“It’s complicated,” I say to Monica.
She snorts without rancor, but instead sounds sad. “Isn’t it just?”
August
Losing is not as fun as winning. Obviously. But there are different ways to lose. There’s total annihilation in which everything falls apart and the other team kicks your ass up and down the field. Demoralizing as fuck. There’s loss of confidence, like a slowly deflating balloon and you go from being far ahead to just... not. There’s the “what the fuck, that was a shit call and now we’ve lost by mere points and what the fuck, where’s the justice?” Or perhaps the good old, “we just didn’t bring our game to the field and got our lazy asses served to us.”
So many ways with the same outcome: defeat.
Over the years, I contemplated which type of loss is worse—aside from annihilation, of course, because that’s always going to be the king of all loss. Regardless, I’ve never been able to swallow defeat easily.
Today’s loss should be a mild sort of pain. We did well, it was by inches, and my personal performance was on point. But in a strange way, it cuts deeper. Because weshouldhave won.
The game was ours. Until Jelly began to fall apart. Not in a subtle way but an all-out fucking mess. It hurt to see, and it was frustrating as hell as a teammate.
The truth of this shows in the dark, irritable looks the guys send him as we shower and get dressed in veritable silence. Grumbles abound.
One of the TVs set high on the wall of the dressing area plays back our not-so-greatest hits while a talking head implies that Jelly’s performance might be due to his personal relationship.
Jelly’s neck tightens but he doesn’t look up from buttoning up his shirt.
The man appears so broken, I flinch.
“Turn that off, will you?” I say to one of the staff aids near the TV controls.
Rhodes huffs under his breath. “Truth hurts, huh?”
I raise a mild brow. “Everyone in this room could fill a reel of fuckups. Or did I imagine last year’s playoff game you starred in?”
Rhodes’s head jerks up, his nostrils flaring. We stare each other down.
“I can get on this bench and do a chicken dance right now,” I threaten.
His lips press together, then he snorts. “Man... You’re right.” He grabs a bottle of his cologne and begins spritzing. “Then again, that was off the field.”
“Bro, let it go,” Carter says, shutting his locker. “That shit helps no one.”
Rhodes shrugs, still sullen.
“And chill with the perfume. It’s like a scent bomb up in here. Gives me a fucking headache.”
A chorus of “amens” ring out.
Irate, Rhodes glares around. “It’s cologne, not perfume. And ya’ll salty because you have no class.”
“The difference between cologne and perfume,” I tell him, “is simply the amount of fragrance oil included in the mix. Cologne has about two to four percent, whereas perfume cango anywhere from ten to forty-five percent in concentration.” I glance at the bottle he’s set on his locker shelf. “That, my friend, is perfume. But call it cologne if it makes you feel more manly.”
They all stare at me.
I shrug. “Twin sisters and a mom. All of them love perfume. And I pay attention, fuckos.”
Carter gives me a bland look. “They gave you shit for calling it cologne too, didn’t they?”
“Fuck yes, they did.” I grin at the memory. “Then hid my body spray after the first use, on account of it being a ‘biohazard.’”
Rhodes starts laughing.
“I don’t care what it’s called,” Carter grumps. “Too much is too much. Reminds me of my freshman roommate. Bitch sprayed that shit all over himself like it’d grant wishes. Made me high half the time.”
