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“Who in the hell are you to pass out advice?”
“Someone who knows enough about ball to see when a player is pissing away his shot. And it’s for this very reason, right here. But don’t worry, knowing the NFL and their dangerously low standards, you might just slither in.” I cock my hip and face him head-on, well, as much as I can with our difference in height.
“Are you done?”
“Not quite. You’re good, Lance, really good. Undoubtedly one of the best in the conference, but you need a new personality. Especially if this is the way you introduce yourself to a stranger.”
He opens his mouth in rebuttal, but I lift my hand to cut him off.
“Spare yourself the breath you’d waste trying to convince me you aren’t anything more than the conclusions I’ve drawn within a minute of meeting you.”
“Sweetheart, I couldn’t give two shits about your opinion of me. But I do find it a bit ironic you know so much about me and are conveniently here at the exact time that I use this gym.”
He thinks I’m one of those—a helmet hoochie. The type of girl who sees a ballplayer as a ticket to a swanky life, a future paycheck. I’ll let him assume away because it will send the right signal, not that guys like Lance give me a second look. And I don’t miss his assessment of me. He dwarfs me by height and weight. I’m in the skimpiest shorts I own—which fit more like underwear—along with my sports bra and see-through tank.
“Do you really believe that I schemed my way into using this gym, in hopes of gunning for you? Please, believe me, if I was desperate enough to use those bullshit antics to get a ballplayer, yours isn’t the number I’d go to any lengths for.”
“Whatever,” he lifts his chin to cue my send-off, “you can go.”
“Actually, I think I’ll stay until I talk to someone of authority. I’m not bothering you. It’s the opposite.”
“Look,” he reasons as I shift my weight from one foot to the other, “it’s only three hours. You can come back another day.”
“So could you,” I challenge.
“My friend’s dad owns this gym.”
“Congratulations, Jake’s my friend too. He also gave me permission, hence the key.”
“Fuck it,” he sighs, stuffing in his earbuds. “Just turn that shit down, all right?”
“Whatever,” I huff as he walks off. I can see his reflection more clearly in the mirror when I try to resume my practice. I’ve never been self-conscious about my dancing before, but after watching his retreat, I notice that the bag is facing me. Now that I have the asshole’s attention, any misstep on my part gives me the potential to embarrass myself. There’s a newly renovated multi-million-dollar gym he’s privileged to abuse, so why isn’t he lifting on campus with his friends, pounding beers or looking for fresh flowers to pollinate?
Dismissing my wandering thoughts, I turn my music back on and take my position as the sound of glove to bag resumes. It takes only a few minutes, but I find bliss when I finally lose myself.
Lance
What the fuck?
Who in the hell does this chick think she is?
I just had my nuts snipped off and handed to me in a matter of seconds and by none other than a ball busting little witch with a superiority complex.
And she had the nerve to call me entitled?
I can’t see this girl being a friend of Jake’s in any scenario. And I’ll make it my mission to get rid of her.
Feeling the singe of her words, I smash the bag to release the pressure, baffled by how a complete stranger managed to press so many of my buttons in a matter of minutes.
There’s nothing I hate more than someone who assumes they know me because of ball.
I don’t want to be one thing. I want to be many things. And the split-second assessment she just made of me is enough to drive home my point. I’m not just a ballplayer, or a student, or a rancher’s son. Those are the things that matter most to me, but they aren’t all that I am. I don’t want to look back—like so many other ballplayers do—and think this was the best it’s ever going to get for me, my high point or peak because it feels like anything but. I’ve seen what that can do to a man, namely my father. I grew up listening to his “glory days” stories. At first, it was fascinating, and now it’s just sad.
Dad and I don’t agree on much these days, except when it comes to the ranch. Our love for that land a common bond, our need to preserve the legacy and protect my mother and brother the same. The ranch might be my future, but first I have to save it, and that’s where the strain in our relationship lies.
Dad’s been writing checks that my ass may not be able to cash for the last eighteen months; his faith in me unwavering, the pressure a constant. That’s why I find solace alone, unleashing my frustrations on my own body, strengthening the tool needed to eradicate the look of terror I constantly see on my mother’s face.
I don’t have to play poster boy to play ball. I’m not going to campaign myself because I’m not a man who minces words. I don’t tap dance for attention I don’t want. I don’t need to be anyone’s favorite anything; I just need to play ball, keep my head down, and get through this season.
