I exhale heavily. This day just keeps getting better and better. I’m almost waiting for some cringy TV host to jump out from my closet and yell, “Ha! You just got pranked!” but as the seconds tick by, I realise that’s not going to happen.
“I’m really sorry, Greg. I thought I had enough in my account. I’ll get you the money as soon as possible.”
His shoulders drop, releasing the stiff tension he’s holding as disappointment floods his eyes. “This is the second time your rent has been late. I’m sorry, Mae, but if I don’t get the money by the end of the day, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
He doesn’t wait for my response; instead, he saunters down the steps without another word for dramatic effect. His too-tight suit constricts his body, making his movements wooden.
After closing it, I allow my head to drop down to rest against my apartment door. My tongue skates across the front of my teeth as I laugh in disbelief despite the fact that nothing about this situation is remotely funny.
I’m drowning, and there are no buoyancy aids available, leaving me stranded out at sea, barely afloat.
Clenching my spare hand into a fist by my side as I strangle my phone with the other, I gulp in dread, knowing what I need to do.
There’s no way I can get this money to Greg in time, and even if I could, I know I can’t afford to stay here in the long run. Not without my veterinary nursing job.
Fuck.
My chest constricts as I flick through my contacts, hovering over my mom’s name, unsure whether to tap or pull away. I’m not ready for what she’ll have to say, but I know I’m going to have to bite the bullet.
She picks up after a few rings, and after an awkward and mostly one-sided conversation, it looks like I’m heading back to Montana to visit Mommy Dearest.
2: Nathan
Cone drills will be the death of me.
Sweat trickles down my forehead as I clutch the football to my side, the fake green grass of the stadium blurry as I jog. The rhythm of my heart pounds in my ears, and my quads ache with every step.
“You’re not running for the bus outside the mall, gentleman!” booms my coach, bracing his hands on his capped head, his lips turning down in a frown. “We’re over two months into the regular season, and you’ll be lucky to pull your uniforms over your heads without having asthma attacks during your next game!”
I press my lips together. As the team captain, it’s part of my job to motivate these guys, but we’re slacking, and we have a reputation to uphold. The Missarali Storks made it to the final four teams in the NFL Playoffs last year, and although it was disappointing not to make it all the way, we intend to win the Super Bowl this time.
I can’t see that happening with the way we're training though.
We’ve been winning, but the games have all been close. I don’t like sitting so near the cliff’s edge, wondering when you’re due to tip so far that you plummet to the cold, hard ground. Uncertainty isn’t a nice feeling.
I’m not in the mood today. I hate hounding people, and no matter how hard Coach Darrell pushes these guys, some of them seem to struggle. We’re good, but not so good that we can rely on it to take us to the Super Bowl. Hard work can get us there, and that’s what I’ve been trying to remind them.
This job takes the best out of us. It strips us down, beats us senseless and leaves us bare.
Not only is it physically exhausting, but mentally, too. If you don’t win, you lose. Nobody celebrates second place. It’s the first loser—something my father loves to remind me of.
The media watch our every move. Every single thing we do is under a microscope. But it comes with the job. It’s something we have to put up with if we want to be successful football players.
“Hit the showers, guys!” I order them once Coach blows the whistle, hiking my thumb over my shoulder towards the locker rooms. The stadium is deathly silent as my team files off the grass and down the tunnel. I can tell they’re disappointed in the way practice went today.
Darrell tuts, flicking his cap off, letting it drop to the ground. “Nathan, please, give them some words of wisdom.”
“What do you want me to say, Darrell?” I question, close enough with him to be on a first-name basis.
“You’re one of the oldest here. You have the most experience. Say something. Anything. They’re burned out, and we haven’t even made it to the Playoffs yet.”
I clap him on the shoulder as I pass him. “I’ll try, but you can’t force passion. If we push them too far, they’ll break.”
My father spent my entire life pushing me to live and breathe football back in Bozeman, and look where it got us—blood relatives who view each other as mere acquaintances.
Strangers, even. We just so happen to share the same DNA.
As I follow the rest of my team towards the locker rooms, cheerleader Coach Renee—she removed the accent a couple of years ago because she claimed it made her quirkier—struts past me, narrowing her eyes into slits.
