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I exhale the rest as I grip the bar in my hands and push off.
Three games left.
With any luck, we’ll get to the playoffs and snag a bowl game.
I push off again, wrestling with the weight of my load.
Finish the season, get an invite to the NFL Combine, prove my worth, get drawn in the draft.
Priorities.
No more distractions. No more stalking, obsessing, daydreaming, or fucking pining.
I can’t handle any more indecision when it comes to Clarissa. Instead, I’ve pushed harder than ever, taken a full second off my dash time, and used the gym as my punching bag. I’m not sure what I want anymore, but I am an athlete, and that’s the only thing that’s getting me through.
Lance spots me as I do another set of reps.
“What’s good, man? How’s the BM situation?”
“Everything’s coming out smooth,” I grit out.
“I’m not asking about the integrity of your daily shit, Jenner.”
“Keep my count, man. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That bad?” He lifts the bar as I finish my set.
I down the contents of my water bottle and wipe my mouth. “Too much water under the bridge.”
“She still giving you hell?”
No, she’s gone quiet, and I have nothing to say. We’re on opposite sides of the field, our son pulling us together on the fifty. My resentment is winning for the moment after each conversation with my mother.
“Nope, she’s…whatever. It doesn’t matter. I could be a fucking saint sporting a halo, and she still wouldn’t have it.”
Kevin takes that moment to add his two cents. “She’s got a rich side piece who wears penny loafers.”
I reach over to where he’s pressing next to me and jab him in the sack. He damn near drops the bar on his chest, but Lance catches it.
“Fuck, man! What the hell…” Kevin sputters, cupping his sack.
I give him a pointed look, “Keep that hot air in your head.”
“Easy, man,” Lance chuckles, positioning himself on his back to start his lift as Kevin hovers over him.
“We aren’t talking about this. I’m over it.” I lift some bells to start my curls.
“Yeah, you’re over it, all right. That’s why you’re swatting away potentials like they’re flies,” Kevin spits sarcastically, turning towards Lance. “He’s not hitting on shit.”
“I’ve had eight years to run that game,” I say honestly. “It’s getting old.”
But there’s more to it. The truth is that I had a glimpse of what I wanted, and that vision is disappearing by the day.
Lance
and Kevin share a grin that grates on me.
“I’m not delusional, all right? It’s just time I move on from the one and done game. I’ve got more going on.”
