And then I lifted my hand and waved at the guy. I hated the way my heart sank as he started walking over.
The same pit reopens when I think about last night. He’s not something I’m willing to risk. He’s not even a chip I'd consider wagering. But maybe someone should’ve reminded the version of myself from the other night of that very sentiment. The one that let him carry her, in the pajamas he had delivered, into his bed, which smelled like him—all leathery and clean—and then just spit out that horrific line about kissing.
I know this is one of those things that will race through my mind for the next twenty years when I try to fall asleep. Here’s to anxiety and it keeping track of your most cringeworthy moments—the scoreboard you can’t run from.
Think about something else.This can’t be what’s on my mind as I walk into my first practice. Standing in front of my locker, I stretch my neck from side to side as my eyes fixate on my locker name plate.Blair Miller. #7. Special teams.
I catch my reflection and step closer to the mirror. My typical longline sports bra and high waisted legging workout uniform are nowhere to be found. The leggings could stay, but a Cosmos branded quarter zip covers my top half.
Facing the mirror, I fixate on the outline of my body. I’ve always been sort of square shaped, straight up and down. When I was younger, and before I knew better, I’d do all of these fad exercises or supersets trying to grow that perfect peach shaped ass everyone was after. I’d undereat to the point of lightheadedness being the norm and push myself harder than anyone evershould at the gym.
Figuring out how to properly move, fuel, and build my body is something that completely changed my life. I fell in love with it—putting the pieces of the puzzle together. It also saved me from myself. It wasn’t until I was in a great place that I recognized how bad my mental health really was before—how I’d been living with depression and anxiety without ever knowing it had a name.
I thought everyone hated themselves the way I did. Or thought through almost every step, or possibility, of a social interaction before it happened. It’s not that I don’t do those things anymore—depression is one of the most consistent things in an inconsistent world—but I can check in with my body, my brain, and do my best to give it what it needs.
I don’t always get it right—I think to myself as I start to scrutinize the body in front of me. My hand reaches across my chest and squeezes the space between my neck and my shoulder.
Your arms are too big.
You look manly.
Who would find this attractive?
To be fair, I didn’t come up with these insults. These are things people have said to me, for almost my entire life, in some way shape or form.
Some of the most vivid memories I have of my dad are him yelling at my mom for letting me do things with the boys.This isn’t for girls. Girls shouldn’t do that. Boys don’t like girls who beat them, or talk too loud, or have dirt under their fingernails.He left when I was twelve, but he did a whole lifetime of damage before he finally packed his bags.
We were better off but it still hurt. My mom was never quite the same—it was like he took pieces of her she didn’t know he had access to. There weren’t many times that I can ever remember them being happy, but it was like there was hope that he would be the man she fell in love with—a spark waiting for kindling. He left and never looked back. And the last time I heard from him was a birthday card on my eighteenth birthday.
I can practically feel my confidence slipping away, one internal insult at a time. My belly tenses and I take a breath, feeling the stretch of my lungs. My brain attempts to build up the wall that lets me scale it and push past the thoughts.
I’m only a couple steps from the locker room when a familiar face spots me, grinning as he asks, “You ready for your first practice?”
Dylan Peterson, kicking specialist for the Upstate Cosmos. He helped me with a crash course on practice kicks at the game and treated me like an athlete, as soon as he heard my current training plan. I liked him right away.
“I think so. Kind of have that same feeling when you’re walking into a group fitness class when it’s something you’ve never done.” I clap my hands, letting them swing to my sides. “So, like I’m about to make a complete ass of myself.”
A tiny laugh sneaks out, making me feel a little better. “Small crew today. Everyone is doing skill specific work. That means we’ll start in the gym, see where you’re at with some lifting benchmarks, and then it will just be you, me and a long snapper for some kicking drills.”
When Dylan found out I owned a gym, was a college athlete, and was borderline obsessed with a routine, he almost dropped to his knees to thank whatever god he prayed to. I wasn’t what they expected, in more than one way, and it was like I could watch his eyes go from 'this might be a wild PR stunt' to 'this could be something legit for the team.'
“Plus, some of the trainers are women, which means you won’t be the only girl in the club today.”
A smile lifts a corner of my lips, the competitive fire I'm accustomed to lighting in my muscles, and I reply, “Believe me, I’ve never been afraid to be the only girl.”
We walk into the gym and I have to consciously keep my jaw from dragging on the floor. I don’t know why I assumed the gymwould be a bit dated and smell like feet—maybe too many rom-coms where the male lead is a coach or player—but that isn’t the case. The space is open, modern, with lighting that would serve even the pickiest of influencers.
Shoes pounding treadmills, stationary bikes whirring, and weights being racked compose the soundtrack and it wraps around my shoulders like a cozy blanket. There’s nothing like the fine-tuned machine of a well-run, and used gym.
The thing I may be most surprised by is the energy. The vibe. Whatever you decide to call it, but it feels supportive, strong, and encouraging. I feel like I was waiting for competitiveness and egos to gag me—I almost texted Tyson asking him about this exact thing but couldn’t bring myself to hit send.
Embarrassment hits my cheeks for only a second before Dylan asks, “You ready to get some work done?”
I nod and shake out my hands.
Work. A task. The gym. I can definitely do this.
Well, probably.
