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ONE
WATCH ME, PIXIE-BITCH
LAYTON
“Don’t laugh, asshole.”
“You know I’m gonna. Former rookie of the year can’t stand on his own two feet.” Our center taunts me from his mat next to mine.
“I can outrun you.”
“But you can’t stand up,” Marshall continues, a little too loudly. He isn’t the picture of grace, but he’s in the pose. A smile splits his face watching me struggle.
“Gentlemen.” The admonishment comes from the pixie at the front of the room as she folds into some unnatural shape. “Focus on your core and breathe through the movement. Good. Now let’s move into warrior pose.”
We do, fighting laughter as we twist into another shape.
“What’s next? Ballet? Maybe the cheerleaders can walk us through dance moves,” I offer.
“It would be easier than this shit,” says the voice from my other side.
“You’re not lying,” Mattis, our defensive tackle, whispers to Carlson.
Only it’s not a whisper.
“Gentlemen, show some respect to me and the other participants in the class. If you can’t, you’re free to leave.”
Carlson and I, as if we choreographed our moves, step aside, bend to roll our mats, and move for the door.
Just as we hit the exit, she says, “I’m sorry to see you’re too weak to participate. I’ll meet you both this afternoon in PT. I’ll text your appointment times and notify the coach that your bodies aren’t up for this.”
Say what?
I turn and stare, slack-jawed. She just threw down the gauntlet in front of my whole team.
I look at our kicker and walk back into class to the back of the room as he slides out the door. I sling my stupid purple yoga mat to the floor and climb on to imitate the instructor. There is no way I cannot create her pose.
I’m an elite athlete.
First-round draft pick.
Freaking NFL rookie of the year, though it’s been seven years now.
My body has been honed through decades of two-a-days, workouts, sprints, and weight training. On-season and off, I work my ass off for this body. Without it, I have no job. No income. I need it in peak shape, or I don’t have the life I love.
I could shovel horse shit like my family, but that’s not my thing. It never has been.
My body takes me to the end zone and when I get there, I feel the absolute fucking thrill of elation.
I was made to run. I get paid to run. If they want to pay me to contort into a pretzel, so be it.
But no one will tell my coach that my body can’t handle something.
Bench presses.
Leg presses.
Three-hundred-pound tackles into turf-covered concrete.
