—Hey, I said, turning to him.
He looked up from his bag, doing his best to keep his face neutral.
—Hey, he said.
—I don’t have to sleep in here.
—It’s your room, too.
—That’s—do you want me to sleep in here?
—I mean. You’re not gonna crawl into bed with me, are you?
He was trying to give the situation some levity, but this only made me angrier.
—Fuck you, Reshawn. It’s like—it’s like I’m this fucking lockbox for all your secrets.
—Miles—
—Bribes? Running away from camp? I don’t tell anyone anything, and now my life’s getting ripped apart and you—you make a fucking joke?
—Sorry. Jesus.
—How was dinner, Reshawn? People in a good mood? You say anything to defend me there?
He shook his head, like I was too irrational to be taken seriously. He zipped his book bag and made to go.
—No? I said, taking a step toward him. No. Because you’re too fucking self-pitying to think about anybody but yourself. You act like you’re soooooo fucking different. You’re no different. You’re not better than any of them. You’re the fucking same.
He threw down his bag.
—You don’t know shit about me! I’m not the one who—He stopped himself. I smiled sarcastically.
—Not the one who what? Fucked some boy? The phrase made him even more uncomfortable.
—Fuck you, he said.
He grabbed his bag, and I threw up my hands and yelled as he walked out:
—Nobody can feel anything like Reshawn McCoy feels! Nobody thinks his thoughts!
He slammed the door. I slumped onto my desk chair, staring at textbooks I had no intention of touching tonight. I was ashamed of myself, knowing I had yelled at Reshawn because he was the only person I could yell at. And now what, Miles? Alienating the one teammate who wouldn’t have been completely disgusted by you?
My phone buzzed with another message from Gwen. I didn’t answer, but I did change his name in my phone to “Whitman.”
Defense had lift at 7:15 the next morning, before classes started, but I couldn’t think of a single player who’d be willing to be my partner, nor a scenario in which players between reps wouldn’t yell out “Gwen!” or make some crack about me spotting them. I knew I would get punished for skipping the lift, but that was fine, I just needed some time, needed to extend my break from the ridicule a little longer. I turned off my alarm and slept through the morning.
I woke a few minutes before two and started for the Hay. Mennee Hall abutted West Campus’s main quad, and when I stepped into the irritatingly lovely day I passed a group of kids who lived down the hall from me. They were busy building a large wooden bench that would stand in front of our dorm—a King tradition. Past them, royals were throwing Frisbees on the quad, or sitting in beach chairs and sunbathing as they studied, while a man with a trim blond beard—a postdoc, maybe—took a nap on the lush August grass with his forearm draped across his eyes. I felt an ache in my stomach that at first I thought was merely nervousness about seeing my teammates; but as I walked the ache kept yawning wider and wider, and when I passed a café I realized I’d forgotten to eat. It was too late to do anything about that. I needed to make sure I wasn’t late to afternoon meetings.
I retrieved my playbook from my locker and walked to the Team Room. Coach Hightower was standing in the hallway outside the room, reading something in his binder.
—Coach, I began.
—Where were you for lift? he said, clapping the binder shut. A photographer from the Blenheim Star was here to take photos of the one defense.
—Fuck. Was that planned?
His expression soured.
—The fuck’s that matter, was it planned? You were supposed to be here, son.
—Coach—
—You got a stadium tomorrow morning. Six o’clock. We walked into the Team Room.
—Gwen! Why’d you miss lift—you run outta lube?
—Shut the fuck up! Hightower said, starting the projector.
After meetings I dressed quickly and went down to the practice fields, the first player to get there. It was an experiment: I wanted to see who among my teammates would stand with me, show solidarity. I watched the trainers set up folding tables, arranging hundreds of green cups they poured water or Gatorade into. Meanwhile equipment managers laid out cones, tackling dummies, purple nets filled with footballs. Players started arriving—punters to warm up their legs, quarterbacks to loosen their arms, linemen to practice footwork—but nobody stood with me. Nobody. The whistle blew for stretch, and Reshawn and I paired up. We hadn’t talked since our fight, and when he stretched me he held my body gingerly.
The first period was Special Teams, and I joined the one huddle for kickoff. Donald Hans left his hand flaccid this time, forcing me to grab and hold it. Hunger scrounged around my insides.
—Break!
We fanned out to our positions. Coach Zeller usually floated around during this period, conferring with other coaches, leaving the special teams coach to manage his units. But maybe because Special Teams was the first period today, Monday, the first practice of Week One, and most definitely because he was nervous about Notre Dame, our head coach was standing right behind the kickoff team, watching us closely.
—Hold on, hold on. Furling!
I rose from my stance.
—Yes sir!
—Where were you for lift this mornin’?
—Coach—
—Where?!
—I missed it, Coach!
—No shit! Missed
