Page 85 of Anatomy of a Player

I trusted her.

My anger grew, and I welcomed the burn because it meant I didn’t have to carry the burden of our breakup alone. It proved my theory about relationships being toxic. And not only was she dragging me down, she’d decided to take the only family I had down with me. How fucked up was that?

I’d known from the beginning that the idea that love could conquer all was bullshit. Still I’d jumped. Let myself foolishly believe for just long enough for it to blow up in my face, and now the people I cared about most were also going to get hurt.

I gripped the copy of theHeightsin my fist, the paper making a crinkling noise. I wanted to read it almost as badly as I didn’t want to. Unfolding it brought Whitney’s image up, and the tiny black and white picture caused my heart to snag and stop beating for a couple of seconds.

Dane clapped me on the shoulder and nodded, the way teachers and older people did when they hoped you were about to reconsider your life. “I’ll give you a few minutes, then we’ll talk strategy.”

I shook my head. “I worry about your mental state sometimes, I really do.”

Dane grinned, because he obviously had issues. He turned and started banging around in the kitchen, opening and shutting cupboards, while I dropped to the couch and started reading.

As you might have noticed, there’s been a debate going on around campus, thanks to a certain survey asking about the preferential treatment of athletes. I guess it’s time to admit that I created the survey, and while I didn’t mean to cause such a stir, it’s obvious there are very strong feelings on both sides. After a lot of research, as well as spending some time with the hockey team, here are my findings…

She started off with facts about the number of scholarships rewarded for sports versus academics, talked about the money the college both spent and brought in through the athletic departments, and wrote that her survey found that 72 percent of students who answered thought athletes received special treatment. She quoted a couple of the comments from people who felt passionately about the unfairness—one nicely worded and one that called jocks brainless jerks.

Then she discussed all the ways that athletes did, in fact, receive special treatment. The part of me that had always felt like I didn’t deserve to be here rose to the surface, along with a steady dose of guilt, but the other part of me argued that those things were the only way I survived. I knew plenty of students studied, but the hours of practice on top of studying? How could we do that without some extra help? I was drowning as it was, and I wasn’t half-assing it, either.

But the next section of the article pointed that out. It mentioned the long hours of practice and time spent traveling, and how competitive it was to get and keep a spot on college sports teams. Whitney even brought in the high injury risk and how an injury could result in loss of scholarship, as well as medical bills that neither the school nor personal health insurance covered much of, unless it was a high-profile player who’d been injured publicly. She quoted a few comments from the athletes, one that I found myself nodding at and another that made me cringe at how self-righteous, angry, and moronic it came across.

I reached the final paragraphs, wondering if she’d saved the meanest for last, since so far, it had been fairly balanced. This would probably state her final decision and add the cheating she’d mentioned.

So while I know it might not always seem fair, I guess we’ll have to file this under that saying you hate hearing from your parents and teachers: “Life’s not fair.” Most of the athletes I’ve met are nice guys who are working hard to keep up with college while playing a sport they love. Just like many of us are working hard to keep up with college while working full-time, often in low-level and crappy jobs, and trying to fit in our hobbies on the side until we find a way to turn those hobbies into something that makes us money.

As expected, there were also some self-entitled players, ones in need of serious ego checks, who think they can walk on water, frozen or not.

My stomach dropped. I knew she thought I fit there, and on some aspects, I couldn’t totally disagree.

Players that fit in both of those categories often get away with things other students might not. The fact is, colleges—like 99% of institutions and businesses out there—are going to follow the money. While some student funds go to the athletics department, those funds also funnel back into the college, so in the end, what we have is a symbiotic relationship.

So while we might not always agree, I’m hoping we’ll get our symbiotic on and try to close the canyon that’s opened between the two groups. By all means, let your voice be heard. Just remember that well-thought-out honey letters will win more flies than the hate-filled vinegar ones. Since these flies happen to decide where our college funds go, this is one instance where you actually want to catch some. As for me, I’ll keep cheering on our championship hockey team, even if I’ll be writing articles and sneaking in a few minutes of studying between periods.

I lowered the paper and startled when I noticed Dane was next to the coffee table again, getting ready to raise his second burrito to his mouth before he even finished scarfing down the first.

“She said she’d keep cheering for us,” Dane said through his food.

“Yeah. That was a surprise.” More than a surprise, actually. I’d been prepared for scathing words and insults about me personally, and to be mad on behalf of my teammates. I’d thought I would feel justified, that this would only provide more proof that she and I would’ve never worked out anyway, regardless of what I’d done.

I read that last line again.

I wanted those words to mean she’d forgiven me—I even wanted to read something into her use of periods instead of quarters, but that just meant she’d learned the terminology.

“So, what are you going to do?” Dane asked.

“Look, this doesn’t mean she forgives me, and it definitely doesn’t mean she wants me back. She was just trying to do the fair and balanced thing, because that’s what good journalists do.” I needed to tell myself that before I went and let the hope that I’d snuffed out Saturday night relight long enough for my heart to get stomped on all over again.

Dane sat on the other end of the couch and licked greasy cheese sauce off his fingers. “Come on, you’ve got to try.”

“I did,” I said, folding the paper in half two times. I knew it’d be torturous to look at, yet I was going to do it anyway. I’d stare at her picture and read her words again and again and probably even look for hidden meaning that wasn’t there. I’d been reduced to that, and I didn’t even care.

“But did you really?” Dane placed his empty plate on the coffee table and faced me. “What did you do?”

I’d honestly planned on taking it to the grave, but the guy had come home and given me a speech I needed, so I gave in. “I told her I loved her. She slapped me.”

“Damn, that’s harsh! She’s even more feisty than I gave her credit for.”

I glared at him.

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