The facility was packed,music knocking through the speakers, cleats scraping turf, the air thick with sweat and cologne.
Drills were hitting—routes sharp, timing clean. Everything was clicking how it was supposed to, and I was feeling good. Real good.
Thomas snapped the ball back, and I took off, cutting left before planting and breaking into my route. The ball hit my hands right on time. I tucked it, turned upfield, and pushed through contact before jogging it out.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Coach barked.
I tossed the ball back, rolling my shoulders as I reset, already locked in. This was my space. Out here, everything made sense. The game ain’t lie, ain’t switch up—you either execute or you don’t.
Simple.
We rotated into scrimmage, offense versus defense. I stayed on offense, helmet off, pads shifting while sweat dragged down my chest. The corner lined up across from me, talking, but I barely heard him. The ball snapped, and I exploded off the line, gave a stutter, and cut inside. He reached and missed.
Easy.
“Yo, Maddox!” I ignored it, jogging back, grabbing the play call. “Yeah, your girl is fine as hell.”
My grip tightened on my gloves. It was Jamal’s ass. I ain’t turn, and I ain’t react. Just lined back up like I ain’t hear him.
“Saw her at that party and,” he added, louder now. “Shorty looked real lonely.”
That’s when it clicked. He was doing the same shit after I already told him—first at practice, then again at that party—to stay the fuck away from her.
And he was still talking. Aight. I turned and swung.
My fist connected with his jaw clean, snapping his head to the side before his body even caught up. He stumbled back, but I was already on him, grabbing his jersey and driving him straight into the padded wall. Hard. He tried to swing back, but I ducked and hit him again. Then again.
No talking, just hands.
His back hit the wall, and I kept going, each hit landing heavy until his knees buckled, and he dropped. The whole facility went quiet except for the sound of him trying to catch his breath.
I stood over him, chest slowly rising, looking down at him like he finally understood.
“Told you.”
That was all I gave him.
He tried to push himself up, but I shoved him back down with my foot, not hard enough to injure him, but enough to remind him where he was.
Coach’s whistle cut through everything.
“YO! MADDOX, WHAT THE HELL?—”
Hands grabbed at me, pulling me back, but I wasn’t fighting it. I stepped away on my own, dragging a hand over my mouth like I ain’t just handled that.
Jamal stayed on the ground for a second, then rolled to his side, coughing; pride fucked up more than anything.
He ain’t say nothing, though. Good.
Coach stepped in front of me, pissed. “What is wrong with you?!”
I shrugged one shoulder, breathing steadily. “He straight.”
“That ain’t the point?—”
I walked past him before he could keep going, grabbing my towel and dragging it over my face.
Conversation over.
