Page 91 of The Late Hit
“I’m so sorry for everything, Brynn. I hope you can forgive me someday.” Slowly, I move my arms up to her waist and give her a small squeeze. Our hug is short as she pulls away first. Taking a tissue from her pocket, she wipes her tear-streaked face, leaving her foundation behind on the white paper. “Be safe heading home.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
And with that, I turn and walk away. Leaving my mother alone in the cemetery.
I came to Chicago to seek closure from my dead boyfriend and to catch up with my dead twin brother, but I’m leaving Chicago hopeful that someday I’ll actually have a relationship with my mother.
A relationship I thought was dead, too.
Thedaysgobyin a blur. Wake up, lift weights, class, film, make out with Brynn, class, practice, study, and then end the night tangled in the sheets with Brynn. And repeat.
Life is crazy busy. It’s been two weeks since Brynn came back from Chicago. She’s turned into a different woman. She’s still the same Brynn that I’ve fallen in love with, but she seems lighter.
In that time, we’ve won the last two games, and tomorrow is the beginning of rivalry week. One more win, and we are heading to the conference championship. When we win that game, it’s off to the playoffs. The National Title game is so close I can smell the blood, sweat, and tears.
My body twitches in anticipation, my mind constantly running. But Brynn is always there beside me to talk me off the ledge. The weight of all the pressure is starting to wrap around my ankles and drag me to the bottom of the sea. Anytime I sit down, my knee instantly begins to bounce like I’m on a constant trampoline.
My dreams are so close to coming true.
Every tough practice that left my muscles screaming. Every event I had to turn down because of football. It’s all going to be worth it in just a few short weeks.
My parents can sense it too. They've been calling almost daily to talk about my game, but I’ve been ignoring them. I know that I shouldn’t, but I don’t need them adding any more pressure to my shoulders. My back is strapped with my own weight, the weight of the team, the weight of the university, the weight of the media, and the weight of the NFL. One wrong move could put everything in jeopardy, and I just can’t risk that.
Years growing up watchingLittle Giantstaught me that football is eighty percent mental and forty percent physical, which means my head has to be screwed on straight. It also means that any free time I have is spent in the team’s weight room getting stronger. It’s where I am tonight.
The sounds of the bars clanking together. Hearing myself grunt from the exertion. Feeling my body push itself to its limit. It all gives me peace. The weight room is my solace. The space where I can be left alone with my thoughts or the place where I can zone everything out as I let music blare through the room, leaving no room for intrusive thoughts.
Tonight, I went with the latter option.
Drake croons from the speakers while I work my legs on the leg press machine. Hitting my third rep, the music cuts off. Scanning the room, I find Coach Campbell over by the sound system. Lowering my legs to where the weight rests, I sit up, grabbing a towel and wiping the sweat that’s running down my face.
“Coach.” I greet him, squirting a stream of water in my mouth.
“What are you doing here, Boyd?” he asks, not moving from where he’s leaning on the wall. “It’s eleven thirty at night.”
“Couldn’t sleep, Coach.”
Making his way over, Coach stops at the machine next to me, sliding his hands into his jeans pockets. “Then find yourself a piece of ass and work off steam that way. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
Sitting up straighter, my eyes stare him down. “Coach—” I start but am immediately cut off.
Shaking his head, he slips his hat off and runs his fingers through his hair before sliding it back on. Coach Campbell is a great man. He’s a tough guy on the field, but at the end of the day, he’s like a dad to all of us. I mean, he is Grant’s dad, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to be a good father figure to the rest of us. A lot of the guys on the team never had that type of father figure in their lives. Most of the time, coaches stepped up to play those roles. Letting out a deep exhale, Coach sits on a workout bench looking directly at me.
“Quinton, you are one of the best running backs I’ve ever seen play, let alone coached. But to be excellent, you’ve got to know when enough is enough. I see you out there working yourself to the bone, trying to get yourself noticed. And that’s great. But you’ve got to give your body rest too. The NFL isn’t going to want someone for a year or two. They want franchise players. They want players they can invest time and money in. But you keep going the way you are, and you’re going to burn out or get injured. I sure as shit don’t want to see you do that.”
“But, Coach,” I start again before being cut off.
“No more, Boyd. I’m locking the weight room down. I only want to see you here on our required training days. And before you get any bright ideas, I’ll put a campus-wide ban on any other gyms if you try those.”
“C’mon, Coach?” Standing abruptly, I toss the towel I was holding to the floor. “That’s bullshit.”
Coach doesn’t back down. Standing up, he steps toward me. Campbell might be a couple of inches shorter than me, but his energy matches that of a giant.
“Remember who you’re talking to, Boyd,” he starts, pointing a finger in my direction. “I need you to be healthy. I’m not risking an injury when you’re in the best shape.”
Pissed off and now unable to work off my steam, I reach down, gathering up my phone, water bottle, and towel. I move past Coach to head toward the locker room door, but I’m not able to make it past him before his hand reaches out and grabs my arm.
Staring at each other, eye to eye, he doesn’t say anything for a second.
