Chapter 13
Kai
Heat waves shimmered in the air above the field and the sun beating down on my neck was almost intolerable. The sounds of clashing helmets and shrill whistles echoed around as my teammates' cleats dug into the soft ground.
I adjusted my gloves and told myself to relax. This was just another training session. Just reps.
Except it wasn’t. The coaching staff had announced the roster a couple of days ago, and I’d actually made the cut. Problem was, I wasn’t sure I actually deserved this spot and I was absolutely certain some of my teammates thought so too.
Every day, it was still like stepping into someone else’s rhythm. Back home, I’d orchestrated the rhythm; it was mine. Rugby had been tumultuous but it was my kind of tumult.
It was fast, fluid, and instinctive and I fucking lived and breathed that shit.
On the other hand, football was calculated. It was almost like a precise staccato, full of lines and timing.
I crouched low, rolling my shoulders. My muscles were ready but my mind was a different story. As per usual.
Just keep up, Kai. Don’t overthink it. Remember what Tori said.
“Defense, reset!” Coach’s booming voice carried across the field.
As I jogged to my position, adrenaline pumped through my veins. I knew this drill — pass protection and inside coverage. I should be able to do this in my sleep, and yet the nerves still hit me.
The whistle blew and everyone sprang into action.
I read the fake handoff a heartbeat too late.
A flash of a maroon jersey moved in my peripheral vision, cutting through the line before I’d even so much as shifted my weight.
By the time I’d turned around, the play had already passed and the runner was halfway downfield.
Fuck me.
“Yo, nice delay, Sunshine!” Marcus, one of the other tight ends smacked my helmet, roaring with laughter. “You buffering again, bro?”
A bunch of the others chuckled and heat rushed to my ears. Not all of them were trying to be dicks or to even mock me, really. The majority of them were just taking the piss in a good-natured way, but I was certain Marcus wasn’t.
I forced a grin and lifted a gloved hand in surrender, acting as though this didn't bother me at all. “Guess I’m on dial-up.”
More laughter, someone slapped me on the back, and just like that they moved on.
But I didn’t.
Half a second. It always took me half a damn second too long.
Sweat was sliding down my spine, soaking my jersey. My mouthguard tasted of plastic and something bitter; the overwhelming frustration was assaulting my senses.
I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter — nobody cared, everyone messed up sometimes — but it wasn’t true.
They’d noticed.
Probably not enough to bench me and not enough to really fuck with me, but it’d been enough.
It was enough to make me aware of the subdued, cautious attitude of my teammates towards me, as if they didn’t quite trust me to read the next play quickly enough.
My chest grew tight and I could sense anxiety trying to take hold, but I tried my best to shrug it off.
“Alright, again!” Coach barked. “Same setup. Let’s see it clean.”
Inhaling through my nose, I flexed my fingers a couple of times. I could fucking do this. I knew I could.
The whistle cut through the air and I got into position.
This time, I moved with them, keeping my footwork clean and staying square to the line.
The running back cut right, and I stayed on his tail as the quarterback faked left and pitched it outside.
I hesitated for just a breath … and that was enough.
Propelling myself forward, I lunged but too late. All my hands brushed was fucking air.
Another gap, accompanied by another burst of laughter.
Fuck me.
Marcus slapped my shoulder as we reset. “Dude, your instincts are lagging. You need a software update or something?”
I offered him a tight smile, still trying my hardest to appear unbothered. “You offering tech support, mate?”
“Sure,” Marcus said. “Start by uninstalling rugby.”
Yeah nah, not happening. For now, I may have been at a disadvantage, but once I figured out how to apply my skills to this field properly, these blokes were fucking toast.
The others laughed again.
They thought of rugby as my crutch. Everything I was, everything I learned, it was like some outdated operating system I couldn’t delete.
And in some way, they might’ve even been right.
Fact was, I was built for one and just trying to survive the other.
By the time practice wrapped, my legs were as heavy as lead. I yanked my helmet off and wiped sweat from my face, squinting against the sun.
The guys were laughing as they walked off, slapping backs and tossing jokes around as they talked about plans for later.
I smiled and nodded at those I made eye contact with, easily joining their rhythm.
They liked me — almost everyone liked me — but they didn’t see me.
All they saw was a big dude who was trying too hard and getting nowhere.
A good sport.
A nice guy.
Not the one you trusted with the final play.
After everyone left, I lingered on the field, alone with the turf and the faint sound of traffic far off the fence line.
Once more, I crouched down, replaying the movement in my head — the fake, the shift, the missed angle.
This time, I moved more slowly, focusing on my steps, trying to recall how exactly this movement had felt in Tori’s small bedroom. But I still got it wrong.
I threw my hands upwards in frustration, then roughly tugged at my hair. My body wanted to attack, and my instincts demanded to charge through.
Football wanted him to wait, to absorb, to read.
Trouble was, I’d never been good at waiting.
Ain’t that a bitch.
Dusk was starting to fall as I lined up against a tackling dummy, the kind that rocked on a heavy spring.
“Alright,” I muttered under my breath. “React. Don’t think. React.”
Again, I lunged forward, hitting the dummy with a dull thud.
Too high.
My weight shifted forward, causing my chest to hit the dummy instead of driving through it. Cursing softly, I stumbled back, throwing my head back with a frustrated groan.
“Nice, mate. Really elegant. Maybe next time try falling with a little more style,” I sputtered out.
I reset once more, this time trying to stay lower. Somehow, it still turned out wrong. Briefly, I wondered if I’d ever get this right. Would I even know what right would feel like?
The difference between rugby and football was muscle memory … and mine was betraying me. My mind went back to the jokes the others made earlier. The painful truth was, they joked because it was true.
I always needed an extra beat.
Always.
All my life, I'd been held back by these half-second lags, and I'd never resented them as much as I had over the past few weeks.
There had never been a time when it wasn't like this. Someone would tell a joke, everyone would laugh, and then there would be me, five seconds later: 'Oh.'
It wasn’t funny anymore; it was predictable, and predictability was dangerous. Predictability could end my career.
I hit the dummy again, harder, fueled by the bitter fury swirling in the pit of my stomach, eating me up from the inside out.
My gloves were slick with sweat, and the smell of turf burned my nostrils. Panting, I took a step back, my jaw muscles working overtime. My vision blurred slightly from the heat and exhaustion.
Suddenly, I was fourteen again, standing in a locker room while my mates riffed about something clever one of them had said. I’d laugh, pretending I got it but it always took me a second longer than everyone else.
They hadn’t noticed.
I’d noticed, though.
It was one of these things you couldn’t ignore once you became aware of it. People liked me, sure, but no one ever followed my lead.
I wasn’t the spark, I was just a fucking echo.
Inhaling deeply through my nose, I closed my eyes for a second, then ran the rep one more time.
And missed again.
This time, I didn’t even swear. I just stood there, my chest heaving, while the shame and frustration burned hot in my chest and prickled in my eyes.
Roughly tugging my helmet off, I let it dangle from one hand.
“What am I even doing here?” I whispered quietly, although there was no one around to hear me.
The words echoed in my mind as I stared at the turf but all it did was stare back, indifferently.
Frustration left a bitter taste in my mouth and made my throat feel tight. I ripped off my gloves and threw them both into the dirt.
It wasn't as satisfying as I’d hoped.
My knuckles itched to punch something. I wasn’t usually an aggressive person but apparently even I had my limits.
For a long moment, I just stood there, my shoulders shaking faintly, until the anger cooled into something worse — the dull ache of disappointment.
I knew I was strong.
I knew I was fast.
But, for some reason, I just couldn’t seem to think the way everyone else did, and it left me feeling like a kid again, waiting for someone to explain the joke.
Eventually, the lights on the field flickered off and subsequently, the hum of the generators faded. Disgruntled, I picked up my gloves, brushed the dirt off them, and began my walk of shame.