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“Something like that,” I mutter before bringing my bottle to my mouth and chugging down several large gulps. My stomach turns as the water fills it, but I push through, fighting the urge to throw up again. I won’t do that here. I refuse.
I run my sleeve over my mouth and flip my water bottle closed, setting it by my bag on the floor and meeting Theo and Cameron at the squat rack.
“We got our first sets in. You’re up,” Cameron says, patting the weight he’s already loaded with one palm.
“Right. Let’s do this,” I say, settling into position while the guys flank my sides to spot me as I move the weight away from the bars so I can begin.
“Kind of a pussy amount there, isn’t it, Fuentes?”
My jaw grows rigid at the sound of Toby’s voice at my back.
“Go play with your blocks in the corner where your daddy can see you,” Cameron spits back at him.
Toby’s breathy laugh fades as he leaves behind me and I turn my head to the right and meet Cameron’s stare.
“I got your back. I hate that guy,” he says.
“Thanks,” I grunt out, the weight growing heavier on my shoulders.
I return my focus to the whiteboard in front of me, my dad’s scribbled writing filling the space with our workout plan for the day. I should have left with him this morning. I should have been ready before he was today. I failed, and I can’t let that happen again.
“Six,” Theo says to my left as I push my way toward my first set of ten. The weight is easy for me, but every time I exert myself, my veins swell and my body wants to curl up and die. I swear my head is going to pop off my neck before this morning is done.
Somehow, I manage to get through the full workout without a single cheat. While being late by not being early is my dad’s second edict, cutting corners when it comes to putting in the work is his first.
“Nobody gets ahead by half-assing,” he always says.
He’s right.
I gather my things and get ready to hit the showers, eying my dad and Mr. Sullivan talking by the doorway while the rest of the team exits. My dad’s laughter isn’t genuine. I’ve heard him put on the polite and political act before.
As soon as Mr. Sullivan leaves, I hoist my bag up to my shoulder and head toward the exit. I’m stopped, though, by my father’s palm planted firmly on the center of my chest. My eyes flash to meet his, and if I wasn’t sick already, I most definitely am now. There are plenty of things my dad can say with only his eyes, but his complete and utter disappointment is the expression that stings the most. I don’t get hit with the squinted eyes and hard-lined mouth often, but when I do, I instantly revert to that feeling of being a fourth-grade troublemaker waiting for my dad to pick me up at the school front office. Back then, I got caught throwing wet paper towels up onto the ceiling of the boys’ bathroom. Now, I fear I’m being scolded for throwing away my future.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He doesn’t mince words. Probably for the best.
I swallow hard, my throat dry from throwing up an hour ago despite the gallon of water I’ve forced down.
My dad tucks his chin, almost as if he’s unable to look me in the eyes, and that act stings more than his words. His voice low, he grumbles out his frustration.
“You’re drunk. Or youweredrunk. And that man and his son were waiting for me to arrive this morning. They are making a statement, and those actions are going to feed into every argument I have no doubt they will make when it comes time for me to start someone.”
“I’m the better quarterback,” I spit back. My dad’s gaze flashes up and the fire in his eyes scorches mine.
“That may very well be. But that’s not enough in a place like this.”
His jaw flexes as his brow lifts a tick to drill his point home. I hold his silent stare for a few long seconds finally swallowing down my pride.
“Yes, sir,” I say with a nod.
His hand falls from my chest and I nod to him once before moving through the door and into the locker room. I shove my things into my locker and strip my clothes into a sweat-soaked pile that I shove into the space left at the bottom. I grab a towel from the equipment room counter and sling it over my shoulder before taking my angry body into the shower room.
I tug the frosted glass door open and breathe in the steam from the dozens of stalls all pouring out searing hot water. It feels good, but too long in here and I’ll be passed out on the floor.
I head toward the back where a few open stalls remain, but before I get there, Toby steps around the wall of the next stall to walk right at me. Our eyes locked in this truly stupid game of chicken, my fists clenched at my sides with the growing temptation to punch him in the jaw. I don’t even know this dude, other than the few practices we’ve had and the team meeting he had with my dad in our apartment. I got a good sense of his cockiness then, and I am sympathetic to his feeling threatened. I didn’t come here to replace someone, but that is an unfortunate consequence.
Distance closing between us, we both shift our focus, no longer staring into each other’s eyes. I brace myself for him to call me more names as we pass. If that’s what he needs to do to feel better, I can let that fly. But he will never outwork me. There will be no repeats of today. Ever.
I hold my breath as our shoulders meet, mentally guarding myself for whatever insult is at the tip of his tongue. But when my feet are suddenly swept out from under me, I fly forward, feet scrambling to hold on to the slick tiled floor to no avail. My knees come down first—hard—followed by my palms, and eventually, my face. My nose stings from its quick introduction to the beehive pattern on the floor and my lip feels swollen from where my teeth bit into it.
