Again, I lunged forward, hitting the dummy with a dull thud.
Too high.
My weight shifted forward, causing my chest to hit the dummy instead of driving through it. Cursing softly, I stumbled back, throwing my head back with a frustrated groan.
“Nice, mate.Reallyelegant. Maybe next time try falling with a little more style,” I sputtered out.
I reset once more, this time trying to stay lower. Somehow, it still turned out wrong. Briefly, I wondered if I’d ever get this right. Would I even know what right would feel like?
The difference between rugby and football was muscle memory … and mine was betraying me. My mind went back to the jokes the others made earlier. The painful truth was, they joked because it was true.
I always needed an extra beat.
Always.
All my life, I'd been held back by these half-second lags, and I'd never resented them as much as I had over the past few weeks.
There had never been a time when it wasn't like this. Someone would tell a joke, everyone would laugh, and then there would be me, five seconds later: 'Oh.'
It wasn’t funny anymore; it was predictable, and predictability was dangerous. Predictability could end my career.
I hit the dummy again, harder, fueled by the bitter fury swirling in the pit of my stomach, eating me up from the inside out.
My gloves were slick with sweat, and the smell of turf burned my nostrils. Panting, I took a step back, my jaw muscles working overtime. My vision blurred slightly from the heat and exhaustion.
Suddenly, I was fourteen again, standing in a locker room while my mates riffed about something clever one of them had said. I’d laugh, pretending I got it but it always took me a second longer than everyone else.
They hadn’t noticed.
I’dnoticed, though.
It was one of these things you couldn’t ignore once you became aware of it. Peoplelikedme, sure, but no one ever followed my lead.
I wasn’t the spark, I was just a fucking echo.
Inhaling deeply through my nose, I closed my eyes for a second, then ran the rep one more time.
And missedagain.
This time, I didn’t even swear. I just stood there, my chest heaving, while the shame and frustration burned hot in my chest and prickled in my eyes.
Roughly tugging my helmet off, I let it dangle from one hand.
“What am I even doing here?” I whispered quietly, although there was no one around to hear me.
The words echoed in my mind as I stared at the turf but all it did was stare back, indifferently.
Frustration left a bitter taste in my mouth and made my throat feel tight. I ripped off my gloves and threw them both into the dirt.
It wasn't as satisfying as I’d hoped.
My knuckles itched to punch something. I wasn’t usually an aggressive person but apparently even I had my limits.
For a long moment, I just stood there, my shoulders shaking faintly, until the anger cooled into something worse — the dull ache of disappointment.
I knew I was strong.
I knew I was fast.
