I’ve been working towards this goal since I was a kid, when I wanted to impress my first Coach. He saw how naturally I picked it up and said I could go pro. Plus, I didn’t want to disappoint my parents—training wasn’t cheap, and they even sectioned off one of their fields to let me use for practice.
Now my brothers use that field to practice football tackles, the traitors.
I huff out a quiet laugh, staring out at the road. I miss them.
I miss my parents, my first Coach, and the ranch. I miss the way everything smelled like hay and dust and hard work, and the way my mom would call me in for dinner and I’d pretend I didn’t hear her just to get a few more minutes practicing tricks outside.
They were so proud when I got the scholarship, especially since I’m the first one in the family to go to university. My dad told everyone. I’m pretty sure even the mailman knows I got a full-ride athletic scholarship.
My first Coach threw me a whole party to celebrate before I left and still texts me every couple of months to check in,giving me updates on how the home team’s doing with his usual hilarious dad jokes.
I shift in my seat, something tight settling in my chest.
They were so proud. They're still proud. And I want to give them something to be proud of. For my family, my Coaches, the team.
For Colten.
My gaze moves back to him without thinking.
Headlights from passing cars flicker across his face, catching his nose, slightly crooked from when he broke it in high school and never bothered to fix it. The lights also catch on the faint pink of his lips as they move with the words of whatever angry guitar song this is.
He's the reason I'm currently in a position to go pro. The rehab, the conditioning, the endless early mornings where he showed up with me despite not needing to, and then stayed late to help me stretch out my legs. He's given more to this dream than I think I've ever acknowledged out loud.
I can’t imagine doing this without him. Honestly, I don’t think I’d want to.
So why is it all starting to feel like an endless slog that I would rather eat my cleats than go through?
I take another sip of my protein shake.
Whatever. It’s just a case of senioritis, it can’t last forever.
All I have to do is perform well at the combine, that’s it. Show the scouts what I can do and prove I’m worth playing in the big leagues.
The music suddenly drops in volume.
I blink and realize Colten turned it down.
He glances over at me, the headlights catching on the sharp angle of his jaw in flashes of light and shadow. “So, what’s your plan at the combine?”
“Play soccer,” I say.
“Wow, revolutionary,” he says flatly.
“I like to keep it simple.”
He sighs, but it’s fond. I think. “You need to stand out.”
“I’m six-four. I already stand out,” I point out.
“Not like that,” he says, shaking his head. “You need to be intentional with how you present yourself because scouts aren’t just looking for skill. They’re looking for consistency and discipline, someone who will make their team stronger.”
I nod, listening, even though he’s said this all before.
“And be careful not to overextend yourself,” he continues. “You push too hard when you’re trying to impress people. That’s how you get sloppy.”
“Hey, I’m never sloppy,” I argue.
His eyebrows raise, even as he continues to stare at the road. “You tripped over your own foot while doing tricks at the party.”
