawn’s disappearance put a damper on veterans’ usual hazing spirit, and in the first week of camp nobody had the heart to bang on their plates and make freshmen sing the fight song at Training Table. But we couldn’t stay in mourning forever, and as we got into the second week the old hazing energy returned. By lunch Thursday we were chanting Errol’s name, and the chanting only grew stronger when we saw his baffled reaction. Busy as he’d been cramming plays and audibles, he had forgotten to memorize the words on the laminated card he and the rest of the freshman class had been given.
—What’s your name?!
—Man, y’all know my name.
—Motherfucker, I asked you a question!
Errol paused, surprised by the anger in J1’s voice.
—Errol Machen, he said.
—Well, come the fuck on, Errol Machen. Our food ain’t getting any warmer!
Errol blew out a breath and looked up at the ceiling.
Reign, Monarchs …
He stopped, knowing that wasn’t how the song began. J1 resumed taunting him, but then was shushed by other vets. This wasn’t done, I realized, to give Errol the silence he needed to recall the words of the fight song; it was done so our quarterback felt every second scrape through him like a rusty rake; it was done to shrink back down to size this whining, wheedling leader who had managed to make our wretched situation even worse than it needed to be.
Errol started over.
Reign reign, Monarchs
Rule your realm with—iron fists
Claim, claim … a … Monarch
Errol punched his right fist into his left palm, muttering self-reproaches. The silence in the room continued, and I have to admit there was something nourishing in watching Errol suffer.
—BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
We turned to look at Chase. He alone was booing, banging his table with his palms. Players tried to shush him, but he kept booing, and then surprised everyone further by plucking a baby carrot from his salad and throwing it at Errol’s crotch. There was an astonished pause at what he’d done, and then laughter. Now a hail of carrots flew at Errol, a dinner roll, a slice of Salisbury steak that left a greasy slug’s trail on our starting quarterback’s shorts. The boos built into a vicious, an overwhelming sound, and they only ceased when Errol climbed down from his chair.
Lunch resumed, the mood in the room noticeably lighter and more playful. As usual, Errol and Chase had been sitting next to each other at a table. Chase picked at his food and glanced repeatedly at Errol, hoping for a sign that his friend understood the boos had been done out of merciful love. But Errol ignored him, the blush on his cheeks slowly subsiding as he sullenly shoveled food into his mouth.
. . .
Miles: What are you doing?
Gwen: Late lunch. You?
Miles: Lying in the dark.
Gwen: Mysterious.
Miles: I have a hard-on.
Gwen: Around all those boys?
“Gwen” was an inside joke between us, referring to the first time I’d mangled the pronunciation of Thao’s last name. All camp long we had traded texts like this during the afternoon break, using them as preludes to our nightly phone sex sessions. After I returned from my last meeting of the day I would lock, bolt, practically board up my door, draw the drapes, and crawl into bed, where I arranged the pillows so I could lay my phone next to my ear in a way that allowed me to keep my hands free. Sometimes Thao and I came together almost immediately; other times we drew out the ritual as long as we could stand, talking dirty until one of us suddenly swerved out of sex talk altogether to discuss a mundane part of our day. Something as neutral as what we had for breakfast would get imbued with unbearable sexual intensity, our anticipation all the while ratcheting as we waited to see which one of us would make the swerve back into the explicitly erotic. Once the change was finally made, we’d be so achingly ready that we’d come before getting through the first filthy sentence.
But this afternoon flirty text messages didn’t feel like enough. Watching Chase’s desperate dynamic with Errol at lunch had made me horny again, and I didn’t want to just lie here and squirm on the locker room carpet for ninety minutes. Steeling myself, I typed the invitation I had been contemplating since the beginning of camp.
Miles: Do you want to share it with me?
Gwen: What? Your hard-on?
Miles: Yes.
Gwen: And where would we do that?
Miles: A big comfy bed at the Marriott.
He said yes. I tiptoed out of the locker room and snuck into the smothering day, walking to a rotary on the far end of West Campus nobody on the team would have occasion to use at that hour. Thao picked me up in his Honda Civic and we held hands across the center console on the drive to the hotel, talking about everything except what we were about to do. We parked in an obscure corner of the Marriott lot, and Thao waited in the car while I went inside. I wanted to make sure the coast was clear, and also to buy my first-ever package
