Page 7 of The Late Hit
Looking over her back, she asks, “You comin'?”
I stare at her, a quizzical expression stretching across my face. Slipping off my shoes, it takes me two steps to catch up to her. She leads us to her room and plops down on her bed. I’m so confused.
“Are you gonna stand in the doorway, or are you going to come in and watch a movie with me?”
This girl. She never fails to surprise me. Of course, I’m staying and watching a movie. It’s been too long since B and I just got the chance to chill. No roommates, no friends, and no one looking to hook up interrupting us.
Holding the remote up, she clicks on Disney+. “Thor: Love and ThunderorBlack Widow?” she asks, taking another gulp of her malt.
Bringing my hand to my chin, I act like I’mreallypondering this.
“Hmm,” I begin. “Watch you gush over Hemsworth or watch me gush over Johansson, hmm.”
“You won’t be the only one gushing over Scarlett. She’s a babe.”
Snapping my head at her, I let out a chuckle. “Black Widow it is then.”
Both of us smile at each other before turning our attention to the movie. I settle against the pile of pillows Brynn has on her bed. and she snuggles closer to me. This is my favorite way to spend an afternoon off.
The weekend passed by in a blur. I swear it was just Saturday afternoon, and Brynn and I were arguing about who had the better chance of shagging a superhero. She says Hemsworth wouldn’t be able to pass her up, and I said Scarlett would be stunned to see me. It was a silly argument full of hypotheticals, but that’s our game.
Instead of chilling in bed, I’m tossing my phone, a.k.a. my alarm clock, on the floor. Five o’clock comes way too damn early. The team has a mandatory six a.m. lift Monday through Thursday. It’s Coach’s way of making sure we get our asses up for classes.
Stumbling into the bathroom, I flip on the light and rub my hands over my eyes to get the sleep out of them. Sliding the curtain back, I turn on the shower. A cold shower in the morning is how I start the day. I step out of my boxers before reaching into the closet for a towel. Tossing the towel onto the toilet seat, I jump in the waiting cold water.
“Fuuuck,” I draw as soon as the cold water hits me.
Grabbing my body wash and pouring some in my hand, I immediately start scrubbing down my body. A cold shower is the only thing that can jolt me out of sleep, but damn it’s so cold. I finish showering in roughly four minutes before hopping out and drying off with my towel.
I’m excited about this week. It’s another week of classes, and unlike most, I enjoy my classes. There’s just something about sitting in lectures and learning about the body. While most athletes, especially those looking to go pro, pick fluff majors, I picked a major that I wouldactuallyenjoy doing if football doesn’t pan out. Leaving sports forever would never work for me, so I decided on athletic training.
I’ve had some incredible trainers throughout the years of sports, but my high school trainer was the absolute best. She was fun, she was nurturing, and she could read our bodies like we came with manuals. No one likes to sit out and miss games and practices. Ms. Fox knew when we were hurting. It was like she could use her eyes to scan us and diagnose the problem. It’s what made her a helluva trainer.
One time in my junior year, I took a nasty hit and tweaked my hip. Whenever a coach or personnel would pass, I would suck it up and overcompensate to make it look like nothing was bothering me. Ms. Fox caught on. After practice one day, she asked me to come into the training room and point-blank called me out.
“Boyd, how am I supposed to help you when you don’t tell me that your hip is bothering you?” she said, staring me down.
Ms. Fox was a petite lady in her mid-forties. But when she stared you down, that lady made you feel small. Like a damn child. It was humiliating. Well, maybe not humiliating, maybe humbling.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied, looking anywhere but at her.
“Quinton Boyd, you’re full of it. I’ve been watching you gimp around all week. Now, lay back, and let me check it out,” she said, sliding her stool closer to the training table. “Give me any pushback and I’ll tell the coaches. But neither of us wants that.”
Turns out it was just a bruised muscle and, with some of her magic, she was able to get it feeling close to normal by that Friday’s game. I think she was a wizard in her past life, like someone from Harry Potter. She had insane healing powers.
Halfway through my freshman year in college, I called up Ms. Fox to let her know that I was going into athletic training. She was so excited to hear from me. The whole time on the call, she kept spilling secret after secret of her wizardly ways. Before we ended our call, she told me how proud she was that I made it, and that she always knew I would. It was an unusual way to end our conversation. But six months later, it made sense. Ms. Fox died of stage four cancer that she had been secretly battling.
While I know she’s not physically here to cheer me on, I know that wizard is watching down on me. And I’m going to make her proud.
After finishing up the normal morning routine, I slip into a pair of mesh shorts, a fitted, sleeveless CTU Eagles, and tennis shoes. Grabbing my workout bag and backpack, I head downstairs.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” my roommate, Jeremiah, greets me.
I grunt in acknowledgment.
Our house only has one blender, which is stupid, but none of us ever think about buying another one. So each morning, it’s a race to get downstairs and get to the blender first. Most mornings, I beat my roommates. Today, I was too slow.
“Lucky for you, I made extra,” he says over the whirring of the blender.
