Cadence (Rainbow Dorset University #3)

CHAPTER 1

brEVAN “brEV” “SKEET” SKEETER

While allowing my arms a minute to rest, I take a seat in the leg machine and start pumping reps. Slowly, precisely, methodically until my legs burn. Then I let it go and take a breath.

I like having mirrors in the gym. It helps to watch myself. Not in a self-absorbed way, but it’s easier to make sure you’re doing an exercise correctly if you can see the way your body responds to the specific exercise you’re doing.

For instance, I like to watch the tops of my legs when I’m in this machine. All the right muscles should be responding in a constant flex when I’m in my reps since they’re continuously engaged. I catch my breath as I sit in the machine, letting my heart and breathing go back to normal.

The gym isn’t bustling with people. There are a handful of other athletes, mostly football players. I suppose that makes the most sense since we have upwards of five times the number of players than other sports.

It’s exciting that I get to stand out. I’m almost always on the field when our defense is up.

I’ve bounced around on the defensive team my entire football career, but Coach has moved me into cornerback for the last season.

Before that, I was a linebacker, but Coach thinks the cornerback is a little more specialized for me. I think I’ve done really well there.

My job isn’t to be a brick house, but to be agile and fast. I cover the wide receivers, tackling and intercepting passes.

That doesn’t mean I can’t block from time to time.

There are times when I’m either in the wrong place and end up blocking, or one of the other team’s players gets at me, and I need to block.

When I go to the gym, I much prefer to concentrate on strength training and conditioning. I’m not a fan of running on treadmills or anything. If I run, I’d rather do that outside. Which I do. I’ve been known to use the field when no one is on it.

Football players are not long-distance runners. We’re sprinters. And being on the field means I have a realistic idea of how far I need to sprint.

I grab my towel and wipe the sweat from my face and neck.

It’s always been interesting to me how I can sweat so much just sitting still.

When all I’m doing is working my legs or my arms, or my abdominals.

It means I’m exerting a lot of energy, which is good.

I’m putting myself into it. Still. The amount I sweat has always fascinated me.

Not that I ever mention it to anyone. You tell them you’re fascinated with how much you sweat when working out, and they think you’re weird.

I continue to stretch my legs a little and drink some water.

You never want to guzzle. If your body is already overexerted, you’re likely to make yourself throw up if you chug.

Large sips are okay, but give your body time to disperse the water.

This is especially important when running.

The number of times I’ve thrown up a stomach full of water because I pushed myself running after draining an entire bottle is too many to count.

Watching my reflection, I flex my arm and stare at my biceps. The pronunciation of my biceps is coming along nicely. I adjust my flex to admire the triceps, but I think I need to work on that a little more. Different exercises. My shoulder—deltoid—is looking strong though.

I’m not on a course of study that has anything to do with the body, but I’ve taken several anatomy and physiology courses as well as a couple exercise science courses because it helps me know what and how to train for specific results.

My teammate, Franklin, stops beside me and playfully grips my arm. I flex again for him, and he grins, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. “Nice, Brev. Looking good.”

I smile. “Thanks.” I shift, bringing my arm down and flexing my arms, shoulders, and back. “I think my triceps need a little more work. I look uneven.”

“Not at all. You look sexy.”

Grinning, I pick up my water and take another sip. “Thank you. I do want sexy muscles. They help me play at the top of my game.”

“Pythons for arms,” Franklin says, gripping my biceps briefly again. “Tree trunks for legs.” We both look down at my legs, and I give them a little flex as well. “I bet you’re hiding an anaconda, too.”

I look at my other arm. Python on one side and anaconda on the other. Yeah, okay. I share a grin with Franklin, his eyes scrunching at the corners. He shakes his head a little.

“Let’s try this. Horace and Nicole, and Lane and Wulfe are getting together for a movie and game night on Sunday. Want to come with me?”

“Yeah, sounds fun. Is Norman going too? He loves board games. Oh, I bet Eddy would like to join us. Not that I’m inviting people when it’s not my party to invite.”

Franklin sighs. “Not a party. Just an intimate gathering of couples.”

“And then there’s us,” I say, grinning. “Yeah, that sounds cool. I’m in.”

“You’re cute as fuck, Brevan. I’ll see you later.” He claps my arm, and I’m left with the distinct impression that I might have missed something. I watch as he walks away and then glance at myself in the mirror.

“It’s a good thing you’re adorable.” My mother used to say this often. Mostly when I missed something obvious and right in front of my face.

My father used to say I was an entire offensive line short of a football team. It took me a long time to determine that it meant I wasn’t all there. I wasn’t whole. I wasn’t smart.

That’s fine. I don’t need to be smart. I need to be good at football, and I am. I’m on my game. I play hard. I have an agent looking at me, and I’m excited about my prospects.

Football is difficult to make a career out of. Unlike some other professional sports, there isn’t a feeder system of affiliated professional teams. College football serves as the feeder system. Which means we don’t have multiple different options to be picked up to play professional football.

We have one. Okay, maybe two. There’s also the minor league UFL, but there are only eight teams, and it’s simply not the NFL. Still cool. Still professional. I wouldn’t turn it down if one of the teams wanted me. But they’re still not the NFL.

It’s not that I’m stupid. I have decent grades, though I don’t think I’m taking the most challenging courses.

I don’t look for the easiest courses or the most challenging.

I try to stick within my field of study and choose courses that sound interesting.

I tend to do better when I’m interested in the subject.

That doesn’t mean I don’t have help. I made peace a long time ago that I’m not smart and probably won’t ever be smart. That’s okay. That doesn’t mean I can’t do well at something. It just means I need to work harder.

I spend a while longer at the gym. While I know I should work on my triceps, I don’t adjust my routine for the day. I like routine. It keeps me feeling in control. I’ll just have to go back and do a little research on the best exercises to build up my triceps. Then I can build it into my routine.

When I’m finished, I take a quick shower and then head back to my dorm to grab my books and head to the study center. On my way out, Kiley and Leisa join me. I’m not sure where they came from. I know they’re not in the same dorm since Bluff is strictly for athletes.

“Hey, Brevan,” they say together and take up stride on either side of me. Each links their arms through one of mine as they join me down the sidewalk.

“Hey.”

“Where are you headed?” Leisa asks.

“To study.”

“We were just headed to study too,” Kiley says. “Want to join us? We can study together.”

“The three of us. However you want to study,” Leisa says, blinking at me like she has something in her eye.

“Thanks, but I have a standing appointment in the study center.”

The girls look around me to see each other. “Are you sure?” Leisa asks. “I’m positive it’ll be far more fun if you study with us.”

“Orgasmically fun,” Kiley agrees.

I grin. People like to pretend that only young guys make sex jokes, but girls do just as often. At least, in my experience, they do. “Sounds good, but I really need to keep my appointment. Thanks for the invitation, though.”

“Well, if you change your mind, stop by later,” Kiley says. “I’ll message your dorm number.”

“Sure.”

They release me and remain on the sidewalk as I continue walking toward the study center. I think technically it’s the student center, a large new addition to the library. It’s beautifully expanded, and I love it. There are so many comfortable places to sit and study.

Not that I do well studying on my own. I truly don’t. It feels like I need someone to keep me accountable; otherwise, my brain is literally anywhere other than where it is now.

Stepping inside, I find Leana at the desk. She’s almost always here Monday through Thursday. I think this is her work-study position.

“Good afternoon, Leana,” I greet, offering her a friendly smile.

Her cheeks flush, and she bows her head. “Hello, Brevan. How are you?”

“Very good. You?”

She nods, brushing her hair behind her ear. “I’m good too. Is it still nice out?”

“Very. I’m not sure there are many bad days in Glensdale, but today is beautiful.”

“I hear it is a great day for a walk along the river.”

“Definitely. I hear it’s a romantic walk too since it’s so picturesque. Are you thinking about heading to the State Park?” I ask.

Where the Sacramento River snakes its way by Glensdale, it winds through William B. Ide Adobe State Park. Even with the number of buildings along the river, there are places that are exceptionally beautiful.

“Maybe. If someone would like to go with me.”

“That’s a good idea. It’s not safe to go alone.”

“Mr. Skeeter.” I turn to flash a smile at my student tutor, Ross. He’s in a teaching master’s program here at RDU, and he spends some time in the study center to help students like me. I think it’s actually part of his program.

I wave at Leana. “I hope you find someone to go with. See you later.”

“Bye,” she says, sighing.

As soon as Ross leads me into our little room, I set my bag down and grab my tablet with the paper I rewrote after he marked up the last one.

These are just group threads that we’re supposed to be discussing with our peers after reading a short poem and reflecting on it.

I’ve been having trouble interpreting what I read because these are poems and passages from the Middle Ages!

“Let’s see how you did,” Ross says as he sits beside me. We keep the paper between us, and I can’t help but read along.

I read The Wife’s Lament before reading the introduction to it just to see if my understanding of it was comparable to how it is interpreted by the editors of the anthology.

I seemed to have a similar understanding.

It appears the wife and husband have been separated, seemingly not by choice, since their situation is continually described as in “exile” throughout the poem.

The wife is very upset with what life has dealt her.

She says that they were at one point happy and close but now they are separated by an ocean (“my lord departed from his people over tossing waves” 6-7).

It appeared that only the wife was in exile, but later it sounds as if her husband may have been sent away as well since she has learned that he was just as miserable as she.

What is interesting is that there is further indication that his family conspired to separate them; that perhaps she was sent away and he had turned against her because of his kin.

There is no why answered within the poem.

Given the time period, it is possible that the wife is a peace-weaver, a woman married to an enemy tribesman as a means of creating a bond and peace between the two tribes.

To me, this could be the reason for the familial hostility.

Many blood and/or tribal feuds were never bridged by a marriage.

It is argued that a blood feud is always going to be a stronger, deeper desire than any arranged marriage can repair. I tend to hold this belief as my own.

What I wonder is whether the husband was in fact sent away in exile.

There are conflicting lines that leave the interpretation obscure.

At first, she says that they were close, happy, and promised that only death would part them (wedding vows?) and also that he had learned he was just as miserable as she: “Then I learned my lord was like myself—down on his luck, dreary-spirited, secretly minding murder in his heart” (18-20).

However, she then goes on to state that she must now “bear the malice of the man I loved” (25-26) which leads me to believe that, perhaps, he had left willingly and purposefully. My question is, which is it?

“How does this sound to you?” Ross asks once we’re finished.

I navigate to the prompt and mentally tick off all the boxes to make sure I answered the question. “Good,” I say.

“Now, ignore the prompt. How does this sound to you?”

I chew the inside of my lip. “I think it’s okay. I struggle to understand poetry, especially when it’s really old and not the kind of English we talk and write in today, so given that, I think it’s not my worst.”

Ross smiles. “I agree. This is boatloads better than your first draft.”

“Do I need to adjust it more?”

“No. I think this is good for the assignment. What’s next?”

I pull up the to-do list on my tablet, crossing off the discussion thread before seeing what the next priority is.

“Okay, it’s a prompt to explain the reason I wrote the short story Graveyard Stories.

I’ve got a start, but I think you know that my organizational skills when it comes to papers are confused at best.”

Ross chuckles. “Let’s have a look.”

Sitting back in my chair, I pull up the paper I’d begun. It didn’t need to be long. It’s not even the short story itself but a reflection on the story after peer-review and edits. I chew my lip as I watch Ross read the start of my essay.