Then, something catches my eye that I did not notice on my initial walk-through.
Tacked to the fireplace mantel is a sheet of paper. Dangling there, as if waiting to impart some critical lake-living wisdom. Knowing my luck, it’s probably a list of chores or instructions on how not to burn the place down.
I push myself off the couch and walk over, eyeing the paper, already irritated by its big, bold letters.
Welcome Sentinels and Staff to your team-building retreat!Super, more fake enthusiasm. I skim the next part:Below is a list of activities designed to help you bond with your teammates and foster a deeper connection.
Deeper connection? With Dex and Jude?
Ha!
I’ve heard them both letting it rip and heard them shitting and routinely have to listen to them complain about fractures, pulled muscles, and concussion results. I doNotneed to go deeper.
Daily Group Hikes!
Morning Yoga by the Lake!
Fishing Derby!
Translation: forced fun, which is the worst kind.
Why the hell are there so many exclamation points? Who wrote this fucking thing, the cheerleading coaches?
“You havegotto be kidding me,” I mutter, resisting the urge to crumple the paper and toss it into the fireplace as kindling.
Morning yoga? Who in their right mind is going to participate?
Unfortunately it doesn’t end there. I groan, reading further.
Team Building! Talent Show Night!
“Talent show?What the actual fuck ...” I groan. “Apparently we’re in summer camp now.”
And the cherry on top?Trust Exercises!
I roll my eyes so hard I think I might sprain something in my brain. Trust exercises? With these guys? The same guys who steal my bath towel during a shower, then snap me in the dick with it.
I walk back to the couch and flop down dramatically.
“I am not doing a talent show.” They can’t make me. Football is my talent—what more do they want from us?
I didn’t participate in the talent show the one summer my parents forced me to attend camp to socialize with regular kids, who weren’t obsessed with sports the way I was. It was the kind of camp where you canoed, swam, and tie-dyed shirts in the craft shack.
I remember how my pottery looked like a blindfolded toddler had painted it, and chucking it in the trash so my dad wouldn’t see it.
Also me: The evening of the camp talent show, I had faked a stomachache and was sitting in the corner while the other kids embarrassed themselves singing off-key renditions of popular music. When I was pushed to join them, I miraculously “lost my voice.” Then, during the hiking trip, I claimed I twisted my ankle and spent the rest of the day on the bench, sipping watered-down Bug Juice.
Now here I am, years later—a grown-ass adult—in the exact same nightmare scenario.
Only this time with my teammates.
The same guys who think burping and smashing beer cans on their foreheads are talents.
I look at the paper again.While participation is not required, it is strongly encouraged—top scores will be rewarded with various prizes and acknowledgment!
“Hell. No.”
No thank you, Coach.
