Horton lifts the bill of his cap and rubs his forehead as if he has a migraine.

“What are you trying to say, Ramsey?”

“Well, Coach, I guess what I’m trying to say is that you need to research your material before springing it on your flock, because all I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth is a lot of bullshit.”

I scan the room. Besides a shocked Coach Horton, nobody’s looking at me.

“Damn, it sure got quiet in here,” I continue. “So let me leave you fine people with the following brief statement. A couple of nights ago, some interesting audio and video footage of Hank Horton providing steroids to an anonymous customer somehow showed up at two nearby police departments.” I smile. Horton’s face is beet red. “Now, I’m not saying I had anything to do with that, but I can tell you that the proper authorities seem to have a great deal of … enthusiasm about this matter. In fact, it sounds to me like they’ll pursue it to the end. In other words, Coach, they’ll never give up. They’ll never surrender.”

I smile, reach into the front pocket of my shorts, and slide a Marlboro out of its pack. Popping it between my lips, I strike a match and begin smoking a cigarette within the hallowed confines of the Blaine Memorial High School football locker room.

And it feels absolutely wonderful.

“You’re full of shit!” Horton finally yells. “Men, don’t believe anything you just heard.” To me: “Get the hell out of my locker room, Ramsey. You’re off the team.” His face looks as if it might explode. “And put that cancer stick out!”

I blow smoke toward the ceiling. Then I take another drag, a long one, and blow smoke in Horton’s direction.

Horton turns toward an assistant coach. “Get this queer out of my locker room.”

“That’s not necessary,” I say, and wade through a sea of kneeling players on my way toward the exit. “I can show myself out. And correct me if I’m wrong, Coach, but I don’t think this is your locker room. I have a feeling since it’s a public school and all, that it really belongs to the taxpayers.”

“Nobody likes a smartass, Ramsey!” Horton screams. Some of the coaches cup their hands over their ears. “Get out of here before I hurt you.”

At the door, I stop and turn.

“Just one more thing, everybody. Keep a close eye on your moms. Coach has a thing for moms.” I raise my eyebrows. “Isn’t that right, Hank?”

Hank Horton raises his arm and throws the football at me as hard as he can.

I duck.

The pigskin sails wide right, through the open door of his office next to me, and shatters a framed team photograph hanging on the wall behind his desk.

“Screw you, Ramsey!”

“No, thanks, Coach.”