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“Wish I had the meat sweats,” says Conor Mahoney, one of the forwards. “As it is, I don’t even have enough juice in the tank to sweat.”
“Oh yeah?” I snort. “Then why does that barbell keep slipping from your hands?”
“Dude, you could’ve given me the courtesy of pretending I was right.”
“Pretending isn’t in my user manual. What you see is what you get.”
His eyebrows go up just as his eyes squeeze. “One really big jerk?”
I can’t help but laugh, because he’s not wrong. And if I’ve learned anything after one week of bootcamp training with these guys, it’s that we’re all enormous jerks. Aggressive on the ice, competitive over the smallest thing, obsessive about performance… and really, really arrogant. Coach Green picked great players, and if we can all have the camaraderie Nate, Conor and I have formed, we may just be lucky enough to assemble a kick-ass team.
Or the big personalities of all these characters will shit on the whole enterprise. Either or.
“Or JLo,” Nate adds with a laugh.
Conor shakes his head. “That is such an old joke.”
“Whatever, man. She can still get it.”
I feel the burn. Not from the joke but from the whole week. There is no part of my body that doesn’t protest as I walk over to the racks and put the weights back in place.
The coaches informed us that there will be no practice tomorrow, so we can use the last Sunday before college officially begins to recharge. Which means the whole team’s going to a bar after training. In my heart, I’m game. I just don’t know how I’m going to get there and back without dropping dead. I need to stretch if I plan on surviving tonight.
“Cassiano.”
I turn like a rusty robot toward the voice. Coach Green waves me over from the door. He’s spent the whole week having random one-on-ones with everyone. No one in this bunch had the restraint to keep the conversations private, so I’m not freaking out as I follow him out of the gym.
He stays mum as we stroll down the hall adjacent to the gym. It’s lined with offices on both sides, and he leads me to the one at the very end.
Coach doesn’t sit in his chair. Instead, he leans against the desk and folds his arms. “I’m sure you’ve heard what these talks are about.”
“Yes, sir.” I hold my hands behind me.
He bobs his head. “So, who do you think is the right man for the job?”
And by that, he means who should be the captain of the team.
According to the chatter, most of the respondents pointed at themselves. Everyone here was either the captain of their high school team, the best player, or some story like this.
One week of sharing in the torture was enough to get to know everyone pretty well, but not in-depth. While I clicked early on with Conor and Nate, I can’t really vouch for anyone else’s aptitudes.
Nate’s a bit of a wildcard. He’s the kind of guy who does his thing well, but not quite within the strategy that’s been laid out for the play. It’s gotten him flack more than once already.
Conor’s the stark opposite. Level-headed and with iron-clad discipline. Problem is, he tends to play it a bit too safe on the ice. But that may be what the egos of this team need.
“My vote goes for Mahoney. He’s got solid skills and is probably the most sensible of the bunch.”
“Really?” Coach rubs his chin. “You’re not putting your own name in the hat?”
I can’t hide the grimace fast enough. Why does this feel like a trick question?
“Er, honestly, the only thing that matters is choosing someone who can turn us into a team. Not someone who’s looking to stroke their own ego.”
“I agree.” Coach waves a hand toward the door. “That’ll be all. Go stretch and make sure to get some rest this weekend.”
“Yes, sir.”
There’s a sardonic glint in his eyes that tells me he knows what’s what. There will be no rest for the Bolts.
