Chance Blaylock, half-dressed in our blue and gold uniform, shoved his bulky bare chest against my arm. “What’s wrong, Whitmore? You look ready to cry in your Wheaties.”
“Fuck off, Blaylock.” I shoved him roughly under the pretense of pre-game testosterone overload. “The only crying happening today is going to be on the Soquel bench.”
“I heard that. But goddamn, we’re lucky I’m here. That asshole, Parish, nearly fucked us big time.”
I bent to tie my laces, concealing a sour grimace.
Even without Chance, I was going to throw for at least two touch downs and two hundred yards. The Soquel Saints had no defense. This was a gimme game against a low-ranked team meant to make us look good. Make me look good in front of the scouts. The whole thing felt wrong. Dishonorable. But nothing else in the world was going to make my dad happy.
“You should see the sweet table Parish’s uncle sent us to replace the other one,” Chance was saying. “My parents should be thanking me that I had that dickhead at the party. Hell, Holden probably picked the table out of the catalogue himself, if you know what I mean.”
I slammed my locker shut, a cold feeling spreading through my gut. “No. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yeah, you do. He looks like the kind of guy who spends a lot of time flipping through fashion magazines. And what kind of name is Holden?”
“It’s from Catcher in the Rye,” I said instead of something I’d regret. Or beating his ass.
“Huh?”
“It’s a book about an outcast. A guy who feels like the entire world is drowning him in bullshit.”
Chance frowned stupidly. “So?”
“So…that’s who he might be named after.” I turned back to my locker. “Never mind. The book has no pictures in it. You wouldn’t get it.”
He laughed and gave me a good-natured shove that made me want to rip his arm off.
“Oooh, Whitmore, laying the smack down! I keep forgetting you’re practically half nerd yourself. But hey, whatever fires you up, because today is the day we become legends.”
Chance joined the locker room rowdiness, and I sucked in a deep breath to calm the hell down. His jokes about Holden were tame compared to what I’d heard in the past and would only get worse in college. It was as if there were an invisible barrier around the locker room and the guys couldn’t imagine anyone unlike themselves crossing it.
Coach took a knee, and we all huddled around him, me at the periphery, half-listening to his pregame pep talk. After, he pulled Donte and me aside.
“Reps from Auburn, A&M, and Alabama are here to scout the team. But let’s be real, gentlemen. They’re here for the two of you. Show them what you got, and I think you’re going to have your pick of schools next year.”
Donte’s face grew uncharacteristically serious as his dark brown eyes met mine. “Hell yes, Coach. Whitmore’s got my back and I have his. Right?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice flat and hard. “I won’t let you down.”
I couldn’t. I was propping up too much to let it all fall now. Dad’s hopeful face swam across my thoughts.
I won’t let you down, either.
And I didn’t.
The Soquel Saints put up a fight but by the second half, we were running away with it. I threw for more than three hundred yards and four touchdowns, practically on autopilot. It was as if my arm couldn’t fail and Donte was always where I needed him to be.
At least no one can accuse me of throwing the game.
Neither Donte, the Homecoming Prince, or I were allowed to change before being hustled out onto the field for the parade. We sat above the backseats of fancy convertibles as the cars slowly made their way around the track, the flag team and marching band in front of us.
Donte sat with Evelyn Gonzalez, while I took my spot as King on a cherry red Mustang GT with Violet McNamara. She looked pretty in black velvet, small and delicate next to my bulk in the stinking uniform.
“If you want to move to the front seat, I’ll understand,” I told Violet through a fake smile as we waved for the crowd.
She laughed, waving shyly. “So long as you shower before the dance, I’m good.”
The dance. And dinner with the team before that.