Page 35 of Racking Up Penalties
Chapter 16
The heavy scent of determination and locker room musk hits me the moment I step inside. My shoes tap against the tiled floor, a staccato rhythm mingling with the cacophony of pre-game rituals. A cocktail of excitement and nerves churns in my gut, but I push it down, replacing it with the focus I need.
“Delaney!” The shout comes from the far end of the room, where my teammates are gearing up, their movements precise, almost ritualistic. I glance up, offering a nod as I weave through the maze of lockers.
“Hey, Tristan!” It’s Brett, his grin wide, his hand outstretched. The slap of our hands meeting in a high-five echoes, a solid confirmation that I’m exactly where I need to be. “You got this, man,” he says, clapping me on the back with a thud that reverberates through my chest.
“Thanks,” I reply, my voice steady despite the adrenaline beginning to surge through my veins.
I want to win this game today. Knowing Tessa is out there watching in my jersey only motivates me more.
“Ready to crush ‘em?” Marcus asks, his own nerves hidden behind a mask of confidence. He towers over most of us, a giant with a gentle soul, yet on the field, he’s an unstoppable force.
“Always,” I shoot back, the corner of my mouth lifting in a half-smile. It’s not arrogance that fuels me; it’s belief—a shared belief that runs through each member of this team like an electric current.
I settle onto the bench, my gaze drifting over the scuffed floor, feeling the thrum of the locker room fade into a distant echo. In the hollow silence of my mind, I start to visualize the field, the Xs and Os dancing across an imaginary chalkboard. Each route, each play unfurls with crystalline clarity. I see myself there, under the stadium lights, the pigskin secured in my grip as I drop back, scan, and find my man.
“Trust your instincts, Tristan,” I mutter to myself, repeating the mantra that’s become my pre-game ritual. This is where it counts, where months of drills boil down to split-second decisions. My heart picks up a notch, adrenaline coursing as if I’m already threading through hulking linemen and evading crushing tackles.
The coach strides to the center of the room, his presence commanding immediate attention. His eyes sweep over us, fierce and unyielding, yet brimming with the kind of belief that can transform doubt into certainty. “Men,” he begins, his voice a deep rumble that reverberates off the lockers, “we’ve started the season out strong. Undefeated. But that record doesn’t mean squat unless we defend it every time we step on that field.”
“Every play you’ve run, every hour of sweat—today, it all pays off,” Coach continues, pacing slowly, feet tapping a rhythm of impending battle. “We’re more than a team. We’re a brotherhood. We fight for each other, for every yard, for every point. And we do not—will not—give up our winning streak without leaving everything we’ve got on that field.”
And just like that, my nerves transform into something fiercer, something unbreakable.
I slip into the rhythm of the pre-game ritual, stretching each muscle group with precision. The tension in my hamstrings gives way, easing under the familiar strain. Shoulders roll, neck tilts, and every movement is a silent conversation between mind and body—a pledge to perform at peak, to dodge injuries that could cost us the game.
“Delaney!” The voice cuts through my focus, sharp as a whistle blast. Tyler stands a few feet away, his smirk a jagged line across his face. “Heard your girl’s been warming up with the hockey guys.”
My hands clench, knuckles whitening against the football I’ve been palming. But I don’t let it show.
“Are you insulting my girl?” My voice is even, betraying none of the turmoil he’s aiming to provoke. I keep my gaze locked on his, blue eyes meeting brown in a silent standoff.
“Guess you’re not the only jock she’s into.” The taunt hangs in the air, bait that I refuse to take.
He’s an idiot if he thinks this is news to me.
“Tyler,” I start, cool as the steel in Coach’s gaze, “focus on your own warm-ups. Wouldn’t want you to pull something trying to keep up.” Each word is measured, a counterbalance to the weight of his provocation.
His smirk falters, just for a second, before it’s back in place. But the shift is there—I saw it, he knows it, and it’s enough. With a final glance, he backs off, retreating to his own preparations.
I exhale slowly, releasing the tightness in my chest.
Him insulting Tessa makes me want to break his face. But that would get me kicked off the team.
“Seriously, Brown, nobody’s got time for your crap,” says another voice, this one belonging to Jack, whose imposing figure casts a shadow over Tyler.
“Man, we’ve got a streak to keep alive.” Rico adds his two cents, cracking his knuckles. “So if you could stop screwing around for just tonight, that’d be great.”
I watch as my teammates step forward, their presence a physical barrier between Tyler and me. It’s more than just muscle; it’s loyalty, and despite everything, it warms something inside me.
“Come on, Tyler. You heard them,” I say firmly, nodding at my allies. “Let’s keep our heads in the game.”
Tyler’s gaze flickers between the wall of teammates and me, searching for a crack, but he won’t find one. It’s clear he’s outnumbered, and the smirk fades, replaced by a scowl as he weighs his options.
“Fine,” he spits out, his voice edged with defeat but trying to maintain some semblance of pride. He steps back, but not without throwing a parting glance that promises this isn’t over.
“Thanks, guys,” I mutter, feeling the weight of confrontation lift slightly. They nod, murmurs of “no problem” and “what are teammates for” filling the space between us. I shake out my arms, rolling my shoulders to release the lingering tension.
