Page 44 of I Want to Know What Love Is

“An obsession?” Don’t think I haven’t thought the same thing. He shakes his head.

“Lovesick. That’s what you are.” I laugh.

“Impossible. I think I would know. She’s special, but not that special.” He nods, but I can tell his confidence in his diagnosis is as firm as a bed of nails.

“About Heather,” I say. “You could help me out by dating her.”

“Dating her? That’s a big ask.”

“I notice you didn’t say no.” His face goes unreadable.

“We’ll see.”

I roll my eyes.

* * *

Game time couldn’t come fast enough this week after too much pacing, fitful sleeping and then escorting Heather to a Quidditch match Wednesday night. A fucking Quidditch match. Who knew she was a Harry Potter fanatic? Though I’m not too surprised to find out she’s a book nerd in general. The match was hysterical whether it was supposed to be or not, mostly because they recruited Dooley to be the MC. Heather had fun and we met some new people—which is the point right?—because I drew a crowd.

She was surprised at the attention I got, and I tried to shrug it off, but honestly, it happens at every campus event I attend. Which is why I stopped attending them. Feeling like the elephant in every room grows old, even when the elephant is admired though that’s not always the case. So these days, aside from private parties like the ones at BMOC House or Kapa Kapa Gamma, classes, and occasional forays to Wildbeast Pizza, I don’t venture out much.

Dressed and pacing the locker room as my team continues to prepare, I bang my helmet against my thigh pad in slow rhythm. The room’s quiet because this is our most challenging game of the year. And also because it’s on prime-time television with a shit ton of national press attention, not just the regional press corps.

The reason, besides the A+ competition, is the Heisman talk, specifically about me being a contender. A long shot, so I’m not taking it too seriously, but I am going to compete my ass off and give it a hard go. I’ll do everything I can to make this game worth the attention it’s getting and to make my name worth the Heisman talk.

Coach is keyed up and he slams into the locker room. I stand still and the room quiets to the pin-drop decibel level.

“Listen up.” He stares us down, looks each of us in the face to a man. “I can’t emphasize enough how important a game this is. Not for you as individuals, and not even for us as a team.” He pauses, deepening the silence until it feels like we’ve sunk into the ground, into cave-like depths of quiet isolation. “It’s important for St. Paul University and its legacy. And each and every one of you is a part of that, can help create its greatness, perpetuate the legend.

“So when you step on that field today, remember who you’re playing for. Today’s students and tomorrow’s, and the ones who haven’t been born yet, but who will see your names on the plaques, your pictures in the halls and hear your name whispered in the echoes for decades and more to come.” He stops. His mouth turned down in a grim line and I breathe as if I’ve come up from the depths and been released. “Take the field.” That’s my cue.

Raising my helmet, I shout and give the Wildbeast chant-grunt and rush through the door to the tunnel and out to the entrance to the field where my thoughts are silenced by the roar of the crowd.

After the game, which we win by one single point on a two-point TD conversion in the last minute and still had to rely on our defense to hold our opponents with fifty ticks left on the clock, I’m drained and filled with restless energy at the same time.

In my head I’m amped up, but my body moves like the Tin Man in need of a serious can of oil. Changed into my good suit on coach’s orders, along with several other guys on the team, I stand in the wings waiting to take the mic for the press conference. After a few words, the athletic director calls me out. I join half the SPU administration is at the podium. They’re here for their photo op in case I end up winning the Heisman. They make a big deal about these honors at SPU and include all kinds of memorialization in the SPU sports gallery built next to the Alumni Center.

“Hope you all enjoyed the game,” I say when I reach the mic. There are a smattering of laughs and applause. And then the questions ensue, couched in all kinds of flattery and congratulations today. It’s unusual and I try not to enjoy it. Try not to let it make me feel like there’s another shoe somewhere about to drop on my head.

When one of the reporters asks about my grades, I let out a breath, relieved that someone hasn’t lost touch with reality and realizes I’m a flawed human being. I tell him I’m working on it. The local press was hard on me last year when I failed finance. Not sure why it’s coming up now, but this guy who I don’t recognize must have done his homework.

Coach interjects that I’m working hard and that I have a tutor.

“Who’s paying for it?”

“She’s a volunteer,” I say.

There are laughs and snickers when the reporter says, “I’ll bet she is.”

“Anymore football questions?” Coach shuts down that line of questioning.

“I hear you’ve got an alumni sponsor? What’s the deal for? What will you be promoting?”

“I’m…” not sure what the fuck to say and coach rescues me. First time that ever happened. I’m known for being glib.

“Football questions,” Coach insists.

Dean Lassiter steps forward and says, “All details about Mr. Jones’ financial arrangements can be made available to the press upon request except those that are contractually barred by privacy agreements.” That sets off a shitstorm of murmuring and reporters clearly sending emails or texts or whatever they’re tapping on their tablets to request all the details. Fuck. I feel dirty.