“So, um, that was super lucky you answered right away.”
Jake shrugs, shoulders straining against a neon Northland T-shirt. “Kelly brought me my jersey and I had to put it away. My phone lit up the second I opened my locker.”
“Ah.” I’m not sure what else to say to that. That I wish Kelly would do my laundry? Though, based on yesterday, it’d probably come back in shreds. “Anyway, thank you.”
He snickers. “You might not feel like thanking me when you see how pissed Coach Lee is that you’re twenty minutes late.”
Having Danielle as a sister has paid off in a myriad of ways, but in this instance, the most valuable of those is that I don’t look down when facing a pissed-off Coach Lee. I know how to take a look like that.
Eyes up. Chin up. Respect written across my forehead.
The rest of the team is going through what looks like a series of stations—back squats, bench press, TRX, clean and jerk, plyo, abs. And, though arms and legs are moving in my periphery, I know everyone is waiting for the yelling to start. Heck,I’mwaiting for the yelling to start. But Coach Lee isn’t yelling. His lips are drawn up tight. The silence is deafening, even with the clank and swish of ambient weight room noise.
I’ve already apologized. He didn’t answer to that in any volume. No acknowledgment except the glare.
Finally, he says one word: “Squats.”
I take off toward the back of the room as quickly as I can without looking like I’m running away, toward a series of squat racks lined up against a wall of mirrors. There’s an open one on the end, the quarterbacks and secondary assigned to the same rotation.
The weight already on the bar is completely ridiculous. Quick math tells me it’s 260 pounds. With the bar added in, it’s 305.
There’s no way in hell I can squat that.
I start reracking the forty-five-pound plates on either end. I have no idea what the rep situation is or how many sets we’re doing. All I know is I can’t do 305.
Grey silently swings over from two racks down and pulls a forty-five off the other side. Which is sweet and also completely embarrassing that he realized my problem right away.
Coach Napolitano meets me when I’m hauling the second forty-five off the bar. “Eight reps. Start with fifty pounds on the bar.”
These are the first words I’ve ever heard Coach Napolitano say, but I’m going to have to refute them. “I can do more than ninety-five.”
While Coach seems nice enough, it’s obvious the guy doesn’t like anything going against the tide, including me. But I can’t sit here and squat two-hundred-plus pounds less than the rest of the team.
I can’t. Not when I’m already wearing the “otherness” like a glove.
And without the benefit of pads and helmets, my differences are even more pronounced.
More glaring.
Every eye in here is judging me in my black tank top and the purple sports bra peeking out the back. The elastic is gone on my old shorts, meaning they’re rolled at the waist a few times just so they won’t fall down. And I’m damn certain they realize I’m still wearing softball cleats.
Grey huddles in closer to me, angling his broad back so that it’s harder for the others to watch. Napolitano chews at his lower lip. “What’s your one-rep max?”
“Two hundred,” I lie. Because I have no freaking clue. In the weight room, I just do what my sister says—the weight’s not mine to set.
“Start with a hundred on the bar,” Coach says. “If that feels good, up it on the next round.”
I nod, relieved if not still embarrassed.
One hundred forty-five pounds. Eight reps. No big deal.
But when I glance at my reflection in the mirror at the top of my first rep, that feeling of otherness crushes hard on top of that hundred pounds.
And then another weight: I miss my softball girls. I miss people I know. I miss being a true part of something. I know it’s early, but just this scene alone is enough that I worry I won’t ever fit in here. On this team, at this school, anywhere.
But I won’t know for sure unless I try.
I close my eyes and squat.
