Page 17 of I Want to Know What Love Is

“Watch what you say,” Hightower says, “It’ll only make it worse for you later if you insult my people.” He waves at his compatriot gorillas in the room who all grunt and nod. Every one of them could legit bench a real gorilla if Hightower asked them to. He’s the leader of the O-line, on and off the field, and not just because he’s a contender for the Lombardi Award for the best lineman. The force field of his personality carries more weight than the O-line can lift combined. He’s a true alpha dog and I’m lucky as shit that he doesn’t fight me as captain. Not much anyway.

Not that I don’t earn my top-dog status, because I do. I’m loaded with alpha juju and a Cajun chip on my shoulder the size of Louisiana. The shit about Cajun mojo is more a psychological game than a real thing. Two years ago you wouldn’t have known I was from Louisiana, let alone a Cajun, because it was all about fitting in. But when I needed to distinguish myself as a tough badass among a team of tough guys, my Cajun heritage rose to the top automatically. Which is damn hilarious because a laissez-faire attitude is hardly the stuff of thunder and lightning crashing-the-gate-takeover-the-team mojo.

But I own my attitude down to my cells and up to the hilt all-in. And I own my responsibilities like no MF on this team and that’s what they get. When I say do, I do and they follow. Jumping on a chair and shouting the crowd into a frenzy at a party is a minor example though it’s easy to point to.

Buying pizza for the weightlifting room is too easy, if appreciated. No, what they see and appreciate is the fact that I’m here with the O-line on a Sunday morning-after and I didn’t need to be. What they appreciate is when I say I’m going to do something, I do it. If I say I’m not going to do something, I don’t do it. Mostly.

“Anyone here have more than two beers last night?” They all know I did not. Most of the room nods, but one or two heads dip. “Hightower, take note of your two men who failed.”

“What’s this? The fucking military?” one of the guys says.

“No. We’re tougher than the military. When we promise not to drink more than two beers at a party because we know it’s not good for the team, we follow through on that promise,” I say, looking around the room. The two mountains of muscle and flesh who are the guilty offensive tackles meet my eyes.

One of them asks, “What are you going to do?”

“Me? Nothing. Hightower? I’m sure he has an extra workout waiting for you since you need to get rid of the extra poison in your system.”

“Follow me.” Hightower leads them from the room to the door that goes outside. I happen to know they’re going to do the one thing that linemen—except for Hightower—hate most. They’re going to run.

“For the rest of us, the challenge is chin-ups. I’ll do as many as I can right now and you all have to match me. When we’re done here, free pizza.”

“That ain’t no challenge,” Shelby says. “My momma can do more chin-ups than you.”

“You’re right. I forgot to mention. You have a handicap because you’re so exceptional and I wouldn’t want you to feel unchallenged.”

“Yeah? What all do you think you can scare me with?” He’s piled on his Southern accent like he just stepped off a peach farm in Georgia.

“You need to do double what I do.” The signature lazy smile lights his face like I’ve been too easy on him. He bows and spreads a hand in the direction of the chin-up bar. I’m the only one in the room who can jump up to the bar without a box, a combination of height and athletic ability. The O-line may be tall, but they’re not known for their jumping ability. Shelby is height challenged, at least compared to me, at only five-eleven. He can jump, but he never does. Says it bothers his technique. Which is nuts since I’ve seen him jump to catch a ball over the top of cornerbacks in the end zone more than once. Three times last season he caught passes I threw at him where he had to outjump his defenders. On one of them he bailed me out on a bad pass. Not bad for a running back.

Sauntering over to the bar, I jump up and commence my chin-ups, palms facing me for maximum work on the muscle groups in the front of my body. After the first twenty I start to feel the strain. The guys crowd in and chant go, go, go and damn if they don’t spur me on to rip off another six before I slow and start to slip, my left bicep burning worse than my right. Regripping, I pull another, lifting my dead-ass weight, sweat dripping from my chin and from my hair into my eyes. The salty sting as I blink is nothing compared to the shriek of protest from my biceps and forearms as I lift my ass—or try to—one more time. Number twenty-eight. Not damn bad for a 230 lb. guy.

The guys are hooting and whistling like they’re at a strip show and I’m performing a pole dance. With my arms shaking so bad everything in me vibrates, I pull my fucking chin up to the bar and then I slip, my feet hitting the ground hard as I bend forward with my arms hanging loose. My arms and shoulders are on fire, but the slaps on the back from my O-line and Shelby erase the sting better than a whole damn bottle of Ibuprofen. I’m no Olympian champ in chin-ups, but I challenged myself as far as I can go and that’s the point.

* * *

In spite of the grumpy protesting, I stand by my offer to buy pizza only for the guys who met my challenge. That eliminated the entire O-line with the exception of the freaky Jasper Hightower. Shelby was up to the task too.

“Guys,” I say as we push through the door of Wildbeast Pizza, filling the area in front of the hostess station of SPU’s favorite gathering place just off campus. They serve beer and sporadic entertainment, sport a dart board and my favorite menu item, fresh hot finger-licking churros. The best food ever invented outside the bayou. Confession? They’re not a bad replacement for beignets.

We take up two tables with ten chairs and a whole lot of attention at the front of the restaurant. Not my favorite spot, but Leon, the bartender, manager, and owner of the place, insists it’s good for business and I’m all about helping out local businesses. Plus he’s a good guy, supports the team, and sends us random baskets of churros on the house every time we come in.

I send a BMOC House group text inviting the rest of the guys to join us. Randy Bane and Trey Eagleton reply. They’re hanging out with Dooley and they’re ready to join us.

A server heads in our direction, someone new. I think I recognize her. She’s tall and blond and sculpted like an athlete.

“Hi I’m Emily and I’ll be your server tonight.” She smiles.

“Emily Winiski,” I say, “captain of the women’s basketball team.”

“That’s me.” Her smile brightens to supernova. “What’ll you have, Dylan Jones, captain of the football team?” Jasper hoots and Shelby elbows me. They’re like a side act that I carry around with me, comically predictable.

“Touché.” I give her my signature smirk, my contribution to the scene as patrons turn and stare as they walk in and out, or as they sit at the tables on the other side of the room. “We’ll have ten X-large pizzas with our usual assortment of toppings and one jumbo plain—”

“Who’s gonna eat that one? You?” Jasper laughs at me. I give him the finger.

“What’ll you have to drink?” Emily arches a brow as if challenging me, as if she knows about our team vow to limit drinking this season. Hell, she probably does know. Some freshman who did not understand the assignment TikTokked about it on the SPU hashtag. He won’t be doing that again.

“Water. With lemon.”