I take my place on the line and meet his grey eyes—picturing the hatred that used to burn in them, as well as the scowl that used to be a permanent landmark across his lips—and wonder how, exactly, we made it here.
CHAPTER 1
HENDRIX AVERY
“So, you think you have what it takes to play for the Los Angeles Rubies? Well, news flash!” The team’s training coordinator eyes each of us from beneath bushy grey eyebrows. Mark Traylor is well-known within the football world, having spent years playing in the NFL as a linebacker before retiring to coach. As a kid, I used to watch the man currently glowering at us on television every Sunday. I am literally being glared at by football royalty, and that thought sends a jolt of adrenaline throughout my body.
This is really happening. I am minutes away from walk-on tryouts for a professional football team. Every childhood dream, every black eye, every strained tendon and pulled muscle was all for this. My chance to play in the league and show everyone who ever said I was never good enough that I am. They’ll watch me on national television every Sunday and realize they were dead wrong about me.
Traylor claps his hands loud enough that a few of the gathered candidates jolt. We’re all dressed in workout gear, some of us also sporting looks of awe or nervousness. The guy at the end of our line actually looks green, as if he might hurl. “We don’t have unlimited spots on this team. Most of you aren’t any better than our guys on the practice squad, so stop thinking you’re hot shit, okay? If you weren’t drafted, there was probably a reason for that. I have been doing this a long time; believe me when I say most of you don’t have what it takes to so much as practice with these guys.”
The man beside me huffs in irritation, and yeah, okay, my hero worship for Traylor does diminish a bit at his flippant dismissal.
“That make you mad?” he asks, voice echoing throughout the empty cafeteria at the Rubies’ training center. It’s four thirty in the morning, and not even the kitchen staff is here to begin cooking breakfast for the team yet. Traylor didn’t bother to flip all the lights on either, so the dim room is doing nothing to help clear my foggy brain at this ungodly hour. Despite playing football my entire life and having to wake up early every day for practices and workouts, I am not, never have been, and never will be a morning person.
“Use that anger as fuel on the field! Show us you’re more than practice squad material or stop wasting my time. Any questions?”
Two seconds of stunned silence, and then Greenie pukes on the floor between his tennis shoes. It’s gross, but one does not play an athletic sport without dealing with a bit of vomit from time to time. I’d feel bad for the guy, except his struggle can only aid my audition.
Traylor wrinkles his nose in disgust and points at Greenie. “You, clean that up. The rest of you should have had your asses on the field five minutes ago. Let’s go! Move, move, move!”
Scowling, I stand and resist the urge to snark back. Seriously, though. How could we have been on the field five minutes ago when he was literally talking to us at that point? And we don’t even know how to get to the field from the Rubies’ cafeteria.
Hero worship? No, zero worship.
The grass is dewy as we drag our feet onto the practice turf out back after Traylor points us in the right direction. Only one other person greets us outside, introducing himself as the assistant training coordinator. There are some weight machines, cones, ladders, tires, hurdles, blocking dummies, and countless other conditioning equipment spread from end zone to end zone as if we will have to show them our fundamentals before we even get to see a football. Now it makes sense why we are here before the guys already on the team.
“First things first,” Traylor calls. “Warm-ups. Start running the track.”
Of the two dozen or so of us, about fifteen drop to adjust their shoes or clothing, and I let out a sadistically amused grunt, knowing they aren’t winning any points by coming out here unprepared.
I take to the track, my already tightly tied sneakers and long athletic socks not giving me any trouble. I’ve played for enough coaches and teams to know how they operate. They want shit done when they say it, whether you are ready or not. They tell you to jump? Don’t talk back, just give them everything you have.
Traylor said these are warm-ups, so I pace myself, letting my muscles adjust to the workout naturally—though I already went through my own stretches before arriving at the training center. You never know what they’ll ask of you or when they’ll ask it, so always be ready to run.
Most of the other guys lap the track as if it is a challenge. They sprint far ahead, making me shake my head. They’re fucking up by starting full-out, but I won’t be the one to tell them that.
“They are definitely going to burn out too early,” a voice huffs from beside me. Glancing over, I observe the guy who was sitting beside me in the cafeteria earlier. Dark hair buzzed short, with a tall and stocky stature, he exudes tight end energy, but I’m not hanging around long enough to find out if that assumption is correct. “Wanna stick together on this? I’m—”
“Not interested. Don’t care.” My voice comes out flat, like it always does. Some might call it rude, but I prefer efficient. As in, it is efficient at running people off when my resting scowl doesn’t do the trick.
Tight End Energy grunts out a gruff, “Asshole,” before jogging ahead, leaving me alone. Exactly how I prefer it.
Three-quarters of the way around the track, I’ve reached my distance pace while most everyone else has returned to the starting point. They pull off to the side and amble about aimlessly as they await instructions from Traylor, who seems entirely uninterested in us, instead focused on the clipboard his assistant holds between them.
I pass the one-lap mark and maintain my pace while the few remaining guys behind me peel off to join the others—a mistake only I notice.
Traylor told us to start running on the track; he didn’t say to only do one lap.
I’m validated when halfway through my next lap, Traylor yells something at the guys standing around, and they immediately jump into action, once again taking to the track.
We run for a lot longer than even I thought we would. Some guys tap out after a few more laps—the ones who thought they would show out in the beginning—but only one completely leaves instead of taking a breather and returning.
My thighs are burning, my stomach is aching despite my small but hearty breakfast, and I am mentally begging Traylor to have mercy on us as I reach somewhere around fifteen laps. I say somewhere because I lose count once the sun rises high enough to blind me. We are all spread out now, everyone else having realized that these warm-up laps are anything but. The performance evaluation has already begun, and the bigger guys not built for distance or endurance are surely regretting expending all of their energy earlier.
A whistle blows, and I look over to see Traylor waving us in. I jog across the field, not wanting to be the last one over and make him wait on me. To cool down, I pace back and forth in a small area near the huddle he has called. I know they have a lot more in store for us, so I don’t want to collapse and lose all the elasticity my warm-up has put into my muscles.
“Re-stretch and meet me at the scales in twenty,” Traylor commands before stalking to the sideline where a manual scale awaits.
Setting a seventeen-minute timer on my watch, I go through my standard stretches, paying close attention to my hamstrings and ankle tendons. I haven’t come all this way to get injured during tryouts. Some of the other applicants use the time to relax and guzzle water—those amateurs should know the time for hydrating was this entire past week, and they should only refresh right now instead of filling their guts with sloshy water. No one else tries to approach me, which I appreciate. I’m not here to chat and make friends.
Once time is up and we’re all surrounding Traylor at the scales, he gives us the fastest, most basic instructions I have ever received before he and his assistant begin weighing us. They take measurements, too—height, bicep and calf circumference, waist, shoulders, head—and each number gets written down on their clipboard beside our assigned tryout number.
After that, we each max out on the weight machines dotting this half of the field, again all recorded on the coordinator’s clipboard. I don’t try to show out, just give them the best my body can in the most healthy way. My time to really shine has yet to come.
My entire life, I’ve been told I’m nothing special. My hair is a weird almost-blond, not-quite-brown color that no one will ever envy, and I have to keep it long enough to cover my ears, which stick out just a little too far. The dishwater-colored locks are always messy, not really straight or curly, and nearly impossible to tame. My eyes are technically blue, but in a dark ocean-type way, and they usually look shadowed or brown in photos. At five foot nine, I am relatively short for a football player. My muscle is lean, my body thin, and soaking wet, I could pass for a hundred and seventy-five pounds.
People don’t look at me and think football player—not until they witness my speed—and I have spent my entire career trying to get people to see past my exterior at the talent within.
We’re instructed to do sprint drills, and I give the coordinators everything they overlooked this last draft season. From a combination of prejudice and a small college, our entire collegiate team was passed over by recruits, so my chances of getting drafted went down the drain. I’d hoped after two years, someone would notice my skills and drive, but when they didn’t, I stayed for two more. I graduated with a bachelor’s degree in ASL and not even a negative response from any of the NFL recruitment teams I’d sent my information to. It was heartbreaking, but I am determined to play in the league. It’s my destiny.
I’m at the top of the chart when lunchtime rolls around. Several of the other guys have tapped out or been asked to leave by the coordinators, and only half of our original group remains.
“All right, survivors,” Traylor says once the last result is logged. His assistant passes each of us a packet of plays and routes while we wait for instructions. “Take an hour for lunch. Rest, hydrate, recuperate, and study. Meet me on the sideline ready to run these plays with our practice team. Our active roster and coaches will be observing, so bring your A games. Dismissed.”
As we trudge off the field, I overhear one guy asking Tight End Energy, “How do you read these fucking things?” Papers crinkle as he flips from page to page.
I scoff and roll my eyes to myself.
