“So could you,” I challenge.
“My friend’s dad owns this gym.”
“Congratulations, Jake’s my friend too. He also gave me permission, hence the key.”
“Fuck it,” he sighs, stuffing in his earbuds. “Just turn that shit down, all right?”
“Whatever,” I huff as he walks off. I can see his reflection more clearly in the mirror when I try to resume my practice. I’ve never been self-conscious about my dancing before, but after watching his retreat, I notice that the bag is facing me. Now that I have the asshole’s attention, any misstep on my part gives me the potential to embarrass myself. There’s a newly renovated multi-million-dollar gym he’s privileged to abuse, so why isn’t he lifting on campus with his friends, pounding beers or looking for fresh flowers to pollinate?
Dismissing my wandering thoughts, I turn my music back on and take my position as the sound of glove to bag resumes. It takes only a few minutes, but I find bliss when I finally lose myself.
Lance
What the fuck?
Who in the hell does this chick think she is?
I just had my nuts snipped off and handed to me in a matter of seconds and by none other than a ball busting little witch with a superiority complex.
And she had the nerve to call me entitled?
I can’t see this girl being a friend of Jake’s in any scenario. And I’ll make it my mission to get rid of her.
Feeling the singe of her words, I smash the bag to release the pressure, baffled by how a complete stranger managed to press so many of my buttons in a matter of minutes.
There’s nothing I hate more than someone who assumes they know me because of ball.
I don’t want to be one thing. I want to be many things. And the split-second assessment she just made of me is enough to drive home my point. I’m not just a ballplayer, or a student, or a rancher’s son. Those are the things that matter most to me, but they aren’t all that I am. I don’t want to look back—like so many other ballplayers do—and think this was the best it’s ever going to get for me, my high point or peak because it feels like anything but. I’ve seen what that can do to a man, namely my father. I grew up listening to his “glory days” stories. At first, it was fascinating, and now it’s just sad.
Dad and I don’t agree on much these days, except when it comes to the ranch. Our love for that land a common bond, our need to preserve the legacy and protect my mother and brother the same. The ranch might be my future, but first I have to save it, and that’s where the strain in our relationship lies.
Dad’s been writing checks that my ass may not be able to cash for the last eighteen months; his faith in me unwavering, the pressure a constant. That’s why I find solace alone, unleashing my frustrations on my own body, strengthening the tool needed to eradicate the look of terror I constantly see on my mother’s face.
I don’t have to play poster boy to play ball. I’m not going to campaign myself because I’m not a man who minces words. I don’t tap dance for attention I don’t want. I don’t need to be anyone’s favorite anything; I just need to play ball, keep my head down, and get through this season.
That means working longer and harder than I ever have in my ball career. It all comes down to this year. It means a strict schedule, a whole lot of self-deprivation where the extra-curricular is concerned and cutting all distractions. I’m so damn close. With my stats what they are and the promise of a decent upcoming season, I may just pull it off. I’ve already put in my mandatory field time to enter the draft but didn’t pursue it last year because of my obligations at the ranch. That hesitation may have cost me, especially with the way the season ended. Now it might be too late. Only a small percentage of college players are picked to join the league. Regardless of what Miss Priss decided about me, I refuse to let arrogance guide my quest or my temper destroy my chances. This year, no mistakes. I’m a changed man and my ability to withstand that character breakdown without blowing a fuse proved as much.
When they aren’t hosting geriatric jazzercise in the dank gym, this is my place to unwind. It’s the only time I get to nail the bag, to let my anger rule so I can exorcise it to the point it’s beneath me, not a weakness I can’t manage. The rest of the week I’m stuck in practice, lifting or training to milk out the rest of the summer before school and regular-season starts.
Every single day I remind myself why I’m here, and it’s to save that ranch. To save my parents the embarrassment of losing everything and to protect three generations of blood, sweat, and tears. It’s all up to me.
Twinkle toes had been on the receiving end of my latest blow, which was the shit news that my father had gotten a fair price for my Silverado. A truck I don’t have a replacement for. I’m now a man without a horse, but it bought the one thing my family seems to have very little of lately, time. Not only that, it will cover the room I’ve rented for my last two semesters. As far as getting around, I’m on my own, but my family has what they need, so it’s worth the sacrifice. Selfishly, I’m still pissed at the fact that I just lost the truck I’d worked five summers for. All that effort gone in a blink. So yeah, I’m pissed, constantly stressed, and always frustrated. The future swings over my head like a bladed pendulum.
As many truths as she nailed, I could fill a book with the shit she doesn’t know.
Movement draws me from my thoughts as I glance over at the tiny girl and watch her choreographed steps.
The way she moves shows she’s comfortable in her own skin and the way she told me to fuck off says she’s got a backbone; but when I’d approached, her shaky demeanor alluded that she may be on the inexperienced side.
Jake told me the room was mine. If he thought this chick would be a welcome surprise, he’s wrong. I do my best thinking isolated, and this girl is buzzing in circles around me. I can’t adjust the bag to get a different view, and even if I did, I can see her in my peripheral, in the reflection of the long-ass eyesore mirror that takes up one wall of the gym.
This is jacked.
I pound away, doing my best to ignore her…until she catches fire. She’s dancing like a pro, her body made for movement.
It’s fascinating…and distracting.
Heavy bass no longer thrums out of her impressive little speaker, but you wouldn’t know it with the way she’s stepping into every beat while manipulating her form in ways that have me dizzy.
Motherfucker!
I thrash at the bag, my nerves fraying as she slides, glides, sashays, and then cuts the song off abruptly. It’s on the edge of my lips to protest with “why did you stop?” before she restarts the music.
Irritated, I watch.
I can’t help myself.
I watch.
Lance
I take advantage of my position both on and off the field, which at times makes me a hypocrite, falling into the one and done stereotype. Callie slides on her panties and eyes me over her shoulder, a bright smile on her face. I grin back at her.
“Well, someone had some issues he needed to work out tonight.”
Feeling the pull of sleep, I punch my pillow and position it behind me.
“You can stay.”