Nathaniel Jean's Senior Year

1 : Nathaniel Jean's Little Big Problem

Shawn never hit Lucas—at least I don't think he did—but he sure gave him hell at school. My "friends" were always more than happy to join in the verbal harassment.

   Not that I was any better than them in that aspect. I didn't exactly partake in their bullying, but I didn't attempt to stop it, either. I was stuck firmly in the bystander category, with zero intention of leaving. Why would I? I hated Lucas Morgan, after all. Let my "friends" pick on him—it was none of my business.

     I wasn't better than them in any aspect, really, except for maybe my skill as a forward. I wasn't smarter than them, I wasn't much nicer. I was hot headed, I was arrogant, I was a player, I was fake, and I was definitely  intimidating. I was what I needed to be: untouchable.

Damien Diggory, Cameron Schetwaldski, Tyler Fiero, Trevor Cazamm, and Shawn Morgan were only a small selection of the players from the soccer team, but they were easily the most popular, and so they were what I considered my immediate friend group. I couldn't honestly say that I genuinely cared for any of them, but it wasn't as if the lying phased me. After all, lying was all I did. It was how I survived.

    "Dude, you still there?"

     I put on a bored expression and glanced down at Trevor with a shrug. "Yeah, why?"

     "You were, like, seriously spacing out," Trevor told me.

     Again, I shrugged. "Sorry," I said half-heartedly. "What were you saying?"

     "I was saying..." I tuned Trevor out again as we headed to the boys' locker room. As if I cared.

    Trevor was lucky. It was only the first day of tryouts—it was the first day of school, period—and we both knew from having tried out for the last three years that we never so much as looked at our cleats on the first day of tryouts. Today was the day that coach would drill us into the ground. As long as we had our running shoes, we were fine. Unless Trevor managed to forget those, too.

      "Fuck!"

     Trevor was stood in front of his gym locker, naked from the waist up, staring at his open Adidas bag and letting out a stream of very creative curses. "Dried up ass balls" was my favorite.

     "Forgot your sneakers?" I guessed.

     "I must have left them by—"

      To prevent him from going into another long tangent that I really did not care to hear, I reached into my own Adidas bag and threw my back-up running shoes at him. Now, let's make this clear—they were not back-ups that I'd packed with the fear of forgetting my own shoes. No, I'd been bringing them especially for Trevor after this exact routine happened in freshman and sophomore year. They were old sneakers, pretty worn out and probably not suitable for providing proper support during long runs anymore, but that wasn't my problem.

     "Thanks, dude," Trevor said with a heavy sight of relief. "You saved my ass."

    "What's new?" I teased. Trevor rolled his eyes and reached out to roughly shove my shoulder.

    "You're such an asshole."

    "What the hell?!"

     Trevor and I both shared a confused glance at the angry exclamation that had come from the center of the locker room—the wide area between the two middle locker rows, the only space wide enough for large groups to congregate. The voice was obviously Shawn's, but he usually didn't get worked up until we were at least on the field.