“Something like that.” I deadpan.
He laughs, which is better than a cold jab, and I manage to keep my eyes front for the first set of suicides. My calves are on fire halfway into it, but I push through.
I need this. I need to show I belong.
I started every game last season. I didn’t miss assignments. I didn’t implode under pressure.
That used to be enough. Here, it feels like the baseline.
We rotate into passing drills, and I’m paired with the blond named Marcus. He’s maybe six-seven, built like a bulldozer, with a beard that looks meticulously painted on. It didn’t take me long to realize he’s one of those players who never stops moving, even when standing still.
Marcus tosses a chest pass that nearly dislocates my wrists. “Heard you’re from Texas,” he says, barely out of breath.
I nod. “Grew up there. Stayed for college, got drafted by the Alabama Jets. Now I’m here.” I catch and return, trying not to make eye contact with my own shoes, which are rubbing my ankles incessantly.
Marcus grins. “Well, don’t expect Southern hospitality in LA. People don’t even hold the elevator for you out here. Trust me, it’s a real jungle.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ve always liked a good adventure.”
Marcus laughs and flings the ball back at me with double the force. “You’re all right, new guy. But man, seriously, what’s up with your shoes?”
I glance down, mortified. The left one is foaming around the toe box. “It’s, uh, a long story involving my neighbor and her dog…”
He raises his hands in surrender, giving me a smirk. “Hey, man, as long as you don’t get it on me, we’re golden.”
If he only knew the kind of golden liquid I’m running in.
We shuffle back into formation as the assistant coach calls for defense drills. I follow the flow of players, trying to forget I’m a walking biological hazard.
Just survive, Dom. Just. Survive.
Between drills, I catch guys scrolling their phones. I don’t even know where mine is…Maybe in my truck?Either way, it’s a new thing to me, and I’m surprised it flies with the crazy coach.
Coach Ellis finally blows the whistle, marching us to the sideline. He paces, clapping his hands. “Comets don’t do lazy. Comets don’t do sloppy. I don’t care if you’re a rookie, a vet, or a Hall of Famer—we move together. One body, one brain. Understand?”
“YES, COACH!” the team shouts in perfect, cult-like unison.
I’m a beat behind, mostly because my throat is sandpaper andalso—
Because I’m thinking too much.
Because every step feels like a test.
Because I’m trying so hard not to be the weak link that I’m tightening instead of loosening.
“Neelson!” Coach barks, his expression stone cold.
I square up, fear rushing through my chest. “Yes, Coach.”
“You were late, your feet smell like the inside of a janitor’s closet, and your footwork is garbage.Fix it.”
“Yes, Coach.” I feel my ears go hot, but I don’t break eye contact—and Idefinitelydon’t look at my new teammates’ snickering reactions.
Ellis stares a second longer, then snaps his fingers. “Let’s see if you can run a play without tripping over your own feet. Bet your family can hear those shoes from Texas.”
The guys snicker more, but it’s not mean.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
