One second, I was sprinting upfield, and the next, I was airborne, my rib caving in under the full force of a blindside tackle. The sound was sickening, crunching deep in my chest, sharp and brutal. For a moment, the sky spins out of control. My lungs refuse to catch air as white-hot pain tears through my ribs.
This hit isn’t even the first intense one I'd taken, and it’s only Thursday, four days into training camp. I’m bruised everywhere, and I mean everywhere. Blindside tackles are the worst, especially when they come from a 6-foot-4" bulldozing linebacker.
Getting hit is part of the game, though, which is why I hold no ill will toward Jackson.
Jackson Rhodes has been the Hawks' linebacker for seven years and is likely the most senior player on the team. Out of everyone I've met so far, the most welcoming have been Jackson, our best linebacker; Josh Miller, the quarterback; and Jalen Briggs, the top wide receiver. The team is a mix of seasoned vets nearing retirement and rookies still trying to figure it out.
Players around the league love to talk shit, especially about Hawks owner Robert Dunn. I’ve heard from more than a few football stars that they were offered terrible contracts here and then cut loose once their rookie deals expired. That’s a big reason I wasn’t thrilled about joining this team.
The average NFL running back’s career is only 2.5 years, and I’ve already passed that mark. This season, I need to go all in and prove I’m worth a second contract. I want to play well enough that Dunn can’t afford to let me go.
I'm pretty confident I'll make the 53-man roster, especially with how thin this team is. No complaints here. The lack of depth on the defensive line actually plays in Marcus's favor, too, and honestly, we both need to make this team. Having Marcus by my side would be a huge morale boost.
Even though I'm new, everyone's made me feel like I belong here. No one's asked about my personal life, no awkward questions about who I'm dating or who I'm fucking. Currently, my only focus is on football and securing that next contract. A Super Bowl? That'd just be the best scenario.
Eleven-on-eleven drills are starting, which means we're nearing the end of practice, thank God. These drills are where I shine because of my speed and elusiveness. I line up in the backfield, already knowing the play is a drop-back pass. Despite some nerves, I'm feeling confident. Josh is throwing, and the guy radiates calm energy. He's new, too, having joined the team only last season, but he plays like he owns the place.
As Josh drops back, I dart left, weaving through the linebackers. I get open, and Josh hits me with a perfect spiral just past the ten-yard mark. I catch it near the sideline, juke back inside, plant my foot near the opposing 20, spin off a defender, and bolt into the end zone.
I know it’s only practice, but I’m pumped. My teammates jump on me in celebration, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot Coach McCormick grinning.
Coach is the one person I need to impress. He pulls me aside after practice and says, “Carter! Great practice today. It’s been, what, four days? And you’re already kicking ass. No pressure, but we’re counting on you this season. And hey, this team’s young, so try to mentor the guys a bit.”
I smirk and reply, "Obviously, Coach. I got you. No one expects us to dominate this season, but I love the chemistry with Josh. Not to tell you how to run things, but...throw me the ball more. That end zone's gonna see a lot of me."
After talking with Coach, I head into the locker room, which still freaks me the hell out. Some of these guys are sexy as hell. My favorite to secretly watch is the team’s tight end, Jack Sanders. Watching him undress is its own kind of torture, the kind that makes my chest tighten and my jeans tighter.
I'm not one of those guys who would hook up with just anyone, but I do admire a good body. Jack's got it all: 6'2, jacked, short, dirty-blond hair, clear blue eyes. But that's about it. His personality is that of a doorknob. Total turn-off. Plus, he's straight.
Standing bare-assed in the shower, I can't stop thinking about what it would be like to come out to this team. I never came out to my last team; I never felt the need. But being in New York…It feels different. I think it would free up space in my head and make me a better player. A few years ago, a handful of players came out publicly.
The league was supportive, but not everyone was. There were angry fans and even angry players. Eventually, the buzz died down. Some guys retired. Others kept their heads low and continued playing. When my time comes, I’ll owe them thanks.
I used to talk with Charlie Dodds, one of the few guys who came out publicly. He’s retired now, living in Chicago. We drifted after that.
As I throw on a casual blue Henley, Josh barrels into me like a linebacker. The guy’s super touchy, always joking around.
Before I can shove him off, he laughs and says, “Dude, wanna come to this gay bar in Hell’s Kitchen? I think it’s called Boxers. My girl wants to check it out; it looks chill.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Um…I guess?”
“What do you mean, you guess?” he teases. “You homophobic or something? Don’t worry…no guy’s gonna hit on you. You’re not even that hot.” He winks.
I laugh. I knew I was gonna like Josh from day one, and he just proved me right.
"Obviously, I'm down," I reply. "But I'm bringing Marcus."
“Fine, then I’m bringing Jackson,” he grins.
We finish getting dressed and order an Uber for 8 p.m. I've never been to a gay bar, primarily out of fear of being recognized. But going with straight teammates? That feels safe.
I honestly don't even know how to act around gay people. My only experiences have been kissing Nate Ryan in college and a few anonymous hookups from Grindr. I still struggle with getting it up. It's like college trauma scarred me. That's why I prefer giving blowjobs and not receiving them.
When we arrive, Josh's girlfriend, Lisa, is already at the bar with a fashionably slim, brown-haired guy, in a purple crop top. He's radiating flamboyant energy, something I quietly envy.
As we approach, nerves hit me. What if someone clocks me? What if they recognize me from the league?
We skip the line - perks of being football players and head toward the bar. But before I get a drink, Lisa’s friend stops meand purrs, “Hi! Hi! Are youtheCarter Elliot? You’re way cuter in person than on TV.”
