ERIC

“Holy fuck this itches so bad,” I grumble under my breath in front of my locker as Coach passes me and cocks an eyebrow.

“What is it?”

We’re getting ready to go out on the field, excitement crackling in the air before the game. I don’t want to show him my right hand, fingers red with tiny blisters.

He grabs it and freaks out, “What the hell!?”

“Poison ivy.”

He paces in a circle like the two words themselves are propelling his stunned ass around. “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you insane? You grew up here and you didn’t know to avoid Poison Fucking Ivy??!”

“You should see my dick.”

He glares at me in horror. “Show me.”

Dropping my pants he winces. “At least you don’t have blisters.”

“Itches like a motherfucker. My girlfriend is wrecked, too.”

Blinking back to my face his weather-beaten head cocks to the side. “Since when did you get a girlfriend?”

“Remember that guy I punched?”

“Yeah?”

“He was cheating on her.”

Slapping his palm to his head he spins around again, then comes over and slaps my forehead, too. “This is why I said don’t get serious with anyone until after the Playoffs are over!”

“Because I’d catch poison ivy?”

“Yes, that’s why! Because I was terrified you’d catch…get out of here. No wait, fuck I can’t believe I’m saying this against the damn Patriots, but you give me no choice. I’m playing Rivers today instead of you.”

“No! I’m still playing.”

He heads away and I jump over the bench, run in front of him and walk backwards at his quick pace. “Coach!”

“Forget it, Cocker.”

“Don’t do this, Coach. Let me in there!”

“Your hand’s fucked up. Your dick looks like you set it on fire. I don’t even want to know what you’re not showing me. I bet your asshole is blistered to bits!”

“It’s not! It’s fine! I’m good. Let me out there! I can do this!”

“No,” he mutters, pushing me aside. “Rivers is starting our season today. Be more careful next time!”

Staring after him, I’m a statue in a swarm of exiting players, most of ‘em overhearing what’s going on, and telling the ones who didn’t. They hit me on the shoulder pads as they stride past. “Sorry, Cocker.” “Yeah, tough break.” “Next game.”

Stunned I trudge back, grab my helmet and head onto the field to rot on the bench.

Trouble is Rivers isn’t mentally prepared to cover for me, or to shine. He played some exposition games but this ain’t college football, and some guys crumble under pressure.

Rivers is one of those guys today.

I don’t sit on the bench. Not one minute. I’m standing the whole time, pacing, the stadium in an uproar every time he calls a bad play. It’s almost halftime and the Patriots have scored three touchdowns, missed one field goal, so they’ve got twenty-seven to our nothing. Coach won’t look at me. The team is dismal. When offense runs off the field, Rivers is always glancing to me like he’s sorry, and I just give him a nod. “Come back. You can do it!”

There’s nothing about his face that says he believes.

The team’s morale is in the shitter and it’s all my fault.

At half time we get the speeches. Coach is pissed. Still won’t look at me, and now the other players are following his lead. He’s barking orders, things like, “I want to see some sparks out there! You guys are running like you want to lose! Pretend you’re on fire and go, goddammit!”

“Yes, Coach,” the team says in disheartened grumbles.

“Mott! What the fuck was that hole you left their linebackers that last play, huh? You want to give them an invitation to sack Rivers? Put a doily on it and send it First Class Priority, that your fuckin’ goal out there?”

“No, Coach.”

“Protect him! And you guys! What the fuck do you think the guards are for, to look pretty?! Back Mott up!”

“Yes Coach!” the guys say in unison.

“Take back this game. Make me proud!”

As everyone preps for the game’s second half that female reporter from CNN weasels her way in the locker room, same cameraman right behind. “Eric! Why aren’t you in the game?”

Coach gets in front of me, crossing his arms. “Cocker got a case of poison ivy and we don’t want it getting worse for our away game next weekend.” I hold up my right hand as he continues, the corners of his eyes and lips tight with repressed anger as he tries to be diplomatic. This is a live feed after all. “These things can last sometimes two weeks and we…”

“I’m willing to play but he wouldn’t send me out there.”

Coach slowly turns around and glares at me. He’s about to object but the reporter jumps in, holding the mic from her mouth to his, “So, you’re the reason we’re losing out there?”

His lips part. The man is speechless.

I threw him under the bus.

But I did it for a reason.

Because I like to win.

Facing the camera I clap a proud left hand on Coach’s shoulder, give it a squeeze as I grin to Lady CNN, “He just told me and the team, blistered hand or no, I’m playing the second half. We’re about to take the Patriots to their knees!”

My teammates cheer behind me.

Coach looks like a hero.

God, he hates when I pull shit like this.

The reporter, an Atlanta resident and loyal fan, beams with relief. Fuck being unbiased. She turns to the camera and announces, live, with bright eyes and a huge smile, “You heard it from the Falcon’s locker room, folks, Eric Cocker will be playing with blisters on his hands to take his team to victory.”

Behind her I hold up my palm to show the world. Her cameraman angles for a better shot. Since I’ve got the screen to myself I grin, “This is how much I love my city. Oh, and Wren, I know you’re bartending today with blisters all over your body, but baby it was worth it.” Giving a wink I wiggle my fingers.

The cameraman tries not to laugh, and the reporter blinks at me, realizing that not only am I directing that to a particular female, I’m calling her name out to the entire country. Any woman knows that’s a big deal, and it’s all over this one’s face.

The coach mutters, “Alright get out of here, we’ve gotta talk strategy.”

They scuttle out but I know I haven’t heard the end of that.

Especially from my family.