Even though Itried not to, I couldn’t help overhearing one of my teammate’s mouth. He was loud and whiny—sounding exactly like the bitch I knew him to be.
Initially, I never had a problem with Preston Wilcox. As a veteran on the team, coaches and upper management often asked me to try to connect with a rookie on some mentorship shit. I was always open to it. I believed in “paying it forward” and in “each one reach one.” Gatekeeping didn’t benefit people. Sharing knowledge did, so I made sure that was my entire vibe.
I’d come into the league twelve years earlier, as an anomaly—a kicker drafted out of college. Teams just didn’t draft kickers. Those coveted draft selections were reserved for the more high-profile positions—quarterbacks, defensive ends, and offensivetackles. Kickers were low on the totem pole, mostly getting picked up by teams after an intensely competitive private pro showcase with coaches. Or after signing with a team as an undrafted free agent and hoping to secure a spot during training camp.
Most kickers who were able to make it professionally were exceptional. I mean, there were only so many spots for kickers. Other positions had a backup. Some positions, like quarterback, could have multiple backups. But there was only one place kicker per team. Kickers had to beat out a lot of competition. My kicking skills were preeminent. Not only was I drafted, I was drafted in the third round. That was unheard of for kickers but, like I said, preeminent.
There was a lot of pressure on me to perform. I was expected to prove that I was worthy of the coveted draft spot and worth the money they were paying me. I was. There weren’t many well-known, recognizable kickers in the league. But I was one of them. That was another reason they liked to have me try to influence rookies. I knew what it was to have success under immense pressure.
When they paired me with Wilcox, his bad attitude was apparent from the rip. I didn’t buckle. A lot of professional athletes initially came off as gruff. Part of it was self-protection. We never trusted easily. There was too much going on to do that. I got it.
Wilcox’s college stats were exceptional. He probably had vultures circling every minute, looking for a way to exploit his talent. Again, I got it. What I didn’t get was that every time I tried to build a rapport or make anything past a surface-level connection, he offered up his ass to kiss. Kissing ass wasn’t my style, so I immediately backed off and left him alone.
Shortly after Wilcox became a distant memory, a different rookie, one who was less celebrated and drafted much higherthan Wilcox, approached me. Stanford Askew. Everybody called him “Kew.” He was a cool kid. Hungry for knowledge and guidance. Affable and laid-back. He frequently sought me out, . . . playbook in hand and questions ready.
Kew and I formed a rapport. He became like a little brother to me. He played with heart and built trust and favor with the coaches. He kept his reputation clean, he was funny, and he was likable. I did what I could to open doors for the kid to walk through. He paid attention and took advantage. Kew started to blow up on and off the field. Playing time. Endorsements. Recognition.
Wilcox noticed. He approached Kew and me after the locker room emptied out one day. He accused me of shitting on him and accused Kew of trying to stand in his spot. When I reminded him that I tried to connect with him, that made him even angrier. He said a whole lot of shit that was pretty much nonsensical and stormed off. Since that day, he never fucked with me. He never fucked with Kew either, but it was obvious that his hate for me ran deeper.
He kept his distance from me, which was for the best. I would rock his shit if he ever even thought to step to me. But I knew he wouldn’t. Clowns like Wilcox never stepped. They talked shit behind your back. Threw rocks and hid their hands, shit like that. I didn’t respect that, and I didn’t respect him.
He was a joke, . . . except for the fact that I’d seen him leave the Coyotes end-of-the-year banquet with Wyndi’s fine ass. Wyndi who bedazzled footballs for the Coyotes, basketballs for the Bison, and baseballs for the North Side team. I didn’t know if they were a thing or not. All I knew was that if I ever got the chance to holler at her, I was on her ass.
I didn’t know much about her. I didn’t even know her last name. All I knew was that she had a hold on me for some reason. Ever since I had the chance to talk to her at the banquet, she’dbeen on my mind. I wanted some more of her time. Her spirit was light and bright. She had a peacefulness about her that I fucked with. She was around the industry, but she wasn’t jaded or predatory. She didn’t look at athletes or their families and just see dollar signs. She saw people. I liked that about her. She was so fucking pretty, too. She had that baby face that spoke to innocence, while the body assured me that she could ride dick like a rodeo star.
I’d been to her studio a few times. When my niece’s volleyball team took their division, I’d commissioned Wyndi to custom bedazzle a volleyball with my niece’s team mascot and the school colors on it. She probably thought I was a creep, because the entire time I was describing what I wanted, I was staring. I tried not to. I tried to force myself not to look into her brown eyes or let my eyes linger on her full lips. She was so fucking put together and still managed to have a sweetness about herself. That wasn’t always the norm when it came to women who spent time around professional athletes. I was drawn to that.
At the moment, I wondered if he was referring to Wyndi when he talked about “old bitches who were boring and complained a lot” and his parting shot before he left the room, “I keep tryna tell these hos . . . what you won’t do, another ho will.”
I shook my head at his comment. Dumb ass. But if he was out of Wyndi’s face, I needed to be in it. I considered fabricating a need to have an item bedazzled but realized it didn’t have to be that serious. Saturday was the team’s annual Sponsor & Vendor Expo. She would be there selling her custom merch and apparel. I would be there, too. Because the next time I saw Wyndi, I wasn’t leaving her presence without shooting my shot.
