I adjusted my gloves and told myself to relax. This was just another training session. Just reps.
Except it wasn’t. The coaching staff had announced the roster a couple of days ago, and I’d actually made the cut. Problem was, I wasn’t sure I actually deserved this spot and I was absolutely certain some of my teammates thought so too.
Every day, it was still like stepping into someone else’s rhythm. Back home, I’d orchestrated the rhythm; it was mine. Rugby had been tumultuous but it was my kind of tumult.
It was fast, fluid, and instinctive and I fucking lived and breathed that shit.
On the other hand, football was calculated. It was almost like a precise staccato, full of lines and timing.
I crouched low, rolling my shoulders. My muscles were ready but my mind was a different story. As per usual.
Just keep up, Kai. Don’t overthink it. Remember what Tori said.
“Defense, reset!” Coach’s booming voice carried across the field.
As I jogged to my position, adrenaline pumped through my veins. I knew this drill — pass protection and inside coverage. I should be able to do this in my sleep, and yet the nerves still hit me.
The whistle blew and everyone sprang into action.
I read the fake handoff a heartbeat too late.
A flash of a maroon jersey moved in my peripheral vision, cutting through the line before I’d even so much as shifted my weight.
By the time I’d turned around, the play had already passed and the runner was halfway downfield.
Fuck me.
“Yo, nice delay, Sunshine!” Marcus, one of the other tight ends smacked my helmet, roaring with laughter. “You buffering again, bro?”
A bunch of the others chuckled and heat rushed to my ears. Not all of them were trying to be dicks or to evenmock me, really. The majority of them were just taking the piss in a good-natured way, but I was certain Marcus wasn’t.
I forced a grin and lifted a gloved hand in surrender, acting as though this didn't bother me at all. “Guess I’m on dial-up.”
More laughter, someone slapped me on the back, and just like that they moved on.
But I didn’t.
Half a second. It always took me half a damn second too long.
Sweat was sliding down my spine, soaking my jersey. My mouthguard tasted of plastic and something bitter; the overwhelming frustration was assaulting my senses.
I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter — nobody cared, everyone messed up sometimes — but it wasn’t true.
They’d noticed.
Probably not enough to bench me and not enough to really fuck with me, but it’d been enough.
It was enough to make me aware of the subdued, cautious attitude of my teammates towards me, as if they didn’t quite trust me to read the next play quickly enough.
My chest grew tight and I could sense anxiety trying to take hold, but I tried my best to shrug it off.
“Alright, again!” Coach barked. “Same setup. Let’s see it clean.”
Inhaling through my nose, I flexed my fingers a couple of times. I could fucking do this. IknewI could.
The whistle cut through the air and I got into position.
This time, I moved with them, keeping my footwork clean and staying square to the line.
