Page 116 of For the Fans
I hate knots. Straight lines are all I need to concern myself with.
Me: No.
Avi: *pouty face emoji* Why not?
Me: Because I’m leaving for Arizona in the morning and I don’t have time to deal with you
Avi: But wouldn’t you be so much less stressed about the playoffs if you got some more of this dick that makes you come cross-eyed?
A tiny, completely ludicrous noise comes flying out of my throat willy nilly, and I bite my lip. Clenching my teeth together, I shift over the buzzing in my balls and angrily type out a message.
Me: Fuck off Avi. The only thing I need from you is money. Got it??
He doesn’t reply for a full minute. And when he finally does, it’s just a GIF of Oscar the Grouch popping out of his trash can.
Rolling my eyes, I stuff my phone away, getting up and stomping into my room for my gym bag. There’s too much nonsense piling up in my head, too much irritation and confusion I refuse to think about fizzling in my veins.
I need to go work out. Get my head back on football and nothing else.
After all, none of this other bullshit means anything if I don’t win these games, and help my team bring home a championship.
Leaving my dorm, I brave the frigid air of December, walking over to Fish Field House. It’s the building where all of our training and practice goes down. The gym in here is pretty decent. Sometimes we’ll use the rec center, but being that we’re in the middle of playoffs and leaving for an away game in the morning, I’m sure most of my teammates will be here.
Popping in my earbuds and grabbing my water bottle, I lock my stuff up in one of the lockers and head into the gym. Just like I thought, a lot of the guys are here right now, and they nod at me upon my entrance. Some of them shout things my way, but we don’t engage in any conversation. I think they can tell by mydemeanor that I’m not in the mood for chitchat, which is a good thing.
Getting set up on one of the leg machines, I glance around the open space. I don’t see Theo or Guty anywhere, which is weird because I thought they said they were coming down.Maybe they’re swimming…
My playlist pumps steady beats in my ears, and I breathe through the weight, zoning out and focusing on the burn. I do this for a while, moving around the room to different leg machines, because it’s leg day. Then I make my way over to the big wall mirror, staring at myself for a few seconds before I grab a medicine ball.
I’m bending at the waist, doing squats and watching the way my muscles flex and glisten, the strength pushing through the pain, when something moves in my peripheral. I stop to brush an errant strand of hair from my face, my eyes locking on a mystery form who just walked into the room.
I didn’t catch his face because he’s weaving in between machines, but he’s wearing gray sweatpants and a tank top, the way a certain someone is always dressed when I visit him in his dorm.
Shaking that away, I suck in a breath, preparing to go down again as my eyes narrow at the dude’s tattoos on his arm… The olive complexion of his skin.
Oh, no fucking way…
The guy steps aside, revealing a backwards Yankees cap covering a wild mane of dark hair, and a wicked grin.
I drop the medicine ball with a thud. “Fuck…” I grumble, having just narrowly avoided crushing my foot.
But I can’t even think about that right now. Because Avi is here, inmygym, entering my personal space.
He starts speaking, but my music is too loud and I can’t hear him. Pausing the track, I glare at him, jaw straining from theaggravation of seeing him in a place that’s supposed to be a safe haven from his bullshit.
“What the fuck are you doing here??” I hiss, my eyes flinging around to make sure no one’s watching us. Of course they are.
All eyes are on us right now.
“You know, I’ve never been in here before?” Avi sighs, his head pivoting around as he takes in the gym. Then his eyebrow cocks. “The rec center is way nicer…”
“Shut up,” I bark, and his face slowly tilts in my direction, gaze narrowing. “This place is for athletes only. How’d you even get in here anyway?”
“I’m part of the team.” He shrugs casually, smirk widening into a shit-eating grin that makes me want to punch him.
“No… you’renot,” I rumble firmly. “You’re the mascot. Mascots don’t do anything.”
He scoffs. “You think those dance moves justhappen??”
