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Harder than hell. Just from dreaming about a kiss.
I swore under my breath, squinting in the sun before fumbling for my phone to check the time.
“No,” I said out loud to no one, with more clarity now. “No, no, no.”
I never let myself be late.
I stood up, immediately seeing that I was going to have to change my shorts if I didn’t want an embarrassingly obvious precum mark at the front of them. Luckily, the only other action on the quad right now was a group of students sitting far away on a picnic blanket far across the grass. I unzipped my backpack, rummaging to the bottom where I had another pair of boxer briefs and shorts. I always had an extra set of clothes with me, because I was either on the soccer field or swimming laps almost every day.
As the university clock tower rang out at noon, I ran into the nearest bathroom to quickly change clothes and then make my way across campus toward the park. No matter how busy or exhausted I was, there was no way I was going to cancel on soccer practice. I didn’t skip classes, I didn’t cancel appointments, and I would always show up to teach people soccer.
I jogged up to the green expanse of the local park, tucked just outside the Boulder University campus. Everyone was already standing around waiting for me when I got to the field.
“Sorry, guys!” I called out as I approached the group of bored-looking college students I coached, giving them a wave. Most of them were looking down at their phones.
I was out of breath. I’d been sprinting around all day, it felt like—from Psychology 410 class early in the morning, to my own soccer practice afterward, to a quick tutoring session, and now to the park. I was exhausted, and it was only lunchtime.
Guilt pooled in my stomach. My days were usually pretty packed, but today, the reason I was late had nothing to do with my schedule. I knew I was burning the candle at both ends. I was so tired, every single day, but I didn’t want to stop doing anything I did. I cared about doing well, and knowing this was my last year of college only made the pressure worse.
The students were here on the field waiting, squinting at me in the sun. I glanced around at today’s turnout, happy that it seemed like most of the students had shown up.
“All right,” I said in my best upbeat voice possible. “Perfect day to get our bodies moving. Who’s ready to kick around the ball?”
No one responded. I heard one kid in the group snort a quiet laugh.
I volunteered here once a week to help run a free soccer game. It was for college students who had been assigned to participate in a group physical activity, through our school’s counseling department. Some of them were told to come here because they needed more physical activity. Some were here because they were deemed “troubled” college students—which normally just meant they were depressed or acted out in class. Some were here because they had failed their required gym class credit at the college, and this was a way for them to earn make-up credit after the fact.
Overall, it was one big, rag-tag group of kids from age 18-22 who really didn’t want to be here. But if I could show even just one of them how good it could feel to be active—mentally and physically—I’d be proud.
They all stared at me now, arms crossed. One of the “troubled” kids, a shy sophomore named Matty, was standing under a big oak tree, away from the rest of the group. He had a cigarette in one hand, and he looked like he wanted to disappear.
I shrugged off my backpack and pulled out the clipboard where I kept the attendance sheet, passing it around for the kids to sign to prove they’d attended today’s game.
“Okay, break up across the field, and let’s fire up a tag game,” I said, smiling at everyone. Everyone other than Matty actually listened, begrudgingly, scattering across the lawn.
I headed over to Matty, still under the tree.
“I know it sucks, but I promise you’ll feel better if you get out onto the field,” I offered gently.
He glowered at me. “I promise I won’t.”
Matty was one of the younger students, only 18 and clearly having a rough freshman year. He never wanted to be at practice, but today he looked especially devastated.
“How are you feeling today?” I asked.
“Feeling like I can’t be on the same fucking field as Christian Haworth or I’ll either puke or punch him in the face,” Matty said, his voice pure venom. “Kind of like I want to punch you in the face right now, Coach.”
I practiced what I’d been learning in my counseling classes in Psychology—keeping a relatively calm, neutral face even when someone was deliberately being rude to me.
