“I got a scholarship,” I answer proudly, because I am proud. I might have grown up poorer than Pierce and most of my peers did, but I worked hard and earned a place where people like this twatwaffle don’t think I belong. Being poor or having parents with…issues… doesn’t make me less than anyone else. It didn’t then, and it doesn’t now. If anything, my placement at this school is proof of that.
“I guess Huntston’s standards have dropped this year,” Pierce murmurs, chuckling. He thinks he’s funny, but no one around him laughs.
Pierce shrugs, like he can’t imagine why no one else is finding his lack of wit amusing. “Oh, Miller knows I’m just playing around,” he says, nudging me with his elbow.
I chuckle, because I kind of have to. I learned a long time ago that the only way to respond to this shit is to laugh with them. Don’t give the bullies the satisfaction of knowing they get under your skin, and eventually they’ll get bored and move on. Besides that, if I take it seriously, then it becomes real. Then it all starts again and will never end. Maybe if I don’t take the bait, he’ll be mature enough to let it go.
Aaron is watching me a little too closely, brow furrowed. “You two know each other?”
“Yeah man, Miller Time and I go way back.”
I make what I hope is a friendly, agreeable facial expression. “We went to the same high school.”
Aaron nods, and I get the feeling he’s seeing more than I’d like him to. He shoots a look at Jay, who scowls at Pierce. Not that Pierce notices, he’s too busy telling a couple of his buddies about some of the stuff my older brother used to get into. Not that any of it has anything to do with me, but I suppose the stories are entertaining. To them.
I just laugh like the good-natured idiot I trained myself to be. And when Pierce asks how my brother is, his tone suggesting he’s been up to no good, I don’t let the urge to punch him overtake me. Instead, I redirect the conversation, grateful thatnews of my brother’s condition hasn’t gotten out. Or at least, it hasn’t made it this far.
My chest tightens with the instinct to defend Davis. To defend my dad. But I don’t. I never did. Like I am now, all I ever did was laugh along. Until the day I packed up and moved away, abandoning my mom and Davis and ignoring any signs that they might have still needed me. I moved halfway across the country, thinking that making something of myself would be easier without the stigma attached to my name. And it was, for a while. Unfortunately reality, as it so often does, caught up to me.
Jay takes the opportunity to avert my attention elsewhere, which I’m grateful for. He and Aaron introduce me to some more people. I meet a guy named Jeremy Fisher who calls himself Fish. He’s in my same degree program and we have a couple of shared classes. He tells me to message him on the campus message app, Howler, so we can hang out to study.
“It’s not just for hooking up,” Fish says, when someone makes a joke about Fish coming onto me. “I promise I’m not hitting on you,” he says with an oddly serious face.
“Okay,” I say with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t be offended, though.” And I definitely wouldn’t. Fish is a good looking guy, with a playful grin and an endearing smatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
Just then, an older man with a no-nonsense attitude barrels into the room, clapping his hands and getting our attention with a shockingly loud voice.
“Sit your asses down! Let’s get this started!”
Since my transfer was somewhat last minute, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Coach McCoy face-to-face, but hisreputation precedes him. My coach back in Nebraska said he’s hard to impress, but fair. Jay and Aaron warned me about some of his quirks. Namely, that he’s very loud all the time, is prone to shouting abruptly, and often tosses out off-the-cuff remarks that come across as blunt or even inappropriate. They appear to be amused rather than irritated or frightened at all, which seems like a good sign.
We all take our seats quickly, Aaron startling so hard he almost sits on my lap, as Coach launches into his welcome speech.
“First things first?—”
Coach pauses and stares at someone in the front row who is still standing. I’m watching the way Coach McCoy reacts to one of his students disobeying him, not turning my head until someone else stands to pull the other guy down. A few people snicker, and the two guys sit down together. All I see of the guys are their backs and the tops of their heads once they sit down.
Finally, we all turn our attention back to McCoy.
“Anyway,” Coach says, as if trying to remember what he was talking about. “Rules!” he shouts loudly and abruptly enough that I would have flinched if not for Jay and Aaron’s warnings.
“Listen up, because I don’t like to repeat myself.” He paces in front of the mats like he’s preparing for battle. “Rule number one: show up on time. Early is on time, on time is late, and late means you’re conditioning until you’re showing the rest of the class what color your breakfast was. Rule number two: shower. With. Soap,” he says, enunciating and popping the p. “Actual soap. I shouldn’t have to specify that, but here we are.”
A few guys snicker. Coach side-eyes them like they already smell bad. “Practice hygiene like you might talk some poor girl intogoing down on you. It’s unlikely, but hope is important.” He pauses and quirks a brow like he just remembered something. “Or guy. That’s another thing—we don’t discriminate here at Huntston. There’s a zero-tolerance policy for that kind of shit.”
Well, that’s certainly good to know. Considering it doesn’t seem like Pierce Jamison has grown up at all, I’m better off bracing myself for the inevitable taunts about my sexuality, which I’ve never felt the desire to hide. It’s reassuring to know rumors won’t get me in trouble here the way they did back in high school.
“Anyway, I don’t care who or what you’re into. Just wash your ass. Rule number three: don’t be stupid. Half of you are already failing this one, but it’s important to set goals. There are rules on this campus for a reason, follow them. Don’t party so much you forget you’re here for an education. Act like you’ve got some sense.”
“Rule number four,” he continues. “You’re a goddamn athlete, so act like it. If I find you skipping workouts without a good reason and eating like shit, I’ll make you do wind sprints until you hallucinate. We talk about weight a lot in this sport, but it’s all about balance. Exercise regularly, and eat real, healthy food. Protein and vegetables. A protein shake is not breakfast, it’s a supplement. A handful of almonds or a bowl of iceberg lettuce drenched in Hidden Valley is not lunch. A donut is not… Well, okay, sometimes a donut is a meal, but not every day. Balance, people!”
He pauses like he might have forgotten what else he wanted to talk about, but then looks up sharply. “Last rule—BONERS!”
I snap to attention, confused and slightly amused by how loudly this man, who looks a bit like if Dr. Phil was a short, jacked drillsergeant, wearing too-tight short athletic shorts and a tucked in polo shirt, just yelled the wordboner. I’m pretty sure it echoed off the ceiling.
“Boners happen. Walk it off. I don’t want to hear about it, and I damn well don’t want to see it. Walk. It. Off.”
He looks around the room, dead serious, and then claps once. “Alright, moving on. Let’s meet your captains!”
