She’s always hated me, but after last season, she’s been on my back. Like an annoying fly that won’t stop buzzing around my head and reminding me how much of an inconvenience I am to her.
I don’t give her the reaction she wants, though. Instead, I stroll right past her and enter the locker room without a second glance.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Renee Bexley, it’s that provoking her only fuels the fire-breathing dragon.
I’m surprised I have any hair left after the amount of times we’ve butted heads.
I remain quiet as I shower and get dressed, and when I’m done, Bennett barges his shoulder into mine in a friendly manner. “Head up, Slater. You’d think it was a loss against the Memphis Tycoons during the Playoffs all over again with the face you’re making.”
“It will be if we don’t get our shit together.”
Bennett Quinn is a joker, but if anything, he’s a talented quarterback. Probably one of the best players on the team, but he needs more media training. He’s made more than a few mistakes at press interviews, which doesn’t reflect well on the team. I know he’s trying though, so I can’t bring myself to have my back up about it. Mainly because he’s one of my best friends.
“I sent you some more interviews to study. Watch them,” I tell him.
It pisses me off that it’s my job to media train my team. Other teams hire people for that kind of shit, but our manager, Peter, doesn’t want to spend any more money than he feels is necessary.
I swearDollarcould be his middle name.
Or perhapsMoney-Hungry Pigwould be a better fit.
Bennet dips his chin, holding his hand up to his forehead to mimic a salute. “On it, Chief.”
I roll my eyes and say a quick goodbye to the rest of the guys, heading towards Emmanuel’s store on the outskirts of Missarali, near the airport. I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks, and we’re due a catch-up.
I run my hands through my dark hair and down my stubbly face before putting my cap on, only now realising how exhausted I am. Sleep and I haven’t been the best of friends lately. My team is stressing me the fuck out, and a lot of the responsibility to get them back on track falls upon my shoulders, according to the media and the man I’m unfortunate enough to call my biological father.
Be a leader. You’re not being enough of a man. This is your team, and you’re letting them down. Get them up to scratch because you’re going to embarrass yourself if you don’t.
My father’s words ring loud and clear in my head. He doesn’t check up on me too often, but when he does, it’s because the season has started, and he feels the need to criticise me on something he’s seen about the Missarali Storks in the news or a game he watched where we didn’t play our best.
You’d think he was an ex-NFL player by how he judges me, but it was just a dream he didn’t have the skills to accomplish. He wasn’t good enough, and so he pushed his desire onto me. I was practically playing football the day I came out of the womb.
My weekends weren’t spent playing in the park or getting ice cream. No, I was being brought to tears while my father yelled at me about my catching or throwing techniques. And what did I receive for crying? Drills. More and more until my tiny body couldn’t stand any longer.
I never allow myself to wallow, though. There’s nothing I can do but just get on with it.
The wine store bell rings loudly as I push the door open, and Emmanuel’s beaming face catches my attention.
“Nathan, it’s good to see you!”
I shake his hand. “You too, Emmanuel. I wanted to come sooner, but I’ve been pretty busy.”
“I see that.” He steps aside, gesturing to the wall behind his cash register, a cut out of me from a magazine stuck up with a thumbtack. I’m smiling—a very forced smile—holding the ball above my head after scoring the winning touchdown at our last game.
Emmanuel’s grin is so proud that it causes my heart to thump erratically inside my chest. In a way, he’s been somewhat of a father figure, and God knows I need one with the one I’ve been cursed with.
Instead, all I got from my birth father was agood job. Now, on to the next gametext.
The bell rings behind me, signalling someone has walked in, but I pay them no mind as Emmanuel holds up a finger to me and rushes around me to help them.
I gaze at the rows of alcohol lined up on the metal shelving. The dim light above flickers, the coolers humming, taking me back to the day I first barged in here as a young kid with my head held high and my chin jutted out in fraudulent confidence.
I was so determined, yet so frightened.
I straighten the red cap on top of my head and wander through the aisles, picking up a few bottles of expensive-looking champagne and reading their backs as I wait for Emmanuel to finish up with his customer.
“I’m looking for something nice for a family member. I’m visiting.”
