My King.
Istepintothelocker room, my eyes trying not to stare at the half-naked studs that I call my teammates. My nostrils pick up the familiar jock musk and laundry detergent scent. The usual locker room cocktail seared into my memories after years of playing football. My pulse jumps, because I know the inevitable is coming.
Charlie.
I’m doing my best to avoid Charlie at all costs. My heart somersaults at the thought of what I’d say when he corners me. What excuse I’d muster. I’ve never been great at confrontation. My strategy’s always been the same: ignore, bolt in the opposite direction, and pray we both develop amnesia.
I’m halfway into my pads, when Jackson strolls over, his lowers abs exposed.
“Hey Austin, you’ve been good? Charlie been going kind of… crazy. Says you guys had some stuff happen?”
Of course, Charlie couldn’t help himself but involve Jackson and probably my father. Such a baby, like a preschooler tattling when someone snatched his favorite toy dinosaur.
“Yeah, everything is good. We are just taking a break. You know Charlie—he’s dramatic.”
“Alright dude. He seemed kind of worried after you left in the middle of the storm. If you ever need anything, please let me know. I know things are kind of tense between us, but I don’t want it to stay that way…”
“It’s going to take time Jackson. Imagine if I was engaged to your dad…” I huff, my last straw of patience being drawn.
“Ope. Okay. Sorry for trying to extend an olive branch. See you on the field,” he mutters, before walking out the door.
Fuck… I didn’t need to be an asshole, but I don’t need him patronizing me either. Like I’m a charity home renovation project needing rehabilitation. What I do need, is for him to admit how fucking insane it is that he’s fucking my father and acting like I should be their biggest cheerleader.
Sure Jackson, let me turn on the stereo and break out in dance. Give me five.
Whatever… I throw on my shoulder pads and make for the tunnel to the turf. Maybe a day on the field is the perfect distraction for my fucked-up headspace.
My eyes spot Charlie in the periphery. My pulse stutters, throat gulping, but my feet putter faster to meet the rest of the offense on the turf before he can drag me into his cesspool of self-pity.
I can’t deal with his moping today. Maybe tomorrow. Or next year. Hell, punting it indefinitely sounds an excellent game plan to me.
The rest of practice goes smoothly, Drew watching from the stands, hooting like a devil in the church attic at every catch I make. Admittedly, I’m kind of on fire. My hands haul in every spiral Jackson zings my way, my feet stutter-step leading me to the end zone a couple of times.
Even Jenkins gives me a nod of approval. He’s a miser who hates my guts, so that’s saying something.
At this rate, there’s no question whether I’ll be a starting wide receiver, it’s more so if I’ll be wideout number one, two, or three. But that’s up to Coach Rourke to decide.
If he wants to beat the Cheeseheads, he better make me WR 1.
Theairisslightlyhumid from the persistent mist of the day, Drews pulls the Range Rover into a grimy strip mall, the majority of the storefronts look half-abandoned with two-by-fours guarding the windows. Victims of crime. North Minneapolis at its finest.
A man is pacing back and forth on the corner, a worn hoodie covering his face and a hand in his junk, pants nearly on the ground.
Don’t get me wrong—some parts of North are thriving and coming back, but it has it’s reputation for a reason. The homicide and crime capital of Minnesota.
He turns off the ignition in front of a ratty looking tattoo parlor, North Star Sleeves. The neon light is out for all three of the S’s.
“This is the place?” I mutter, I would never drive in this lot myself, but it’s completely on vibe for him.
“Yeah they do the best artwork in the tri-state area. You won’t find anybody with more talent unless you go to Chicago and get lucky they aren’t too faded.” Drew snickers, obviously enjoying the bit of anxiety this place gives me.
“Huh. I guess we’ll find out.”
We step in the door, a bell ringing, the scent of stale cigarettes is overpowering. Death metal music controls the atmosphere as a guy with bleach-blonde mohawk walks up, his face loaded withpiercings—eyebrows, nose, lip, not to mention his gauges stretching both ears. Hopefully this man never needs to go through an MRI machine.
“Look who it is,” he crows, a grin splitting those lip rings. “Drew fucking Evans.”
“Long time no see Razor,” Drew says back.
