There's a long line of players looking to get into this league. All I'm looking to do is keep my spot. I've already lost a spot once. I can't afford to do it again.
"Totally casual. Nothing wild or crazy. You know me better than that, Bird Man." Trent is such a wanker. I hate that he calls me that. It's reserved for mates, and I'm not sure we're there yet. Or ever will be.
"Alright. I'll be there." I sound about as enthusiastic as if I were agreeing to be boiled in tar.
I’ve always felt that Trent is a bit dodgy. My opinion is partially based on the fact that he walks around here like he's God's gift, with a bigger head than any of the footballers who actually play. It’s also based on the fact that he's trying to get me to go to a party when he knows it's not my scene.
Nonetheless, I'll be headed to his place tonight, instead of staying in, as I do almost every other night when we don't have a game. We've only one regular-season game left, two days from now, and naturally, we're not making the playoffs this year. Essentially, in three days, my season—and maybe my career—will be over.
So yeah, I don't feel much like partying.
On the other hand, I don't want people to remember me as a naff or a stick-in-the-mud. This season has not been stellar, which is why I’m laying odds on it being my last.
Most of the other players on the roster don't have a big huge black cloud hanging over them like I do. And being that everyone likes Trent—almost everyone (as in, not me)—I figure it can’t hurt to show up.
I spend the rest of the afternoon dreading this social outing, but as I’ve already committed, I know I need to get over myself and show up.
As I reach Trent’s place in the upscale Butcher's Hill neighborhood, I can’t help but wonder how he can afford to live here. Last I knew, athletic trainers didn't make that much money, but here he is, living in a nicer place than most of the players.
I hear the music pumping down the street before I even reach his townhouse. Totally casual, my arse. I bet this nobhead went all out. I'll stay for one bevvy and that's it. Enough to be cordial. I don’t have the stomach for what I’m sure is awaiting me.
Once I reach the door, it's as bad as I feared. There are people everywhere, filling Trent’s multi-level home. It's about a thousand degrees inside, so I instantly shed my coat, dropping it on the pile of outerwear forming in a corner of the living room. I hear someone shout something about a roof deck and immediately guess it's more comfortable there than pressed up against all the hot bodies inside.
As I search it out, I decide that Trent must spend all his money on rent because there are barely any furnishings. An old couch, covered in a sheet. A few folding chairs. A high-top table and pub stools. That's about it.
Well, except for the massive flatscreen, which is probably to make up for shortcomings elsewhere. Ahem, the bedroom.
I wouldn't be surprised if he had a waterbed with satin sheets too. I shiver and want to pour bleach into my brain to erase that image.
I spy Trent along with several of my Terror teammates. There must be two females for every male here, leaving little doubt about the intention for the night.
Trent's on the couch, squeezed in between three women wearing low-cut shirts and short shorts. It looks as if they just got off their shift at Hooters. Trent has his arm around one and his hand on another's thigh.
Yeah, this twat definitely has a waterbed and satin sheets. Probably a mirror too.
My skin feels tight, and it's hard to swallow. This is exactly the type of scene I avoid. There’s a good reason I’m no longer into the party scene, and I’m finding this show excruciating.
After grabbing a lager out of a cooler, I take the stairs to the roof. It's cooler and calmer up here. I could almost pretend I'm not at a party. Actually, with the right furnishings, this could be a quite fab flat. Of course, it's wasted on Trent.
"Hey, mate. Didn't expect to see you here." Alastair claps me on the back. We've known each other since we were practically in nappies. We first played together in the schoolyard in Gloucester.
"Didn't want to be here. But I didn't think I should say no, either. You know, being a team player and all."
Alastair shakes his head. "We’re a rubbish team."
I nod. It's the truth. "I wish they hadn't sacked Bjorn. He and Kenley were a right stellar pair."
"They're killing it up in Boston. The Buzzards are in a good position to advance in the playoffs. And to think, before COVID, they were dead last in the league."
While the powers-that-be here in Baltimore used the pandemic to disassemble a moderately strong team, the Boston Buzzards swooped in and gathered the remnants, which has put them near the top of the league.
"I wish they'd taken me with them," I sigh, not even realizing I was thinking about it. But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know I mean them. I've been with Baltimore for four years, but I don't feel I owe them anything any longer.
On the other hand, I don't want to look a gift horse in the mouth. As a professional athlete, I'd be foolish not to realize that I'm only ever one move, one play, one injury away from hanging my cleats up forever, and a five-year contract is a solid deal.
As I drain my bottle, I debate getting another, but I know that's a slippery slope toward bad decisions and regret.
Not to mention there’s nothing worse than a massive hangover at practice.
