“You think so?”
“I know it, Gabo. You’re the future of this team. You’re going to be the face of it by the time you graduate. Hell, you could be the face ofthe gameby that time. At least, collegiately. I’m just glad I get to see you start, knowing that I’m leaving this team in good hands after this season. But you’re going to be a busy boy this semester. So show up to all your classes, be early to practice, don’t have too much fun with the girls around here, and you’ll be good. Don’t change a thing about what you’ve been bringing or doing. That’s what Coach and I need from you, okay?”
He holds his fist out, waiting for me to press mine to it. I smile as I tell him, “I will, Cap. I’m ready.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good.” He comes in for a hug, patting my back a few times before pushing himself off me. “Now get the hell outta here. Enjoy your final hours of freedom before your life’s textbooks and football.”
I might still be a little bruised from yesterday’s game, but I’m walking back to my teammates with the peppiest of peps in my step. Looking like I just lost my virginity or something. Mind full of ideas about how the future will look, of my face on ESPNon TVand kids wearing my kit and being called someone’s favorite player (or, at least someone who’s not my parent). And—
“He’s back,” Pérez chirps, bringing me quickly back to reality with him, Ahmed, and now Nguyen, who’s standing behind them with his hands on their shoulders. “We’re all done here, if you and Capitán are finished. Coach said we can go. And I call shotgun.”
“You can’t call shotgun while we’re still inside!” Ahmed says back, glaring at our teammate before turning back to me. “What did Barrera need to talk to you about anyway?”
“I, uh.” A smile immediately starts growing across my face, all toothy and dimply. “I’m on ESPN’s website. I’m one of the ten freshmen to watch this season.” All the nerves in my body light up, like I need to jump or run the excitement out. “I’m number three.”
I’m barely able to finish saying the wordthreebefore Ahmed and Pérez, faces going from impatient to, quickly, openmouthed, big-eyed, and excited, are jumping out of their chairs and onto me, screaming. The rest of the squad that’s around starts staring, muttering under their breaths like they’re wondering if these two are trying to beat the shit out of me right now. Nguyenstays back, but smiles at me and, after I’ve managed to calm our roommates down, he puts his hand out for a high five. Which is basically the equivalent of an Ahmed scream or Pérez getting the zoomies, and rarer and better than even a handshake from that one baker-judge-guy on that British baking show my mom likes to watch.
“Nguyen, go get changed!” Barrera yells, coming back into the room. “And all four of you, go home. Or I’m making you run laps.”
Fuck that. Especially with leftover enchiladas waiting for me at our place. He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
“We got to celebrate,” Pérez yells, his arm over my shoulders as we walk out. “Toast to our boy here and get plastered.”
“It’s Sunday,” Nguyen says. “We’ve got classes tomorrow. That’s not happening tonight.”
“Pues, this coming weekend then. Ahmed, find a party. There’s got to be some frat house throwing a fucking rager we could get ourselves into.”
“On it, brother,” he answers, twirling his phone in his hand before he brings it up to his face to unlock it. “We’ll have at least three options by Friday. Guaranteed. Five, six days from now, we pop our college-party cherries.”
5
MY PHONE’S ALARM GOESoff at 6:58 a.m., five minutes before sunrise. Just enough time to put on shorts, socks, and shoes, put my AirPods in, get downstairs, grab water, and be outside.
Stretch, some simple yoga poses and a couple hops to get loose.
Deep breath in and out.
Put my morning run playlist on shuffle.
And I’m off.
This has been my ritual the last few years. I used to have to wake up even earlier to make sure I’d be able to get in a run, get showered and dressed, and be ready to leave for school with enough time to make it there before the first bell. Thankfully, now that I’m in college, I don’t have to be about that life ever again. Crossing my fingers I’m able to go the next three and a half years as far away from any eight a.m. classes as I can be. Senior year, when I’m doing student teaching, I’ll probably haveto man up about it. But, for right now, my earliest class is at ten. Plenty of time for a run and a shower afterward, so I don’t smell musty first thing in the morning. I can even eat breakfast and not have to rush for any of it.
Or, that’s the idea. Today’s my actual first day of classes. So, I’ll find out soon enough if I planned this out correctly.
I spent a lot of time last night worrying about everything that could go wrong today, from walking into the wrong classroom and not realizing it until halfway through the hour, to finding out that not only did I not sign up for any of the right classes, I never even registered. I was tossing and turning, trying to think relaxing thoughts for hours until I finally pulled my iPad out, went on to the student portal, and saw, right there in black and white (and the blues and greens of any TAMU-CC website) that, yes, I did register, I will have somewhere to be, and they are all going to be the right somewheres. Calculus, Nutrition, Physics, Psychology, Philosophy. A course for freshmen who are thinking of going into education. A mix of major requirements for my Mathematics degree and my minor in Exercise Science, starting on my teacher certification, and core stuff.
I’m good. I’m prepped and ready. I’m nervous, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Just a normal day.
Well, the start of my new normal. One that looks like running on the wildlife path along Oso Bay instead of through my neighborhood, going to classes in a university that isn’t necessarily huge but is still big compared with my tiny Catholic high school, and playing for a team that has me getting on a plane for the first time in my life. Bigger than anything I’ve ever faced head-on before. But, like Barrera said, as long as I stick to the straight path forward, it’s nothing I can’t handle.
I’m good.
I’m ready.
