He holds out his hand again. Morris stares at it, then glances at his dad with a hard stare. “I think there’s been a miscommunication. I haven’t declared for the draft this year.”
“You… haven’t?” The scout looks from Morris to the Sergeant.
“No. The Leopards are my team right now,” Morris grits. He tears his gaze away from the Sergeant’s equally severe one. “But thank you for your time.”
He leaves. Hart and I follow, muttering our thanks. In the locker room, Morris is gone. Hasn’t even showered. With a wave to me, Hart grabs his bag and says he’s meeting Stone for a date. I clean and change, and when I leave again, I see Morris’s dad and the scout in the hallway, arguing in low tones.
When they see me waiting, the Sergeant straightens. “Armstrong. Good hustle out there. What can I do for you?”
The scout excuses himself, walking down the hall with that phone to his ear. I pause, keeping an eye on him, before unzipping my bag. Pulling out an object, I ask, “Could you…”
I leave the question hanging, and the Sergeant’s grim expression changes in an instant. He grins wide, and takes the football I offer him. “Not a problem. I’m always happy to please a fan.”
I pass him a marker and tell him who to make it out to. He signs it, and as I put it away, he says, “Tell Theodore I’ll meet him for dinner tomorrow.”
I nod, debating the possibility of doing no such thing, before realizing it’s not my fucking business and if Morris doesn’t want to have dinner, he can decide that for himself.
He leaves, and I follow the direction the scout had gone. He didn’t make it far, and when I catch up to him, he’s off his phone again.
I reintroduce myself, holding out my hand.
He stares at it. “What can I do for you?”
You’ve got this, I repeat the thought. “Actually, I was wondering if you had anything more to say about the practice. Maybe some pointers or…”
I drift off as he looks me up and down. With a disinterested tilt of his head that’s all too familiar. It’s the same cold indifference Kennedy used to show me. But whereas hers had been from stilted social skills and denial of her desire for me, the scout’s is pure, unadulterated… dismissal.
“Mr. Armstrong,” he says. “I’ve heard of you. Your stats are impressive…”
There’s a but coming. I can hear it in his tone.
“Look, kid,”—I bristle. Even though I might be younger, I have at least a foot on him, not to mention the respect to take my eyes off my goddamn phone when I’m talking to someone—“You want a pointer? All the touchdowns in the world aren’t enough to overlook a short fuse.”
I freeze, that fuse close to igniting.
“Shape up your attitude. Work on your anger, all the fighting. The partying,” he says, tapping at his screen as he turns to walk away. “Otherwise, there’s no future for you in professional football.”
34
Kennedy
Somebody vandalized Prescott Hall. A lot of money and hard work went into the building’s construction. Someone chose to disrespect all of that by defacing the property.
I should not laugh.
I will not laugh.
I click the first image file uploaded on my computer from my camera. And I snort.
Because whoever did it spray-painted a giant, anatomically correct phallus. With a level of detail—hairy sack, bulging veins, thick shaft, even foreskin—that is, in a sense, vaguely impressive.
I’d feel weird examining photos of a great, big dick in a room with other students. Fortunately, everyone else on the newspaper staff is looking at the same thing. Because the vandalism is the biggest piece of news to drop in our laps since… well, since Levi Hart made a sex tape with his best friend’s ex-girlfriend last year.
We have no leads on who could have done it. The cameras outside Prescott Hall are non-operational at the moment. Word on everyone’s lips is that it’s a frat. A silly prank to mess with Alpha Beta Beta the week before their annual spring fundraising event in the same location.
I check my messages. Nothing from Summer. She’d been busy before my sister’s wedding last weekend, but now, dealing with fundraiser planning, on top of the fallout from the vandalism—though, surprise, surprise, Nolan Prescott offered to cover the cleaning costs—her schedule’s booked. I’d sent her a rough draft of my article, with a note that I’ll add an update on the fundraiser after the event takes place. She’d sent back a thumbs up emoji, followed by an eggplant and an exploding head.
A new message pops up. Brigid has been sending me photos from the wedding all morning. I ignore them for now, choosing to enjoy them at my leisure once I get home. A little part of me wonders if Spencer might want to see them, too. We’d spent the other morning after biology lecture snickering over my Prescott Hall photos. He’d pointed out an odd squiggle at the base of the scrotum, which we dismissed as one of the pubic hairs. All in all, though, we declared it a fine specimen of virility. Then he’d offered to show me his fine specimen of virility, and I’d been helpless to refuse.
I haven’t told him yet. That now, not only does Summer know about us, but so do my roommates. After spilling the beans to them, they stared at me without speaking for minutes on end. Natalie, especially, had opened and closed her mouth like a fish before asking, “So spring break, when I came back early…”
I’d nodded. She fanned herself, muttering, “Damn. Go, Spencer. And, well, you.”
Rylie seemed more skeptical. “Have you told him, Kennedy? How you feel?”
I shook my head, and Rylie had tapped her coffee mug. “I think you should. Be upfront with what you want. See if he
