Chapter 2
brODY
A murmur of appreciation rumbles out of me as I follow my new roommates into the Howlers Wrestling Club for our first team orientation.
Stepping inside the state-of-the-art facility has me feeling excited for the year ahead despite how chaotic the summer, and my decision to transfer, have been.
I could wallow in the unfairness of needing to move closer to home, but I’m choosing to focus on the opportunity that landed in my lap.
I’m extremely lucky that there was a place for me here, and one that my existing scholarships mostly cover.
Huntston University is a great school. It competes with the Ivy League in academic prestige and has an incredible athletics department.
I’m transferring from another Division One school in the Midwest, where wrestling is practically a religion, but this place is fancy.
Standing in the building now, I honestly can’t believe my circumstances led me here.
The building is a large rectangular structure on the far side of the main athletic complex.
From the outside, it looks like most of the rest of the campus—red brick and pristine white pillars with gabled roofs, surrounded by sprawling lawns and lush greenery.
Inside, it’s sleek and modern. There are two entrances.
One at the front of the building facing the parking areas, where spectators and visitors enter.
The team enters through the back entrance that faces the dorms, where there’s a small lobby with a desk and sitting area, and two open doorways on either side of the desk.
One leads to a large meeting room, study area, and back entrance to the spectator section of the main floor.
The other leads to the lockers and athletic training offices.
We walk through the locker rooms first, which has my mouth gaping.
I knew that Huntston University had money, but this place looks like a locker room I would expect professional sports teams to have.
While I’m sure the team will eventually stink up the place, everything is pristine, shiny and new-looking.
A grin spreads across my face at my name on a little engraved nameplate on one of the lockers.
Inside, it’s packed with a brand-new sports bag, water bottle, several practice and competition uniforms, sweat bands, a hat, and a bunch of other team swag, all emblazoned with the Howlers Wrestling Club brand.
After touring the locker and shower rooms, we walk through a recovery and sports-medicine suite, where there are treatment rooms and offices for various trainers and physical therapists, hydrotherapy and cryo-chambers, and a sauna.
Then we walk through a gym with all kinds of strength and conditioning zones, cardio equipment, free-weights and kettlebells, plyometric boxes, and everything else a gym could need.
And that’s all before we finally spill out to the main floor.
It's a vast space with high ceilings and bright lighting surrounded by acoustic-panels to reduce echo. There’s a catwalk above the main floor with a running track that circles the room, and wide staircases leading up to the coaching staff’s offices and a large team briefing area.
The center of the room is dominated by three competition mats, surrounded by several smaller practice mats, easily enough space for all weight classes to practice.
My new roommates lead me to the spectator stands, where the team and staff are gathered for the orientation.
Since I arrived later in the day yesterday, I haven’t had much of a chance to meet anyone outside of Aaron and Jay, but they seem like really great guys.
I can easily see myself making friends and fitting in here.
We reach the group, and Jay starts the introductions. I shake hands and exchange easy conversation about stats and excitement about the season. Everyone seems decent—loud, and obviously competitive, but welcoming enough.
This is a good thing. A great opportunity!
I have to remind myself of that several times when I come face-to-face with someone from my past. And since I look pretty much the same as I did in high school, with some added height and muscle mass, he doesn’t even need an introduction.
“Holy shit, it’s Miller Time!” Pierce Jamison crows, bringing back a taunt I’d hoped to never hear again. A couple guys laugh automatically, not knowing the history behind the joke. Why would they? To them, it’s probably just a beer brand tagline. A harmless joke. Funny.
Ha. Ha.
I thought I’d left this bullshit behind when I moved halfway across the damn country for school.
I knew there was a possibility of seeing people who knew the old me, and you’d think that we’d all matured out of the bullying stage.
But seeing Pierce and that smug, amused smirk proves otherwise.
It sours the positive spin I was using to take the edge off my situation.
I force a chuckle and bump my old high school rival’s shoulder like we’re old friends, even though the contact makes my stomach twist. “Good to see you, Pierce. You look well.”
“So do you, man. I assumed you would have dropped out or followed in your old man’s footsteps by now!” He laughs. “I’m just kidding! Didn’t you get a scholarship and move out to Oklahoma or something?”
“Nebraska,” I correct with a forced laugh, my stomach twisting into a painful knot.
“Right, right. One of those armpit states.” He snickers. “So what the fuck are you doing back here?” His tone is so light, you’d think he was actually being friendly if you didn’t pay too much attention to the words he’s saying, or understand the malice behind them.
“I thought I might move closer to home,” I answer cryptically. The last thing I’d ever want is for this douchebag to know the truth.
“Yeah, but how the hell did you end up here?” He says pointedly, guffawing at his own joke.
“I got a scholarship,” I answer proudly, because I am proud.
I might have grown up poorer than Pierce and most of my peers did, but I worked hard and earned a place where people like this twatwaffle don’t think I belong.
Being poor or having parents with… issues…
doesn’t make me less than anyone else. It didn’t then, and it doesn’t now.
If anything, my placement at this school is proof of that.
“I guess Huntston’s standards have dropped this year,” Pierce murmurs, chuckling. He thinks he’s funny, but no one around him laughs.
Pierce shrugs, like he can’t imagine why no one else is finding his lack of wit amusing. “Oh, Miller knows I’m just playing around,” he says, nudging me with his elbow.
I chuckle, because I kind of have to. I learned a long time ago that the only way to respond to this shit is to laugh with them.
Don’t give the bullies the satisfaction of knowing they get under your skin, and eventually they’ll get bored and move on.
Besides that, if I take it seriously, then it becomes real.
Then it all starts again and will never end.
Maybe if I don’t take the bait, he’ll be mature enough to let it go.
Aaron is watching me a little too closely, brow furrowed. “You two know each other?”
“Yeah man, Miller Time and I go way back.”
I make what I hope is a friendly, agreeable facial expression. “We went to the same high school.”
Aaron nods, and I get the feeling he’s seeing more than I’d like him to.
He shoots a look at Jay, who scowls at Pierce.
Not that Pierce notices, he’s too busy telling a couple of his buddies about some of the stuff my older brother used to get into.
Not that any of it has anything to do with me, but I suppose the stories are entertaining. To them.
I just laugh like the good-natured idiot I trained myself to be.
And when Pierce asks how my brother is, his tone suggesting he’s been up to no good, I don’t let the urge to punch him overtake me.
Instead, I redirect the conversation, grateful that news of my brother’s condition hasn’t gotten out.
Or at least, it hasn’t made it this far.
My chest tightens with the instinct to defend Davis.
To defend my dad. But I don’t. I never did.
Like I am now, all I ever did was laugh along.
Until the day I packed up and moved away, abandoning my mom and Davis and ignoring any signs that they might have still needed me.
I moved halfway across the country, thinking that making something of myself would be easier without the stigma attached to my name.
And it was, for a while. Unfortunately reality, as it so often does, caught up to me.
Jay takes the opportunity to avert my attention elsewhere, which I’m grateful for.
He and Aaron introduce me to some more people.
I meet a guy named Jeremy Fisher who calls himself Fish.
He’s in my same degree program and we have a couple of shared classes.
He tells me to message him on the campus message app, Howler, so we can hang out to study.
“It’s not just for hooking up,” Fish says, when someone makes a joke about Fish coming onto me. “I promise I’m not hitting on you,” he says with an oddly serious face.
“Okay,” I say with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t be offended, though.” And I definitely wouldn’t. Fish is a good looking guy, with a playful grin and an endearing smatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
Just then, an older man with a no-nonsense attitude barrels into the room, clapping his hands and getting our attention with a shockingly loud voice.
“Sit your asses down! Let’s get this started!”