86. Watch Me, Pixie-bitch
WATCH ME, PIXIE-BITCH
LAYTON
“Don’t laugh, asshole.”
“You know I’m gonna. Former rookie of the year can’t stand on his own two feet.” Our center taunts me from his mat next to mine.
“I can outrun you.”
“But you can’t stand up,” Marshall continues, a little too loudly. He isn’t the picture of grace, but he’s in the pose. A smile splits his face watching me struggle.
“Gentlemen.” The admonishment comes from the pixie at the front of the room as she folds into some unnatural shape. “Focus on your core and breathe through the movement. Good. Now let’s move into warrior pose.”
We do, fighting laughter as we twist into another shape.
“What’s next? Ballet? Maybe the cheerleaders can walk us through dance moves,” I offer.
“It would be easier than this shit,” says the voice from my other side.
“You’re not lying,” Mattis, our defensive tackle, whispers to Carlson.
Only it’s not a whisper.
“Gentlemen, show some respect to me and the other participants in the class. If you can’t, you’re free to leave.”
Carlson and I, as if we choreographed our moves, step aside, bend to roll our mats, and move for the door.
Just as we hit the exit, she says, “I’m sorry to see you’re too weak to participate. I’ll meet you both this afternoon in PT. I’ll text your appointment times and notify the coach that your bodies aren’t up for this.”
Say what?
I turn and stare, slack-jawed. She just threw down the gauntlet in front of my whole team.
I look at our kicker and walk back into class to the back of the room as he slides out the door. I sling my stupid purple yoga mat to the floor and climb on to imitate the instructor. There is no way I cannot create her pose.
I’m an elite athlete.
First-round draft pick.
Freaking NFL rookie of the year, though it’s been seven years now.
My body has been honed through decades of two-a-days, workouts, sprints, and weight training. On-season and off, I work my ass off for this body. Without it, I have no job. No income. I need it in peak shape, or I don’t have the life I love.
I could shovel horse shit like my family, but that’s not my thing. It never has been.
My body takes me to the end zone and when I get there, I feel the absolute fucking thrill of elation.
I was made to run. I get paid to run. If they want to pay me to contort into a pretzel, so be it.
But no one will tell my coach that my body can’t handle something.
Bench presses.
Leg presses.
Three-hundred-pound tackles into turf-covered concrete.
Ice baths.
Sprains, strains, and breaks.
Contusions.
Road rash.
Fucking concussion protocols.
My body can do anything.
I tell myself this over and over as I wobble on one leg, one bare foot resting on my chiseled calf.
“Deep breaths and lean forward,” the pixie says.
Lean, my ass. If I lean, I’ll topple, but I stretch through it and pretend my professional athlete body can do what her yoga one can. It’s not even close, but I pretend nonetheless.
Too weak to participate, my ass. Watch me, pixie-bitch.
Fucking watch me.
Unknown number: PT scheduled for 3:30.
Me: I’m with the trainers at 3:30.
Unknown number: According to the team medical staff, you’re with me at 3:30.
What the fuck?
I grind my teeth and head for Athletic Training. We have a dozen trainers who wrap us, stretch us, and work out the kinks.
I slide into the room and make my way to Jimmy.
“Hey.”
“What’s up, Layton?”
“You up for stretching me?”
He looks around like I’m joking.
“Like… now?”
“Yeah.” I drop my bag at my feet and move to one of the tables set up through the room, hop on, and lie back.
“Anything hurting or tight?” Jimmy begins working.
“Right hamstring, but it’s always tight.”
This visit has two purposes. I want to be as limber as possible before I meet with the physical therapist and I need more info to know what I’m dealing with.
“Do you feel anything unusual in my stretches?”
“So far, everything feels good. I don’t get any resistance other than you’re cold and your range is less for it, but that’s okay.”
“Any reason I should see the PT about this ham?”
“Livy? Nah. I can’t imagine she will find anything that I won’t. I mean, you’re not injured.”
“Why’d they hire a yoga instructor as a PT?”
“They didn’t. She went to Pitt.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“It’s one of the top physical therapy schools in the country. Only the best and brightest get in. The yoga stuff is extra.”
I groan. Great. She knows what she’s doing and she’s torturing me for fun.
“You can take more than that.”
It takes me a moment to recognize he’s reacting to my groan and must think I’m hurting.
“Yeah, go for it.”
We shoot the shit while he stretches my lower body until the guys filter in to get taped for afternoon practice.
My ass vibrates with a text.
Brighton: Will you be my best man?
Along with my sister’s message is a picture of a ring and a video of her with— Is that… Dolly Parton?
Me: Depends. Are you marrying Elias or Dolly?
Brighton: Eli. But seriously, did you see the video?
Me: Not yet. You keep texting.
Brighton: I’ll wait.
Brighton: You didn’t answer me.
Me: I answered I haven’t seen it yet. Were you at a drag show?
Brighton: About the best man thing.
Brighton: And, no. Real, live, in-person queen-of-everything Dolly freaking Parton.
Me: Well, I know famous people too.
Brighton: Do you know DOLLY?
Me: Yeah, she’s awesome in bed.
Brighton: La la la la. I can’t hear you. Go watch. Then say yes!
I flip to her video and am shocked as shit to see her singing on stage with Dolly. She hasn’t shut up about the woman for as long as I can remember. Now, we’ll never hear the end of this.
My siblings are dropping like flies into monogamy and small-town life.
Bright’s words from Thanksgiving echo in my head. “You’re next. Rangers always come home.”
Not if I can help it, sis. Not if I can help it.