Pretty Reckless

“It’s not about me.” I bare my teeth, feeling white-hot anger climbing up my throat. Although, I know part of it is. And so what if I want us to succeed? Every single motherfucker on this team will benefit if we win the league. There’re enough scholarships to go around, especially when you’re from my zip code. Just because Josh is too much of a pussy to stand up to his family and say no doesn’t mean we need to look like shit.

“Leave it.” Kannon stands, putting his hand on my shoulder. “We’ll do better next time.”

I shake him off, stepping toward Josh so we’re nose to nose.

“Are we gonna have a problem this season, J?”

He bumps his chest with mine, tilting his head sideways with a manic look glazing over his eyes. “Sure hope so, man. Can’t pass up a chance to fuck you up.”

If I head-butt him, I risk suspension. With my rich track record consisting of fighting people for food, cigarettes (done with that shit, BTW), and even football gear, I can’t afford any slipups. I gave Coach my word I’d be on my best behavior this season, and he, in return, will give me a heads-up before the scouts arrive at our games or whenever a college asks to see my tapes. I assume head-butting a teammate would fall squarely in the realm of acting up.

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll make sure you’ll have to drink from a straw for the next few months.” I shove my index finger into his face.

And that’s when his fist swings at my face.

I duck my head and dodge it, then punch his lights out, acting purely on instinct. He drops like a brick. Malcolm and Nelson drag him toward the bench to try to set him up and assess the damage. Camilo punches a locker and curses. Then he turns around and pushes me against the wall, getting in my face.

“You lecturing me about being a hothead? Really, Scully?”

The door flies open, and Coach Higgins blazes through it in perfect shit timing. Also on instinct, Kannon throws himself over a passed-out Josh, covering the asshole, who is probably still seeing stars, but more importantly—covering for me.

“Scully!” Higgins yells into the bowels of the locker room. His tan, round face is red, and his brown hair is everywhere. I hurry toward him, eager to push him out the door.

“’Sup, Coach?”

“Don’t use that slang with me like I’m one of your homeboys,” he spits out, and I bite down a smile. “Get your ass to my office.”

I follow his chubby short frame, wondering if Coach was a decent player before he started teaching. Then I wonder if he’s feeling bitter about having to train a bunch of people who were born with the right height and build and talent. I’m guessing we’re going to have a hard discussion about the game on Friday. He’s going to bitch about it for a few minutes, and then we’ll move on. In the four years I’ve known Coach, he’s seen me at my worst—underfed and underdressed, zombie-ing around on zero sleep when I needed to work part time to make sure I had food in my stomach. He’ll cut me some slack, as he always does, because he knows my life is in the toilet.

Tucked between the lab and the restrooms, his office is decorated in yellows and browns. He sits back behind his desk, and says, “We have a problem.”

I fall into the chair in front of him, releasing a yawn.

“Chill, Coach. It’s just one game. Besides, I—”

“Ain’t nobody talking about the game.” He slaps the table with his meaty palm, roaring, “I just got off the phone with Gabe Prichard, All Saints High’s principal. He told me about your little incident in his locker room Thursday.”

Dafuq? My mind reels with four thousand different questions. Why now? What happened? Has she dumped him? Did her parents find out? How does that fare for my sorry ass? I can’t get suspended. I. Can’t. Get. Suspended. Fuck all the Prichards and Joshes of the world.

“Spill it, boy.” Coach laces his fingers together, cradling an invisible baby he’s about to toss across the room. I’ve never seen him so red in my life. Then again, the principal of the most affluent school in California has never threatened him before.

“What, no beer and porn? I need to be in the right mood to talk about my sexcapades.” I stretch my long legs. “I hooked up with a chick from there. I didn’t touch shit. Other than the chick.”

“Daria Followhill,” he clips, digging his fingers into his eye sockets in frustration.

“That her name?” I play dumb.

“You know her name, Scully.”

Who the fuck doesn’t?

“Is she too princess for me, Coach? Think I should aim a little lower?”

“I think wherever you aim, don’t do it in her direction unless you want your football career dying a sudden, painful death. I struck a deal with Prichard, who seemed adamant about you not going anywhere near his school again unless in a professional capacity. I gave him my word that you will keep away from Miss Followhill, and he, in turn, will overlook the fact you were trespassing.”

I live with her. I want to laugh in his face. But since volunteering this information is a no-go, I smirk. If he’s expecting a thank you, or worse—any type of cooperation—he obviously hasn’t been paying attention.

It’s not that I don’t want to go pro—I do. Hell, it’s my best chance to get out of this shithole. It’s that I don’t listen to people like Prichard, who only care about themselves and their dicks. If I’ve learned one thing about this life, it’s that you can’t let the bad guys win.