2. 2 Nathan
2: Nathan
C one drills will be the death of me.
Sweat trickles down my forehead as I clutch the football to my side, the fake green grass of the stadium blurry as I jog. The rhythm of my heart pounds in my ears, and my quads ache with every step.
“You’re not running for the bus outside the mall, gentleman!” booms my coach, bracing his hands on his capped head, his lips turning down in a frown. “We’re over two months into the regular season, and you’ll be lucky to pull your uniforms over your heads without having asthma attacks during your next game!”
I press my lips together. As the team captain, it’s part of my job to motivate these guys, but we’re slacking, and we have a reputation to uphold. The Missarali Storks made it to the final four teams in the NFL Playoffs last year, and although it was disappointing not to make it all the way, we intend to win the Super Bowl this time.
I can’t see that happening with the way we're training though.
We’ve been winning, but the games have all been close. I don’t like sitting so near the cliff’s edge, wondering when you’re due to tip so far that you plummet to the cold, hard ground. Uncertainty isn’t a nice feeling.
I’m not in the mood today. I hate hounding people, and no matter how hard Coach Darrell pushes these guys, some of them seem to struggle. We’re good, but not so good that we can rely on it to take us to the Super Bowl. Hard work can get us there, and that’s what I’ve been trying to remind them.
This job takes the best out of us. It strips us down, beats us senseless and leaves us bare.
Not only is it physically exhausting, but mentally, too. If you don’t win, you lose. Nobody celebrates second place. It’s the first loser—something my father loves to remind me of.
The media watch our every move. Every single thing we do is under a microscope. But it comes with the job. It’s something we have to put up with if we want to be successful football players.
“Hit the showers, guys!” I order them once Coach blows the whistle, hiking my thumb over my shoulder towards the locker rooms. The stadium is deathly silent as my team files off the grass and down the tunnel. I can tell they’re disappointed in the way practice went today.
Darrell tuts, flicking his cap off, letting it drop to the ground. “Nathan, please, give them some words of wisdom.”
“What do you want me to say, Darrell?” I question, close enough with him to be on a first-name basis.
“You’re one of the oldest here. You have the most experience. Say something. Anything. They’re burned out, and we haven’t even made it to the Playoffs yet.”
I clap him on the shoulder as I pass him. “I’ll try, but you can’t force passion. If we push them too far, they’ll break.”
My father spent my entire life pushing me to live and breathe football back in Bozeman, and look where it got us—blood relatives who view each other as mere acquaintances.
Strangers, even. We just so happen to share the same DNA.
As I follow the rest of my team towards the locker rooms, cheerleader Coach Renee—she removed the accent a couple of years ago because she claimed it made her quirkier—struts past me, narrowing her eyes into slits.
She’s always hated me, but after last season, she’s been on my back. Like an annoying fly that won’t stop buzzing around my head and reminding me how much of an inconvenience I am to her.
I don’t give her the reaction she wants, though. Instead, I stroll right past her and enter the locker room without a second glance.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Renee Bexley, it’s that provoking her only fuels the fire-breathing dragon.
I’m surprised I have any hair left after the amount of times we’ve butted heads.
I remain quiet as I shower and get dressed, and when I’m done, Bennett barges his shoulder into mine in a friendly manner. “Head up, Slater. You’d think it was a loss against the Memphis Tycoons during the Playoffs all over again with the face you’re making.”
“It will be if we don’t get our shit together.”
Bennett Quinn is a joker, but if anything, he’s a talented quarterback. Probably one of the best players on the team, but he needs more media training. He’s made more than a few mistakes at press interviews, which doesn’t reflect well on the team. I know he’s trying though, so I can’t bring myself to have my back up about it. Mainly because he’s one of my best friends.
“I sent you some more interviews to study. Watch them,” I tell him.
It pisses me off that it’s my job to media train my team. Other teams hire people for that kind of shit, but our manager, Peter, doesn’t want to spend any more money than he feels is necessary.
I swear Dollar could be his middle name.
Or perhaps Money-Hungry Pig would be a better fit.
Bennet dips his chin, holding his hand up to his forehead to mimic a salute. “On it, Chief.”
I roll my eyes and say a quick goodbye to the rest of the guys, heading towards Emmanuel’s store on the outskirts of Missarali, near the airport. I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks, and we’re due a catch-up.
I run my hands through my dark hair and down my stubbly face before putting my cap on, only now realising how exhausted I am. Sleep and I haven’t been the best of friends lately. My team is stressing me the fuck out, and a lot of the responsibility to get them back on track falls upon my shoulders, according to the media and the man I’m unfortunate enough to call my biological father.
Be a leader. You’re not being enough of a man. This is your team, and you’re letting them down. Get them up to scratch because you’re going to embarrass yourself if you don’t.
My father’s words ring loud and clear in my head. He doesn’t check up on me too often, but when he does, it’s because the season has started, and he feels the need to criticise me on something he’s seen about the Missarali Storks in the news or a game he watched where we didn’t play our best.
You’d think he was an ex-NFL player by how he judges me, but it was just a dream he didn’t have the skills to accomplish. He wasn’t good enough, and so he pushed his desire onto me. I was practically playing football the day I came out of the womb.
My weekends weren’t spent playing in the park or getting ice cream. No, I was being brought to tears while my father yelled at me about my catching or throwing techniques. And what did I receive for crying? Drills. More and more until my tiny body couldn’t stand any longer.
I never allow myself to wallow, though. There’s nothing I can do but just get on with it.
The wine store bell rings loudly as I push the door open, and Emmanuel’s beaming face catches my attention.
“Nathan, it’s good to see you!”
I shake his hand. “You too, Emmanuel. I wanted to come sooner, but I’ve been pretty busy.”
“I see that.” He steps aside, gesturing to the wall behind his cash register, a cut out of me from a magazine stuck up with a thumbtack. I’m smiling—a very forced smile—holding the ball above my head after scoring the winning touchdown at our last game.
Emmanuel’s grin is so proud that it causes my heart to thump erratically inside my chest. In a way, he’s been somewhat of a father figure, and God knows I need one with the one I’ve been cursed with.
Instead, all I got from my birth father was a good job. Now, on to the next game text.
The bell rings behind me, signalling someone has walked in, but I pay them no mind as Emmanuel holds up a finger to me and rushes around me to help them.
I gaze at the rows of alcohol lined up on the metal shelving. The dim light above flickers, the coolers humming, taking me back to the day I first barged in here as a young kid with my head held high and my chin jutted out in fraudulent confidence.
I was so determined, yet so frightened.
I straighten the red cap on top of my head and wander through the aisles, picking up a few bottles of expensive-looking champagne and reading their backs as I wait for Emmanuel to finish up with his customer.
“I’m looking for something nice for a family member. I’m visiting.”
That voice. It’s like nectar—smooth and sweet. The hairs on the back of my neck spike up.
I’ve never been overly interested in women. I haven’t had the time. Sex is fun, but it’s been a while since I’ve been able to relax enough to enjoy a night with someone. My father loves to remind me that dating a woman won’t win me the NFL, and he’s right.
All it’ll gain me is more heat from the media. Questions. And I hate being questioned.
I slowly move towards the part of the store where Emmanuel and his customer are, the soft pop music playing through the speaker above clouding my footsteps.
Then, the customer laughs.
She fucking laughs, and my brows knit together, my jaw ticking. It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. Melodic. Like a symphony. Every muscle in my body tenses as I round the corner, and I swallow harshly as I spot the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Tanned, smooth skin.
Hair the colour of honey, wavy and flowing over her bare shoulders.
A smattering of freckles dotted over her button nose.
A body with curves in all the right places, her hips hugged by a pair of skin-tight jeans that flare out at the bottom, accentuating her toned ass.
Her smile—bright and straight.
However, the grin isn’t quite reaching her almond-shaped eyes. It’s a smile that someone puts on to hide their anticipation. Their nerves. Their dread. Like a mask. It’s something I used to do every day until I gave up and finally allowed myself to accept how I truly feel.
Trapped.
The young woman gazes at me, shifting as she attempts to focus on whatever Emmanuel is saying about his wine selection. However, her eyes continue to flicker to my form, as if silently asking me why the hell I’m standing here, listening.
But there’s something else swirling inside of those irises. Curiosity, perhaps. Her gaze glides up and down my body, and judging by the slight flush to her cheeks, it’s clear she’s intrigued by what she sees.
The feeling is mutual.
Her fluffy eyebrows scrunch as she takes a large, sleek bottle from Emmanuel’s hands, hers delicate and small in comparison. “I can’t afford this one. Maybe something a little less… nice.” She drags her bottom plump lip into her mouth and clears her throat. Embarrassment doesn’t quite reach her face, but I can practically see her mind whirling—worried she’s entered a store with extortionate pricing.
I know I should walk away. Leave them to it. But it’s like my feet are stuck to the tiled flooring. I can’t help but stay put—just allow myself to enjoy the presence of the beautiful woman for a minute longer before she disappears, and I never see her again.
“Ah, yes, of course.” Emmanuel places the bottle back onto the shelf before clicking his fingers and mumbling to himself. He disappears around the corner, appearing to be looking for a specific wine he has in mind.
The woman watches me with interest before rolling her glossed lips together. She reaches for a bottle, spins it around and reads it.
Why the fuck are her lips so tempting to me?
I need to pull my head out of the gutter.
“That one’s not good,” I say, and she raises her eyebrows at me, taken aback by my comment. I nod my head toward the wine bottle she’s holding. “Or so I’ve heard.”
I’m never usually the type of person to talk to strangers, but for some stupid reason, in the comfort of Emmanuel’s store, the words tumble out of my mouth with fluidity.
She laughs again, and the sound goes straight through me. “Good to know.” Her chin dips in a simple nod. “I like that men are breaking the stereotypes and drinking wine now. It gets them in touch with their… softer side.” A humorous smile reaches her pink lips as she places the bottle back on the shelf. She shrugs. “Or, so I’ve heard.”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth at her joke, a small chuckle desperate to come out, but I don’t grant it permission. Instead, I settle for a curve of my lip.
But I lower my eyes as her bag droops from her shoulder, and as she attempts to sling it back over, it clips a bottle on the shelf.
It tumbles to the ground and smashes into a thousand pieces, the sound causing her to jump. A small yelp escapes the young woman’s mouth, and I can see the cogs turning in her head as she glances down with parted lips and an irritated face.
“Fuck me,” she mutters as she shakes her head from side to side.
The wine she’s knocked off the shelf is expensive, and judging by her paling face and hopeless eyes, she can’t afford it.
She bends down to, what I assume is, pick up the broken pieces, and I scowl.
“You’ll cut yourself,” I tell her, taking a few steps forward, the tips of my shoes stopping just before the puddle of fancy red wine.
The smell is strong and acidic, causing me to grimace, my nose stinging.
Emmanuel rounds the corner with saucers for eyes. His mouth downturns into a frown as he glances at the liquid seeping into the cracks in the flooring.
He’s a good person, and he doesn’t deserve to lose out on money, especially because his shop isn’t exactly a booming business.
The woman turns to him with pursed lips. “Shit, I’m sorry, I—”
“Here’s the money for the wine, Emmanuel,” I say, reaching into my pocket, pulling out some cash, and handing it to him.
I’m doing this for him. The sad look on his face is causing my stomach to twist in a harrowing way. It has nothing to do with her .
I nod once, my eyes shifting to her for the last time. It’s hard to drag them away, but after a few seconds of studying her, I do, turning my attention back to Emmanuel. “I didn’t mean to drop it. I apologise.”
And with that, I turn on my heel and walk out of the store, unable to stay inside another second.
One: because the stench of the wine is sending me into a spiral.
And two: because I can’t bear to be around that woman any longer; otherwise, I’ll want to know her name. Where she’s from. What she does. And I refuse to get attached to another woman just for them to let me down again.
The prospect of that is far too dangerous.