Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Dominic
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I choke out as he checks me in. “LA is … different from what I’m used to.”
“It’s an adjustment from Alabama, I’m sure.” He gives me a pitying smile. “But don’t make it a habit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyway, we’re happy you’re here. Welcome to the Comets.”
“Cool,” I say stupidly, nodding as he points to the locker room.
As soon as I step through the doors, I take in my new home of sorts.
The locker room is exactly what I’d expect from a team sponsored by three energy drink companies and a luxury car brand: a wall of glass lockers backlit in neon blue, a snack bar bigger than my first apartment, and a Hydration Station with nine types of water, including molecularly enhanced.
Could that fix the smell of my shoes?
Ten guys on the team are already suited up, doing warm-up stretches. They don’t look up when I walk in, but I can feel their side-eyes. I can’t help but wonder what they’re thinking of me right now.
I’m no rookie, but I am the new guy. And I know that comes with some sort of repercussion.
I find my own locker and toss my bag inside, staring at the lights glimmering against my new Comet practice jersey. NEELSON, 11, glowing under the LEDs.
It’s the same number I’ve carried since college—like muscle memory stitched into fabric—but everything else is different.
This is it. This is the new me.
Alabama liked consistency. LA wanted upside.
They didn’t trade for who I am—they traded for who they think I can become.
I grab the jersey, rip the tag off, and fumble with the armpit, which feels two sizes too small for my arms. My old team sent me here with a slim fit warning, but this is more like vacuum sealed.
My eyes catch the mirror where a rookie is flexing and taking a selfie. I barely register my own reflection beside him—dark hair already damp at the temples, jaw set tighter than it needs to be. At least I’m not acting like that guy.
It could always be worse, according to my brother.
I wipe the sweat from my palms onto my shorts, put on the dreaded dog pee trainers, and head out to the court. I wince with every single forward movement, the squish and squeak unbearable.
This is the worst day ever.
I take in the seasoned guys. Even at half-speed, this group runs drills like they’re under the gun. The ball whips around in a blur, sneakers squeal—but not like mine—and the net swings every time someone scores.
“Everyone wants to play for the Comets,” my agent’s voice echoes in my head. “This is what making it big looks like.”
My stomach tightens.
I didn’t know I’d feel this small.
My gaze shifts to the man with the whistle.
I mean, Coach Ellis is a legend. Not in the beloved mentor way, but in the set-fire-to-a-Gatorade-cooler-and-still-keep-his-job kind of way.
He stands in the middle of the chaos, arms crossed so tight his triceps look like they’re about to dislocate.
His eyes find me before I even clear the doorway.
He says nothing, just lifts a single eyebrow.
Coach Ellis is the reason I’m here. The one who signed off on the trade. The one who expects me to justify it.
That thought alone makes me break a whole new sweat.
I hunch my shoulders and join the line for sprints. My shoes respond to this act of humility by letting out a squeak so sharp it actually echoes off the backboard.
The guy in front of me, blond, tatted, and a TikTok frequenter, turns and gives me a smirk. “Wow, new guy, did you swim here?”
“Something like that.” I deadpan.
He laughs, which is better than a cold jab, and I manage to keep my eyes front for the first set of suicides. My calves are on fire halfway into it, but I push through.
I need this. I need to show I belong.
I started every game last season. I didn’t miss assignments. I didn’t implode under pressure.
That used to be enough. Here, it feels like the baseline.
We rotate into passing drills, and I’m paired with the blond named Marcus. He’s maybe six-seven, built like a bulldozer, with a beard that looks meticulously painted on. It didn’t take me long to realize he’s one of those players who never stops moving, even when standing still.
Marcus tosses a chest pass that nearly dislocates my wrists. “Heard you’re from Texas,” he says, barely out of breath.
I nod. “Grew up there. Stayed for college, got drafted by the Alabama Jets. Now I’m here.” I catch and return, trying not to make eye contact with my own shoes, which are rubbing my ankles incessantly.
Marcus grins. “Well, don’t expect Southern hospitality in LA. People don’t even hold the elevator for you out here. Trust me, it’s a real jungle.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ve always liked a good adventure.”
Marcus laughs and flings the ball back at me with double the force. “You’re all right, new guy. But man, seriously, what’s up with your shoes?”
I glance down, mortified. The left one is foaming around the toe box. “It’s, uh, a long story involving my neighbor and her dog…”
He raises his hands in surrender, giving me a smirk. “Hey, man, as long as you don’t get it on me, we’re golden.”
If he only knew the kind of golden liquid I’m running in.
We shuffle back into formation as the assistant coach calls for defense drills. I follow the flow of players, trying to forget I’m a walking biological hazard.
Just survive, Dom. Just. Survive.
Between drills, I catch guys scrolling their phones. I don’t even know where mine is… Maybe in my truck? Either way, it’s a new thing to me, and I’m surprised it flies with the crazy coach.
Coach Ellis finally blows the whistle, marching us to the sideline. He paces, clapping his hands. “Comets don’t do lazy. Comets don’t do sloppy. I don’t care if you’re a rookie, a vet, or a Hall of Famer—we move together. One body, one brain. Understand?”
“YES, COACH!” the team shouts in perfect, cult-like unison.
I’m a beat behind, mostly because my throat is sandpaper and also—
Because I’m thinking too much.
Because every step feels like a test.
Because I’m trying so hard not to be the weak link that I’m tightening instead of loosening.
“Neelson!” Coach barks, his expression stone cold.
I square up, fear rushing through my chest. “Yes, Coach.”
“You were late, your feet smell like the inside of a janitor’s closet, and your footwork is garbage. Fix it.”
“Yes, Coach.” I feel my ears go hot, but I don’t break eye contact—and I definitely don’t look at my new teammates’ snickering reactions.
Ellis stares a second longer, then snaps his fingers. “Let’s see if you can run a play without tripping over your own feet. Bet your family can hear those shoes from Texas.”
The guys snicker more, but it’s not mean.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I just have to keep the pace. Keep my eyes on the game.
And never ever leave my gear in the hallway again.
By the time practice ends, my shoes are dry, and the smell is, well, I don’t know what the smell is, because it either disappeared or I got used to it.
I don’t care to know which.
Marcus slaps me on the shoulder on our way to the locker room. “Not bad, new guy. Maybe next time bring a snorkel, though.” He indicates my feet.
“Maybe next time I’ll show up dry,” I shoot back, a breathless chuckle slipping through my lips.
Once we make it to the locker room, I collapse on the bench and go straight for the laces. I peel my shoes and socks off and shove them into my bag, wrapped in my sweaty shorts.
I’ll find a dry cleaner. I know there’s bound to be one of those around here.
As I strip off my jersey, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look like someone who just escaped from a car wash. My eyes are tired, my dark hair matted, and my arms visibly shaking.
But it feels good. Because this is what earning your place looks like.
Guys hit the showers around me, towel off, or lounge around half-dressed on leather benches, sipping their fancy water. I continue to sit at my locker, taking in the team that I have to find a way to mesh with. Somehow.
The rookie who I passed earlier is livestreaming on Instagram, narrating every move he makes for his followers. “Big day in the gym, grind never stops,” he says, flexing in the mirror. Again.
And then we make eye contact.
Oh no… No. Nope.
He turns, pointing the camera at me. “This is the big Dom from Alabama! Tell ‘em hi, man!”
I cringe, manage a nod, but the words don’t come.
“Well, okay, then. Guess we got a shy one.” He bursts into laughter and goes back to shooting his physique in the mirror.
I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s much better that way.
My phone buzzes from my bag, which surprises me. It’s a group chat from my old team in Alabama. It hits with a whole new ache.
Jackson: Hey, big man, how’s the coast?
Colby: Caught your media day on ESPN. Miss you in the paint.
Weston: Y’all think you’re gonna win?
My stomach knots up with that same homesick feeling. I want to answer. I really do. But instead, I stare at the screen and long to be back in a jersey I feel like I belong in.
It’ll just take time. It always takes me time to warm up.
I’m still working that out in my head, as if my pep talk will change the feeling somehow, when I hear laughter from a group near the showers. I glance over to see Marcus at the center, spinning a story and doing impressions.
I don’t understand what he’s doing, but the way I hear the word swimming, I already know I’m about to be in trouble.
He catches my eye, grins, and jogs over, dragging two other guys behind him.
“Yo, Neelson!” Marcus drops onto the bench next to me, his hair still wet from the shower. “You’ll never believe what I got for ya. Found it in the janitor’s closet.”
He produces a bright blue spray bottle and holds it up with both hands, like he’s about to hand me something that will change my life.
The label says Pet PEE-rific: Extreme Odor Control.
The guys on either side double over, laughing so hard they nearly fall off the bench.
“Welcome gift from the team,” Marcus says, and hands it to me with mock solemnity. “I wanted to get you something a little nicer, but … I think this is relevant.”
It’s funny. Just laugh, Dom. Laugh.
I give it my best shot. But instead, it comes out like a choking cow.
Marcus makes a weird face and then gives my shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Don’t sweat it, bro. Hazing means you’re one of us. Well, almost. You gotta earn it, but you play hard. We’re excited you’re on the team.”
“Yeah. For sure.” My tone is flat.
In Alabama, I knew my place. Here, I’m still auditioning.
The other two players slap me on the back and retreat, high-fiving on the way to the protein fridge.
Marcus lingers just a second longer. “For real, though. Good work today. Coach rides the new guys hardest. Next week will be easier. And I’m sure”—he glances at my bare feet—“you’ll sort out the shoe issue. ”
I nod, but I can’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t sound stupid. Marcus waits, maybe hoping for a joke, then just smiles and heads off.
I’m left alone, staring at my reflection in the inside of my locker door, and then at my lap. The bottle of Pet PEE-rific sits beside me, and as much as I hate it…
I’m probably going to use it.
The rookie aims his phone at me again. “Hey, say what up to the feed, Neelson! They loved seeing you!”
I wave, half-heartedly and hope he edits me out.
But I bet he doesn’t.
The room starts to empty. The guys leave in packs, headed for sushi or green juice or who knows what. I linger, taking my sweet time to lace up my casual sneakers and avoiding any more socializing.
The locker room gets quiet; the only noise is the hum of a thousand electronics charging up for tomorrow.
I stare at the bottle of Pet PEE-rific as I stand to my feet. I tuck it into my bag, right on top, like maybe if I look at it long enough, I’ll start to find the joke funny.
But for some reason, I don’t think I will.
It’s late by the time I walk out. The sun is just starting to set as I head for my truck, the bottle rattling in my bag.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that tomorrow can always be better.
I just have to prove I belong here first.
And maybe fix the smell.