“Go,” I say, grabbing our trash, which he takes. “Thanks for coming today. Marcela and Ms. Amber appreciated it. I’ll see you around.”
His stare lingers. “Friday?”
“Sure.” I nod. “You have the address, so come whenever.”
“Okay.” He eyes me again, frustrating my inability to register what he’s not saying.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says.
“Today, Papa Smurf!” Bread yells from the door on the opposite side of the gym.
I huff a laugh. “You better go. Enjoy the party.”
“I won’t.”
Antonio leaves with his teammates. I pull out my phone and swipe to my notes app. “Make more friends” is now at the top of my to-do list.
Whatever that was, I don’t want to feel it again.
Chapter 7
Antonio
“Fast feet. Sink those hips!”
Coach Titan’s whistle is an alarm to my muscles, which are gasping for energy. My arms strain to push off the turf that’s clawing at my knees.
I suck in a breath and speed through the agility ladder. The quick shuffle of my cleats digs through the field’s synthetic fibers. Kendrick passes me the ball, and I cradle it before propelling into Shins and Nacho’s pads. Sweat from my forehead spatters the reinforced vinyl shields the lock and loosehead prop use to prevent a line break. I drop my height, anchor the ball against my forearm, and drive with small, explosive steps to wedge between my teammates.
As a flanker, my position is a link between the forwards and the backs. It involves me in the offense and the defense. Making key tackles and dismantling our opponents’ play requires me to stay sharp with an awareness for opportunities.
“Way to power through, Knight!” our strength and conditioning coach shouts from the sideline. He blows hiswhistle again, signaling the end of the drill. Each gulp of air burns my lungs.
Fuck, I hate Wednesdays.
Preseason training requires an endurance we build through intense conditioning, weightlifting, field running, and game play. All four converge on any given day, forcing us to leave it all on the field. Today started with an early gym session, followed by speed exposure and ground contact strength work.
It’s a high-intensity day, one that ends in hand-to-hand combat for first dibs on the ice bath at Steel House.
“Good work out there.” Shins tosses me my water bottle and joins me on the turf next to our gear.
The only time I welcome fake grass under dome lights is during a Buffalo winter. I always played rugby outside in DC, rain, shine, or otherwise.
I suck down half of the room temperature water in one go and swipe at the sweat dripping down my face with my jersey. It’s another teen-degree day, but you’d never know it inside the indoor practice field.
“You and Nacho almost had me.” I smirk at him sprawled out. He gives me the finger with the arm that shields his eyes from the lights beaming above us.
Shayne, called “Shins” for his leg power to drive scrums, is tall as hell. As a lock, he’s a specialist at disrupting rucks and securing possessions for a lineout. He’d give me more problems if I didn’t know the side he favors with his tackles for an opening to break the line.
Our positions are adjacent to each other on the field, which makes one-upping each other during practice difficult.
“How was home?” I ask about his weekend back in Glendale, Colorado.
Shins pulls off his scrum cap, doused in sweat, and tosses it. “Good,” he says. “Daisy is staying in state for college.”
“She playing?” It’s a dumb question, and he confirms it with a sidelong glance. Everyone in the Brown family plays rugby except for the dog.
