“Shut up, Hammer. You’re supposed to be telling him to keep his pants zipped,” Matty snarls. “Not giving him tips on playing hide the salami.” At Hammer’s blank look, Matty throws up his hands. “Don’t you want to win? Masters here is the monster on field because he doesn’t play off the field. Haven’t you made that connection yet?”

“Ohhhh.” Hammer gets it.

I figure now is the time to step in. “Guys. We lost last year. That shellacking we took at the hands of the Ducks? That had nothing to do with what I did off the field and everything to do with the fact that we didn’t make the plays and they did. We didn’t get enough pressure on the quarterback. We allowed them to light up the backfield. They had us chasing players all over the field that didn’t even have the fucking ball. We lost because we played shitty ball. This year, we don’t play shitty ball. Not next week, not right before the bye, not in November.”

Matty’s wavering and Hammer looks troubled. Looks like I’ll have to talk in the terms Matty used. “Look, we haven’t won the championship in the last two years and I’ve kept to myself. Now’s the time to take chances.”

Hammer turns back to Matty. “Should we get Ace over here?”

“No way.” Matty shakes his head emphatically. “This is a defensive unit issue.”

I drop my head into my hands. It’s hard to believe my pursuit of Ellie has turned into this.

“Have you cleared this with Kintyre?” Hammer is the only one that calls my brother by his full name. Everyone else, including my mom, who named him Kintyre for reasons we can never confess to anyone, calls him Ty.

“Ty knows,” I say shortly.

“If he said yes, I bet he’s spiking our guns,” Matty declares. He crosses his arms and glares at me.

“No way,” Hammer disagrees. “Kintyre’s not like that. Plus he has no chance. Not with the kindergarteners on his offensive line.”

Matty considers this and concludes Hammer’s correct. “Truth.” They exchange fist bumps.

“Let’s call him.” Hammer’s suggestion receives a chorus of approval.

Jesus, these guys act as if I take an unanticipated shit I should check in. I rub an agitated hand through my hair. I guess I need to let them work it out of their systems, because it seems if I don’t, they won’t focus on anything else. If they think it affects our team unity, it will affect their on-field play.

I kind of wish we could go back to arguing where fruits land on the fructose scale.

“Kintyre, my man, what’s happening?” Hammer places his phone on speaker and sets it on the coffee table in between the Doritos dust and the empty bottles of Gatorade.

My brother’s voice slides out of the speaker. “Not much, Hammer. You living up to your name?”

“You know it. Well, not right this second,” he replies. “You talk to your brother lately?”

“Not today,” Ty responds cautiously.

“Your bro is threatening to mess with our team mojo.”

“Ahhh,” Ty drawls. The light has dawned. He coughs, likely to cover up to howling laughter he wants to release, but won’t. “Hammer, you trust Knox? You ever see him give less than a hundred percent on the field?”

“No.”

“You know you’re like the brother from another mother to me, but you got to trust your teammate. Think of it this way. He’s reaching max potential. Like maybe his virginity placed an artificial cap on his play, and now, with this girl, he’s going to the next level.”

Matty and Hammer nod slowly, evaluating this new piece of information.

“That it?” Ty asks.

“Yeah, man. Thanks. Good luck to you this weekend.”

“You, too.”

A text buzzes on my phone. It’s Ty.

You’re welcome.

Thanks for nothing, dill hole, I type back.

I’m laughing so hard I can’t text anymore. Good luck.

Jesus. I’m surrounded by assholes everywhere. Is it any wonder I’d want to spend time with Ellie?

Hammer slaps his hands together. “Okay, we’re in agreement. Masters should bang this chick.”

They look at me expectantly as if I’m supposed to produce her right that minute and take her in front of them.

“If I was a chick, I’d date you, Masters. I’ve seen your dick. It’s good,” Hammer assures me.

“Fuck that. It’s not the size of the wand. It’s the wizard using it,” Daryl Nunn, our nose tackle, pipes up. He, like Potter, wears a pair of black glasses when not on the field.

“Not according to Voldemort.”

Hammer’s retort generates a sharp bark of laughter from me, but poor Jesse looks confused. Hammer sighs. “Voldemort wanted this certain wand, but only Harry could use it.”

“Men. Can we get on subject here?” Matty waves his hand toward my bent head. “Masters asked me for texting advice. The girl is turning him down.”

The amount of disbelief in Matty’s voice is heavier than the sledgehammer in the weight room. Memo to self: do not bring up women around the team again. Have I hassled these guys when they had chick problems?

I squeeze the back of my neck. Maybe.

Oh shit, probably.

“Maybe she’s got a boyfriend already,” Jesse offers.

“We can take him out,” Matty replies immediately.

“Like how? Kill him?” I say sarcastically.

“Nah. But maybe maim.” Matty shrugs. I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

“We aren’t maiming anyone.” I rub my temple.

“What if she’s a lesbian?” Hammer asks.

“She’s not. If it’s the girl Masters danced with at Hammer’s party, she’s at least bi. I had to leave because I got worried my girlfriend would get pregnant off the hormone high the two of them generated,” Jesse says.

“Hey, wasn’t that Campbell’s sister?” someone asks.

I pretend I can’t hear.

Matty whistles and I hear a quiet “damn, son” from Daryl.

“Okay, she’s single and not a lesbian.” Hammer’s criminal justice degree kicks in. “Is it her brother? Man, we need him. He’s got good blocking technique and good hands. Runs a tight route. Do we have to take him out?” Hammer’s worried.

“No, it’s not her brother.” The last thing I need is these guys turning on Campbell. That’d be good for team unity. Not.

“Masters wants to know when he should text her,” Matty informs everyone.

“I think he should text her now.” Daryl straightens his massive shoulders as if the answer is so obvious the question should never been put up for debate.

“No. Three days or she’ll think you’re panting after her. Got to play hard to get.” Hammer picks his phone up from the table and shakes it at me.

“I am panting after her,” I interject. I want them to know that not only do I want her, I don’t care who knows it.

“You can’t tell her that,” Hammer objects.

“Why?” I ask impatiently. I’m ready for this conversation to end. I was ready about ten minutes ago.

“Because you lose all the hand in the relationship. She’ll have you by the balls,” he says earnestly.

“That’s what he wants,” Jesse interjects, but then turns to me. “How do you know this is the chick to do the deed with? You’ve waited all this time, and you’ve known this girl for what, a day?”

The guys fall silent again and it’s clear this question is important to them. When you’re a recruit, the coach takes you around the school, showing you the facilities, promising you that not only you’ll play, but you’ll compete on one of the best teams in the best conference. He promises your parents that he and his staff will be your family away from home. Then when the sun goes down, the players take you out. They tell you about the easy classes and the easier women.

When you sign, the song changes. They’ve got you now, and they want to whip you into shape. That includes speeches about wrapping it up, avoiding the girls who believe you’re their ticket out of the life they don’t currently enjoy or to the life they want. There’s this strange dichotomy as an athlete—here’s as many women as you want, but be careful because 99% of them have a trap in their vagina.