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“4.37.”
“Do you remember running a 4.4 or a 4.5?”
He nods his head a single time, looking exasperated at the question.
“And you trained to get faster? Maybe improved your form or chose a different technique?”
“Obviously.”
“And you were better after one hundred reps than you were after the first… better after a thousand than one hundred.”
“Of course.”
“But you expected a yoga practice, you’ve never attempted or studied, to be easy with no training required.”
He shrugs.
I shift from the desk and move to stand in front of him. “What if I told you it would make you run faster, that your oxygenation would be more efficient, and it could lessen injury times?”
His eyes lift and hold mine. They’re hard and annoyed. “I’d laugh in your face.”
“Then you’re not who I thought you were, Mr. Ranger. I was told you would do anything to improve your time, that you would invest whatever it took to be better. I’m sorry to hear that status quo is good enough. If 4.36 or, even better, 4.29 were your goal, I could help you get there. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
More accurately, he’s wasted mine, so I indicate the door, as I turn my back to him and take a seat at my desk, moving through my computer screens.
He stands and heads for the door, pausing as he does. I can see the wheels turning, but his ego swirls, and that cartoon cloud of swagger won’t allow for the humility necessary to ask for help.
“Please close the door on your way out.”
I’m not being harsh, but like anyone who wants to improve but refuses to take any steps to do so, it’s not worth my time until he’s ready.
Layton Ranger is an exceptional athlete. If he can run faster or be more efficient, he won’t pass that up. But he’ll have to check his ego at the door. It’ll happen, and it’ll be fun to watch when he does.
* * *
Layton
How in the world does the pixie think she can make me faster?
She can’t be fast. Then again, I guess she’s not even five-two if she stretches as tall as she can make herself. She’s toned. Hell, her abs are visible when she moves. That little sports bra left zero to the imagination and revealed tanned skin with freckles that were distracting as fuck. I can’t think about her in yoga pants. I don’t know if they’d fit over my calves. Besides, if I think about her body for too long, the oxygen I’m using will run to my dick and wave at people walking down the hall.
I head for the film room and am surprised to find our quarterback there.
“What’s up, Reed?”
He offers me a fist bump as I take a seat. His eyes flit back to the screen.
“That play-off game is eating at me. This interception—” He waves at the monitor. “How did I not read that?”
“Because Dickinson is a freak of nature and has a vertical of ten feet?”
“He is, but it wasn’t that.”
“It’s a lot of that,” I retort. Reed watches film religiously during football season, but it’s March, and he’s usually better about letting things go.
“Look.” He zooms in at the recorded look on his face. It’s odd. It’s one I’ve never seen before. “What is that?”
I can’t decide if he looks unfocused, confused, or fearful, but something is there that isn’t the cock-sure league MVP that I know. Hell, the pocket is solid and he’s well-defended, so fear shouldn’t be etched on his face period.
