“So again, nameless people shaking their fists at clouds.”
She’s right.I know she is, but still, my worries are still there.My manager, Robins, suspended me for two games and has asked me to donate a portion of my week's wages to a local charity.I agreed to both.He said my first team spot is not in jeopardy as long as I keep putting in the performances once I return and not fight again.I agreed to his terms and left.It was so much better than I had feared.But I can still feel my walls caving in.I’m thankful for AJ and Trish, without them, I don’t know what I would do.
I open his message up again, and reply:
Kyle
The one closest to you.
Visibly cringing, I get up and grab myself another bottle of water.
Hooonk.Hoooonk.Hooooooonk.
I fling up out of bed so fast, I fall out of it, clutching the covers around my nakedness.
“Rise and shiiiine!”
I stare at her.Hard.Really hoping if I stare at her with enough force, her head will explode.
“What, in the actualfuckdo you think you are doing?”I ask her in my croaky sleep laden voice.
“Getting you up for your run.You didn’t think I was joking about making you work all that shit you ate off, do you?And besides, you can’t train at the complex, so until you can, it’s Trish Camp.”
“What.Time.Is.It?”I ask, through gritted teeth.
“Five fifteen,” she says, cheery, like she’s just announced we’re going to Disneyland.
“Five fifteen?FIVE fifteen?In the morning?”
“Obviously.”
Her hair is up in a bun, she’s clad in running gear.I try once more to explode her head with my vision.It doesn’t work.
“Come on, chop-chop.”
“I am not getting changed with you standing there.”
“You do know we’re both gay?”
“I am quite aware, but I would still like to get changed in private.”
“Okay, but if you go back to sleep, I’m getting a bucket of ice-cold water and tipping it over you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Want to try me?”
She stares at me.I stare back.I back down.Fuck, she is good.
“Be ready in ten minutes.”
“Fine.”I growl, and she leaves the room.
I actually get ready in six minutes.Still fearful from my childhood days with my dad’s obsession with times and making sure I was also prompt to the millisecond.I called them when I got home yesterday, explaining the situation.They were disappointed, but glad I was okay.I assured them I was, and promised them a visit soon.
I head into the kitchen, and Trish thrusts a drink in my hands.A homemade “health shot” made from ginger and other shit.It’s awful, but I down it in one, and get my trainers on.I know a run will do me good, but not at five thirty in the morning.
We do several laps around the park, the air cold on my face, but I soon get used to it and at one point, I’m even thankful for it.In some ways, maybe this will make me sharper and more alert.There’s an old saying in football that goes something like, “Yes, he might be good, but can he do it on a wet and rainy night in—” and then you add the shittiest team in the league currently.Well, I’d like to think I can.Once the run is done, Trish insists on burpees.After much—and I meanmuch—protesting, telling her it was unethical to do burpees, especially at 6:20 am, I manage a new personal best: one hundred burpees.I collapse to the floor gasping for breath like a fish out of water.I might be an elite athlete, but burpees can fuck right off.Once that is done, the next item on Trish Camp is shooting practice.But with an imaginary ball because she “forgot the bag”—I’m pretty sure she wants me to make a fool of myself.I aim the “ball” at the “goal,” which is a green council bin overflowing with used condoms and dogshit.We do this for fifteen minutes after “missing” all the shots.Then we take a run back home.Trish makes me another protein shake—this time it’s quite delicious—and I collapse on the sofa.
