12. Mason
Mason
“Let’s go, Sinclair!” Coach yells. “You don’t get to spend your entire spring break getting wasted and come back sloppy just because the season is over!”
I groan behind my helmet.
I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I came back from Florida.
One of our running backs—Reese—smirks at me from the scrimmage line. “I saw some pictures of you on a boat with three girls and a pineapple drink that had a cute little umbrella in it.”
I shake my head at him. “There were only two girls…and it was a coconut drink.”
We run a couple of plays, and my legs already feel like Jell-O. I’m forcing my head to be here, but my body is trying to give up early in training today.
I can’t seem to focus, and during one of our practice plays, I drop the ball on an easy catch.
“Do I need to keep you on the bench next season, Sinclair? What the hell are you doing? Get off my field until you can come back with your head on straight!”
I pull my helmet off and throw my gloves on the ground near the bench.
I’ve gotta focus, do whatever I need to keep up and be the best out there on that field.
We split up into stations after they run some more plays, doing speed ladders, cones, and resistance sprints.
The turf is still wet this early in the morning, and my calves ache every time I slip.
I invite the pain, though, digging in further each time.
I pour all my energy and all my anger into anything physical.
I push myself until I can’t go anymore, and then I keep going anyway.
Out here is where I can lay it all down, let it all out, force the numbness to turn into power, strength, and aggression that I can actually use.
“Drive!” Coach yells.
I do just that, and I push myself as far as I can go, needing the release and needing to be the best.
When I pull the straps off, I drop to the ground, finally feeling the exhaustion hit me all at once.
“Better!” Coach yells. “That’s the Sinclair I know!”
You and everyone else except me.
I get back up and jog to the sleds.
Reed slaps the metal with his palm. “Show it the attention you show all the girls on campus.”
I shake my head, laughing as I grab the pad, sink my hips, and rush the thing like it’s everything I’m trying to push back against in my life.
I hear Coach’s voice in my head, then my mom’s voice over his, softer: “You don’t have to be an avalanche, baby. Just be steady.”
I give it everything I have to make everyone else around here happy, pushing the sled as far as I can go, digging into the ground, and tightening my core with all the strength I have.
We trade off, switch up drills, talk shit, and push each other further and further.
Reese calls me a blonde, rich, wannabe version of Luke Kuechly when we’re all joking around with each other, and I shake my head.
“Tell your mom I’ll keep my jersey on next time I’m inside her if that’s what she’s into,” I shout while we’re doing suicides down the field. “Also, I’m a wide receiver, not a linebacker, idiot!”
Chase joins in, laughing. “We can tag team her if you want. I’ve seen Reese’s mom…she’s hot!”
Reese shoves Chase, and Chase grabs onto his jersey as he falls sideways, knocking into me and making us all tumble to the ground. Coach yells at us and makes us do ten track laps for screwing around.
We strip our pads and helmets off, and as we’re running the track, we have to maneuver around the cheerleaders practicing by the bleachers. I hear them giggle after Chase whistles at them while we’re running by.
They normally practice inside our gym, since they don’t really perform at our games or anything, but sometimes we see them out here when the weather is nicer, or they’re doing certain drills.
On the last lap, we all stop right near them to catch our breath. A couple of the girls walk over to us and grab some waters for themselves. I look up to see two of them smiling at me while whispering something to each other. I smirk at them as I bend down to fix my shoelace.
They both walk over to me together.
“Hey, you’re the rookie from Florida, right?” the tall brunette asks. She looks like a stereotypical British girl with the amount of makeup she has on, and I try not to gawk at how much it’s caking up and coming off with her sweating from practice.
“I don’t know, maybe. I’m sure there’s a couple of Florida boys on the team,” I tell them.
The other girl standing with her laughs. She’s a short, pretty Korean girl with long wavy black hair, and she looks preppy as fuck, with her designer jewelry and a bedazzled uniform. She’s cute, like every other girl around here. She also looks just as shallow as the rest of them.
“We just thought…you’re really tall.”
“Hmm, I was hoping for cute,” I tease.
“That’s a given,” she says. “But seriously, what are you…like six foot?”
“6’2, but what does two inches really matter?” I say, winking at her.
She laughs, and her cheeks turn pink. It’s fun to make girls squirm a little. There’s this satisfaction in it.
“There’s a party tonight,” the brunette says, butting back in and trying to claim some kind of territory here. “You should come by.”
“I’ll see.”
I won’t. I’m beat, and I have early classes tomorrow. Spring break did me in, and I need a minute to recover.
“Let me get your number so I can give you the details, at least.”
Smooth, I’ll give her that.
“Give me your phone,” I tell her. I know I won’t text her back, but I hate making people feel rejected. I know the feeling all too well.
In the locker room, I strip down to my boxers, wanting to change into something less sweaty and outside-smelling for the weight room. As I’m pulling my gym bag out, one of our linemen, Alec, slams into my locker, pretending it was an accident and laughing.
“What’s up, rookie of the year? We haven’t tired you out enough to go running back to the Little Leagues yet?”
“I don’t get tired,” I tell him, shoving the locker door back open and pushing him out of the way.
“How’s it feel to know Daddy bought your spot here on the team?”
Most of the guys are cool on the team, but then there’s, of course, still the few that can’t get over their own jealousy. And it would probably bother me if it were true, but the actual truth is in all the hours, blood, sweat, and tears I’ve put into this sport over the years.
Like I said, I don’t have a desire to go pro, but sports have always been an escape for me, a place to put my anger and frustration, especially after my mom died.
So, yeah, my dad’s name might have put the light on me, but my talent kept it there.
This is my only form of therapy, and I put it to good use.
“Well, the return policy is pretty strict, so no refunds, and no take-backsies,” I tell him, shrugging.
A couple of the guys around us snicker, but Alec doesn’t seem to find me funny.
“Some of us have to grind our asses off to get our spot here. You have money signs by your name and just get handed a spot.”
“Yeah? You think last names and dollar signs run good plays and score touchdowns?”
“They open doors,” he retorts.
“Doors don’t catch 150-yard passes, last time I checked.”
He turns to walk off, mumbling under his breath. “Can’t stand rich, entitled, pretty ass boys who think they’re better than the ones who actually deserve their spots.”
Reese shoots Alec a look as he walks by. “Watch it,” he warns.
“Nah, let ‘em talk,” I say, smiling. “You can have my last name if you take the rest of my life with it,” I yell over to him.
Alec shouts back over his shoulder, “I’ll take the fancy cars and opportunities…you can keep whatever childhood trauma you’ve got plastered on your forehead.”
It shouldn’t sting…but it does.
I just let it roll off as he walks away, grabbing my stuff and changing.
In the weight room, I push another plate onto the bar and slide onto the bench as Chase gets ready to spot me.
“That’s a lot of fucking weight, man,” he says, going to stand behind my head. “Who pissed you off?”
I lift my hands to the bar and arch my back to get into a press position.
“Just need some free therapy, that’s all.”
He chuckles. “You could afford real therapy, you know.”
I push myself through as many reps as I can, wanting to feel the burn. On the last one, my arms shake. The bar stalls and the whole world hangs there with it. Chase pulls the bar up, and the rack catches, making a loud clank as it falls into place.
I sit up, and the room spins for a second. The blood rushes in my ears, and sweat falls into my eyes. I wipe my face with my shirt and then grab my water before going back for another set.
We end the training day by going over film. The dark room is filled with all the guys from the team, and Coach goes over plays from the season we just finished out. He pauses, rewinds, pauses, rewinds, going over every perfect play we had during the season and every sloppy play twice as much.
The praises feel like a high I’m always trying to chase, and the criticism feels like every insecurity I have put under a magnifying glass.
I have such a weird love-hate relationship with football.
On one hand, I don’t care about any of this…
I’m not trying to go where these guys are trying to go.
On the other hand, I know what football gives me; I know the connections, the respect, and the release it brings.
I can appreciate it for what it is, and not hate it like I do with most everything else I’m forced into in my life.
When I get into my dorm for the night, the day finally settles and gets quiet…
too quiet. It’s nice having a dorm to myself, but it’s also really fucking lonely sometimes.
I want more out of life, I want more out of college, and I want more real connections with people.
I’m not built to be alone or be some puppet doll, happy to be controlled and maneuvered however everyone else wants as long as they throw money at any of the actual problems to cover them up.
I just want to find something that makes me feel again.