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“Yes, ma’am.” This time I don’t screw up.
She gives us a grim smile. “Great, we’ll officially kick off this program with some light training.”
I learn very quickly what the definition of light is to this woman. No session that starts with burpees right out of the warm-up is going to be light.
Half an hour later, the girl beside me straight-up faints face down on the mat. I freeze until some disjointed voice barks that I should keep going. I continue the push-ups even as my neighbor’s drool reaches my hand. Or it could just be my own sweat pooling beneath me.
Coach McDonald leans over the unconscious girl to check her pulse. “She’s fine,” she tells someone behind her.
“Wake her up.” That I recognize as Coach Young’s voice above me. “No one said it’s time for a break.”
Mierda, I think to myself. Are we training for the Marines?
After Coach McDonald pats her face a few times, the girl comes back to the waking world. Her eyes are hazy as she pulls herself up and wipes the drool off her face.
“Keep going,” I manage to say in a wheeze. “C’mon.”
Finally, she gets with the program, and I can stop worrying that I just witnessed a murder.
Someone blows a whistle an eternity later, and my limbs give out. Pretty funny how, despite lying prone and still, absolutely every one of my muscles shakes like a leaf. I wish I could faint. The embarrassment of that would be way better than this feeling.
“You. Rodriguez, was it?”
I can’t hold back a groan as I shift my head to look up. Coach Young stands before me, seemingly ten feet tall in my feeble state.
“Yes, ma’am.” I sound drunk or high. Or both.
She crouches down. “Go get drinks for everyone. That’s your punishment for speaking out of turn.”
“Yes,” I say as I slide my hands back under my chest and push up on my knees. “Ma’am.”
It sounds simple enough, but it does feel like a punishment in my current state. I almost land on my chin when one of my hands slips out from under me. A newborn foal probably has more grace than me as I stand slowly. Painfully. I can’t feel my legs, and for a moment, I lose my balance. Reflexes catch me before I can land like a domino over the fallen bodies around me. Somehow, my back is numb, and I’m thankful for that miracle.
The two coaches watch my every step like hawks. I, too, would be holding back laughter if I were them.
“Vamos, que sí se puede.” I watch my own feet, crammed into the sneakers with too-thick socks, carefully making their way through the gym. We got this, guys.
There was a table just outside the locker rooms loaded with a mountain of bottles and two massive coolers. That’s where I have to go.
I stop halfway to my goal and clap a hand on my mouth before the explosion.
Looks like I’ll just die right here.
No, I demand my stomach stop this riot. I am an elite athlete. I’ve gone through much worse than this. A little strength training won’t kill me.
I swallow it all back down and take a few deep breaths. My eyes are set on the table, so close and yet so far. I know that if I take another step, my gut will betray me again, but I’m already on thin ice with the head coach. I can’t return empty-handed. Or not return at all.
Steeling myself, I keep walking. The air is much cooler out here, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the campus on one side and the door to the arena up ahead. I pretend it’s the third period of the most challenging game of my life. We’re down two to one and it’s up to me to save the team.
My hands shake as I grab one of the empty bottles. It almost slips while I struggle to uncap it. The struggle is real as I fill it up with some blue sports drink from the first cooler. At last, I take a sip.
The moan that comes out of my throat is almost R-rated.
“Whoa.”
Obviously, I choke.
And, even better, blue drink comes out of my nose.
