Out of the Pocket Read online

  I closed my eyes tight and just breathed for a while. When I opened them, he was still sitting there, looking at me and smiling.

  “You are?” I asked.

  “Dude,” he said. “I don’t give a crap who you, you know. That’s your business. I don’t tell you what I do in bed, do I?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Um, yeah, like all the time,” I said.

  He laughed, way too loud. “That’s true,” he said. “But I mean, it doesn’t matter if you’re banging a girl or, you know, a, you know, a guy or whatever. I don’t give a—”

  “I’ve never done it,” I said quickly.

  He nodded his head like he already knew this. “Oh,” he said. “Right.”

  “You’re freaked,” I said.

  He stood and shook out his legs. “Dude,” he said. “I’m fine. It’s not a big deal. Chill. I know there’s gay people and straight people. It’s like, what’s the difference anymore, right?”

  “You’re freaking me out,” I said, watching him stretch manically for his toes.

  He stood tall and walked over to where I was sitting. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Relax,” he said. “We’re cool.”

  I closed my eyes and exhaled. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to tell you that.”

  He walked to the front window and peered out the blinds. “One question,” he said.

  “Shoot.”

  He turned to face me. “You’re not like, interested, in me, right?”

  I laughed. “You’re my best friend,” I said. “No.”

  He pretended to wipe sweat off his forehead. “That’s cool, because I’m sticking with the ladies, you know.”

  “Duh,” I said.

  “And also, I’m pretty damn good-looking.” There was a familiar glimmer in his eye that made me so grateful.

  “I think it’s the bald head that allows me to resist you,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And your odor.”

  He smiled. “Thank God I shaved.”

  5

  We knew the first game of the season wasn’t going to be a major challenge, and going into the second quarter, it appeared we were right. Huntington Beach is just not a football powerhouse, or even close. Last year we beat them 33-10. It looked like this year would be even more of a blowout.

  In the four days between our conversation and the first game, Austin and I hardly spent any time alone together. On the field it was business as usual, but part of me was wondering if he was avoiding me after practice. I didn’t know what to make of it, but once the game began, it was a relief to put everything else away.

  We looked good, much better than in practice. In the first quarter I hit Somers in the corner of the end zone for our first score, and after a quick turnover, Mendez took a pitch out around the left side for a thirty-one-yard touchdown run.

  I felt confident, completing eight of my first ten passes, and at least early on Coach seemed to have abandoned the tier formation. Leading 21-0 early in the second quarter, we huddled up at the Sharks’ forty-five-yard line. I looked over our guys and felt a rush of emotion flood over me.

  Here we are, the Durango Bulldogs, my brothers and me, wreaking havoc on our opponents together. Nothing’s better than that.

  Coach sent Rahim into the game with the play.

  “Forty-eight Tier Gun XZ Flag,” he said into my ear. Coach was putting us into tier formation for the first time.

  “Damn,” I said under my breath.

  Rahim shot me a look and I buckled down and got into leader mode. You couldn’t be showing dissension when you were a team captain.

  The tier formation called for three guys—two running backs and a receiver—in our backfield plus me, the quarterback. Instead of a straight line behind me, we curled a bit to the left, like a dog’s tail.

  It was hard to know why it even existed or why Coach liked it so much, but he did.

  I put on my poker face in the huddle and called the play with the same enthusiasm as any other play. I heard a few groans.

  “Chin up!” I said forcefully, and the groans went away, quick. I looked over at Rahim, who was grinning at me. He winked.

  The play was one I liked, a chance for me to go deep to either Rahim on the right side or Somers on the left. I nodded at Austin. He hadn’t caught a single pass yet, and he was a decoy on this one. The nod meant, Give me a chance, I’ll hit you real soon.

  We stepped to the line and got set. I looked out at the crowd. Lights blinded me. It was a beautiful Friday night, a slight chill in the air. The Huntington Beach fans were pretty quiet with us leading by a big margin so early. There were plenty of people in the stands, but it almost felt like I was looking at a silent movie, looking out at them as if through a screen.

  Things often felt this way when I was in the zone: no distractions, just me and my brothers doing our thing like a well-oiled machine.

  I surveyed the field and saw that they’d made a change. Their linebackers were playing toward the line, looking for a running play. Their strong safety should have been closer to the middle, where Austin was lined up at tight end, but instead was doubling Rahim on the right side. Their other safety seemed to be edging toward the left, away from the middle, as if to key on Somers, who was in the backfield. It left them with little coverage in the middle of the field. It was as if they were discounting Austin’s ability to make a difference.

  How could they have forgotten? Austin was one of our best weapons, and that wasn’t exactly a secret.

  I called an audible. “L thirty-nine, L thirty-nine!” I yelled, keeping us in the tier but telling them that I would be looking for Austin over the middle.

  “Thirty-three, fourteen, hut, hut . . . HUT!” Bolleran snapped the ball and I dropped back about five yards, my eyes darting left to right as I watched the play develop. I could see my left tackle was struggling to contain the rush, and my heart sped slightly.

  That’s when I noticed that their free safety, who I thought was going to cover Somers out of the backfield, was actually back covering Austin. He was right in the path of Austin’s route. I tried to fake him out by looking left. I watched Austin’s progress out of the corner of my eye, just as I sensed, out of the corner of my left eye, a defender breaking free and heading right at me.

  I was forced to throw a second before I wanted to in order to avoid the sack, and I hung the pass a little high. Then I noticed the free safety hadn’t bit on my fake. He was right there, and Austin was going to have to battle for the ball. He stretched up high and made a great catch, leaving his midsection vulnerable. The Oilers’ free safety rammed him in the lower back. Austin held on to the ball, but crumbled to the ground.

  Coach ran onto the field to attend to Austin, along with our trainer. I hurried over, feeling horrible for having caused the problem by throwing high. Austin was holding his right side and writhing on the ground. “It’s his rib cage,” the trainer said, instructing Austin to breathe. “We’ll need to take him in, see if he broke something.”

  “Austin, I’m so sorry,” I said, guilt flooding through me. “All my fault.”

  “Dude, you hung me out there,” he said, moaning. “Nice audible. Next time you have the idea to change a play at the last second, leave me out of it.”

  “Man. I owe you big-time,” I said. “Sorry.”

  He grimaced as he sat up with the trainer’s help and got to his feet. He walked off with the trainer and Coach on either side of him.

  Damn tier. My body felt cold, and I blamed the formation. If we’d just stayed with what we were good at, this wouldn’t have happened.

  Coach glared back at me. “You lose track of the free safety? Keep your mind on the game, Framingham,” he said. He turned away from me and continued to walk Austin off the field. The crowd cheered supportively for Austin.

  My head felt foggy, and in the huddle, that was obvious. I hesitated and didn’t know what play to call. A teammate ran in with the new play, but I still felt a bit lost until Rahim shook me out of it.

  “Part of the game, Framingham. If you’re gonna be big-time, you need to deal and move on.”

  He was right. I shook it off and set up the play, and by the time I started the snap count, I was back. The next play was a simple fly pattern to Rahim, who streaked down the right side. Their corner-backgot no help from his safety and Rahim was too fast. An easy touchdown gave us a 28-0 lead.

  We won big, 44-7. After halftime, we mostly ran, since the Oilers showed no ability to stop our ground attack. In the raucous locker room, we got the news that Austin had gone to the hospital and that X-rays had been negative.

  I breathed a sigh of relief, but was brought back to earth by Somers, who rat-tailed me as I bent over to dry my legs. “He’s still gonna kick your ass, Bobby.”

  I rubbed my stung butt and shrugged, knowing that wouldn’t happen. But I couldn’t help but wonder how things actually would go. I’d never caused a friend to be injured before. Instead of feeling great after a win, I dressed quickly and trudged out of the locker room, thinking about what Austin was going to say to me.

  Outside I found a bunch of reporters, many of whom were familiar from last year, waiting for me. I felt a little sorry for the old ones, coming year after year as if high school sports were their life. I mean, it was my life, but I was only seventeen.

  “Bobby! How do you feel?”

  A circle of reporters closed in around me. I was still smarting about Austin, but I put on a happy face. “Great. Not bad for an opening game.”

  “Do the Bulldogs have a chance to compete for the Division Nine title?” asked a short guy, one of the older ones.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. You watched us play. I hope so,” I said, and they all shook their heads as if this was a brilliant thing to say.

  “Hoping to be recruited this year?” This came from a guy I knew wrote for the Durango Sun.

  “Yeah, I hope so,” I replied.

  “Any calls yet?”

  “Colorado State and Arizona. None from California yet, unless they came in to you and you’re here to tell me about them.”

  It was an awkward thing to say. Carrie would have rolled her eyes, but they all laughed, way bigger than necessary, as if this was a great line for their stories.

  As I answered their questions, I was thinking about the recruiting thing. I knew that the top players in the state were already visiting programs and talking to many schools at once. I was disappointed that more of this hadn’t happened for me. I wanted to be sought after. I wanted calls at all hours of the day, and for my father to be proud of me.

  My parents hadn’t made it to the game. I knew they’d wanted to, had planned to go, but at the last minute they called and said they couldn’t make it. It was weird—they never used to miss my games. And no matter how hard your work was, how could you be too tired to sit in the stands and watch?

  The reporters droned on, asking about our game plan, and Austin’s injury. I did the best I could. While answering a really stupid question about throwing on the run, I looked up and saw, behind the tight circle of press, a guy a little older than me, maybe in college, about my height, with a goatee and jet-black hair.

  We caught each other’s eye. He smiled and looked away.

  6

  “Word on the street has it that Austin’s put a hit on me,” I told Rahim as we headed to Spanish class the following Monday. I hadn’t seen Austin yet, though we’d spoken on the phone Saturday. “Bruised ribs,” Austin had told me.

  “Mmm. Braised ribs,” I’d said.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he’d answered. He was basically okay.

  “He’s gonna miss two, maybe three games. He’ll get over it,” Rahim replied.

  Rahim was probably my second closest friend. Rahim and I could talk better than Austin and me, but I’ve known Austin way longer.

  Rahim’s family moved here sophomore year from Oregon, and I liked him right away.

  “It just sucks because it’s my fault,” I said. “What if this costs him a good scholarship somewhere?” We walked past Rahim’s locker and he stopped to drop off some books. Rahim was a pretty amazing player and had already made a verbal commitment to Berkeley.

  “You need to learn about what you can change, and what you can’t change,” he said, fiddling with his combination.

  “What does that mean? Rahim-to-English dictionary?”

  “It’s not that complicated. You know my mom’s in AA, right? She says the Serenity Prayer every night before dinner,” Rahim said. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “ ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’ It’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Rahim slammed his locker shut and we continued down the hall to Spanish.

  “What does that have to do with me? And what does that have to do with Austin and me, and what are you talking about?”

  He laughed. “Sorry, B. I’ll stop my preaching.”

  I smiled. “I mean, I get it.”

  We entered the stairwell side by side and took two steps at a time. “Good. It is what it is, right? He’s hurt. He’ll get better and the recruiters will watch him play again.”

  We hurried down the steps to the main floor.

  “Looks like the Gay-Straight Alliance is having a dance,” he said, pointing to a pink flyer on the wall in front of us.

  I laughed. It was just a reflex reaction. Not that Rahim had ever made antigay jokes, but I wasn’t used to my friends using the word gay without some sort of negative twist. Not Rahim, but a lot of the guys were always saying things were “so gay.” And that wasn’t a good thing.

  When Rahim didn’t laugh, too, I stopped. “Cool,” I said, struggling to swallow.

  I found Austin in the cafeteria at lunchtime and headed over to the counter, where he was buying a plate of pasta to go along with his brought-from-home protein shake. He saw me and smirked. “Oh, you’re gonna pay,” he said.

  “Yeah, for your lunch,” I said. He shrugged, putting away his wallet. I paid the woman, and when she gave me change, Austin grabbed it out of my hand.

  “Wow. Free pasta and forty-five cents, this is my day!” he said as he carried his tray to a free table. I didn’t have food yet, but figured hanging out with my best friend was more important at this moment.

  We sat down and I waited until he settled himself and began to eat, really fast, as usual. There was a lot to talk about, and I didn’t know where to start.

  “Austin, I’m really, really sorry, dude. How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “How are you feeling, how are you feeling?” He mimicked me, slobbering pasta. “Screw you. I’m fine, you moron. Get over it. It’s football. You still owe me big-time.”

  “Well I’m glad you’re okay,” I said, boiling a bit about how he made me sound.

  “Yeah you are, or else I’d be kicking your ass right now, kid,” he said, and I smiled, knowing that it was all words.

  “Of course,” I said. “I’m scared to death of your amazing strength.”

  He laughed, continuing to eat. “Dude. Injure me and then talk trash. Real nice.”

  I laughed, grateful to hear him sound like my buddy again. As awesome as he was about things, since coming out to him a week earlier, I felt like the connection had gone down or something, like a bad cell connection, cutting in and out and suddenly it was hard for us to relate.