Page 16 of Draft Pick

"Hey, if you haven't caught chlamydia at least once, are you even in college? Besides, I mostly glove up nowadays and I always pull out. I ain't trying to become a daddy."

We bumped fists in agreement with a hearty "Amen to that" before shoving on our helmets and jogging out to join the team.

Saturday practice was all about running endurance drills to prepare for the upcoming season, which was breathing down our necks. The first game was around the corner, and Coach McKinley was cracking our nuts as the pressure to match expectations had us all feeling the squeeze.

But as much as endurance drills sucked ass, I welcomed the exhaustion of pushing my body. In those moments when all focus was on the moment, I could forget my family bullshit long enough to remember that I used to love this game.

The crunch of helmets, the primal aggression, the smell of testosterone and turf — reminded me of when the love of the game still flowed through my veins. I remember the first time I put on pads — seven years old in Pop Warner rec league — and I'd never felt more like a badass than in that moment.

I was grinning from ear to ear even though I didn't know what I was doing. I learned quickly, though — I'd always been a competitive little shit — and once I discovered I had a knack for throwing the ball, I made improving my game my sole focus.

That was until my dad saw my potential and started putting money behind my career. He called it an "investment," and he treated me like a product that he expected to make a profit.

I couldn't remember the last time my dad asked me if I still wanted to play ball after college. My trajectory was the NFL — end of story. For my dad, there was no other acceptable outcome.

No one talked about how success could rob you of joy. Yet, that was the conversation no one had when they pushed the dream.

"Alexander! Fucking throw the ball! You waiting for a goddamn invitation? You're slow as fucking molasses after the snap! Do it again!"

McKinley's roar penetrated my focus as sweat stung my eyes. The mid-June sun was already starting to bake the field and the back of my exposed neck. I acknowledged the blowhard with a nod and jogged back to the start, getting into place but not before barking at the center, a guy named Ulysses, who was filling in for our injured first string and kept skewing the ball to the left instead of into my hands. "Fucking get your aim straight, man. I'm right behind you, not standing to your fucking left."

"Fuck you, Alexander, don't blame me if you can't catch for shit," Ulysses shot back.

Huge mistake. Lincoln Dorsey, my offensive lineman — a six-foot, five-inch brick wall of muscle and attitude, immediately jumped into the fray with a snarl. "If Alexander says you're skewing the snap, you're skewing the fucking snap, little man. Shut your trap and execute."

"Fuck you, Dorsey. I ain't taking orders from you. Just because you're sucking Alexander's dick don't mean I'm going to. Golden boy's got shit for hands."

Lincoln ripped his helmet off and tossed it before squaring up against Ulysses. "Say it again, shit for brains and I'll take you to fucking school."

"Heyyyy, heyyy, it's okay, Dorsey, he's not worth it," I said, tugging at Lincoln's pads. If McKinley thought we had enough energy to shit-talk, he'd run more drills until we dropped, and I had plans to find Starlie after practice. "Let's get this over with."

Lincoln growled at Ulysses but slowly throttled down. I could feel the collective relief from the team as we returned to our starting positions. No one wanted to run more drills for the rest of the day, which would blow our Saturday night when a bonfire was scheduled for later that night at the beach.

I was trying to figure out a way to get Starlie to go with me but hadn't worked out the details yet. Somehow I didn't think it was Starlie's kind of scene, but I wanted a plausible excuse to see her again instead of just popping up like a stalker at her place.

Somehow through the grace of God, we managed to finish the drill set to McKinley's grudging satisfaction, and we headed for the locker room to shower and get the hell off campus before he changed his mind and called for a team meeting.

Sometimes McKinley got squirrely before the start of the season, but this season was so much worse. After the spring scrimmage, all the pundits started twittering on about how much talent the Wolverines had on the field, and he was paranoid as fuck about delivering.

The man probably ate antacids for breakfast, and his heart was likely a ticking time bomb.

He ought to get laid and chill out, get a massage, eat a moon pie, but McKinley wouldn't know how to relax if given a set of directions.

After a shower, Lincoln strolled over to me and Zayden, a towel wrapped around his midsection, to check in. "You going to Kreller's tonight?"

Kreller's family owned the land above the beach where the bonfire was being held. They were rich as fuck and rarely home. Plus, they didn't care what Kreller did as long as he stayed in school and got a degree — which he was, by the skin of his teeth, but as Kreller always said with a wise-cracking grin, "C's get degrees," and he wasn't wrong.

Kreller was a business major, but knowing him as I did — I wouldn't take business advice from him even if my life depended on it.

Now, where to get the best weed? Sure, Kreller could weigh in with authority. He always had the best smoke at his parties.

Not that I did that shit anymore, though. It became too much of a pain in the ass dodging the mandatory drug testing that started when too many athletes were caught doping with steroids. Now they check for everything, and I wasn't about to get busted for something as stupid as pissing hot and losing everything I'd worked for.

Even if — for a split second — it might be worth seeing my dad's reaction to his "investment" failure. He might have to return to seeing me as his son. I didn't even remember what that was like.

"Hey man, you going?" Lincoln asked again, his brow furrowing.

"Uh, I don't know yet," I hedged, glancing at Zayden to keep his trap shut about Starlie. "Why? Are you?"

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