The next play, I put on a burst of speed and set my eyes far down the field as if that spot is my target, but after twenty yards, I whip around and double back at the precise moment Aleks looks at me. Having overshot due to my impressive acting skills, Ellingsworth is nowhere to be seen as I snag the spiraling football from the air with ease. I take off again at top speed, knowing it is only a matter of time before someone catches me. I’m fast, not invincible.
Or maybe I am because I carry the ball right into the end zone without encountering any other players. The offensive line whoops and hollers, but I only purse my lips in response. Ellingsworth’s stats are better than mine, no way to sugarcoat it. His legs are longer, his strides are further, and he was the fastest guy on the field last year. So why is he standing ten yards back? Did he . . . let me make that touchdown?
What an arrogant asshole.
After a quick break, we’re instructed to line up again, and I size him up. He’s certainly taller than me—by about five or so inches—and while he also has about twenty pounds of muscle on me, it’s all the better to propel himself faster. I blink as sunlight glints off the tiny diamond stud in the cartilage of his left ear, then again as it catches the silver bar several inches directly below the earring. Through the sheer jersey, I can faintly distinguish the piercing nestled through one nipple.
How does it not catch on the fabric? Tug and pull and rip?
I ponder that for longer than I should, and on the next snap, I’m two heartbeats behind the entire play, unable to do anything but watch as the ball sails over my head to where I’m supposed to be.
Traylor blows his whistle, but instead of calling any penalties, he gestures for us to approach. We gather around where he stands on a bench to look down at us while giving proper cooldown instructions, signaling the completion of today’s practice. At the end of his speech, Traylor reads some names off the clipboard in his hand. None of them mean anything to me until—“. . . and Hendrix Avery. Congratulations, you all have made it into training camp. This does not mean you are on the team. However, you have a chance to be. Camp begins at oh-five hundred sharp on Monday morning. Before you leave, meet with my assistant down here for information regarding . . . I don’t know, some legal and political shit you have to do. Get it taken care of, stay out of trouble, and come back ready to give two hundred percent. Don’t forget your cooldowns. Dismissed.”
The current Rubies players who weren’t on the field earlier hop the railing to the track. They greet their own—including Ellingsworth—with high fives, back slaps, handshakes, and bro hugs. His teammates don’t know, don’t see that underneath his charming smile, perfect dimple, and sparkling blue eyes, Ellingsworth is just a self-righteous sell-out. Not a team player, not God’s gift to football, not even a nice guy—a jerk who has nothing better to do than flaunt his fortunate life in all our faces and talk down to those he sees as beneath him. I’ve—unwillingly—seen his postgame interviews in which he credits his “skill” to his super-rich parents, who I bet he believes were lucky enough to adopt a child of his caliber. The documentary about him has a full tour of his oversized house here in LA, as well as panoramic drone footage of his Austin, Texas, mansion that neighbors his parents’. Said parents also have a house in LA that they stay in during football season so they can attend all of his games.
I scoff to myself. Rich people.
I can barely afford my tiny apartment in a rougher edge of town with the money I carefully saved up during college. Earlier this summer, I managed to find some ASL translator gigs and banked the money from those. They never asked me back after the fourth one, and when I called to ask why, they said they went with another candidate who smiled more. I have a bachelor’s degree in ASL, whereas the girl they went with only has an associate’s. But apparently, a smile is worth more than a hard-earned degree.
So when Aleks approaches me with a hand raised to clap me on the shoulder, I don’t even bother trying to return his polite, toothy grin. I easily dodge his touch, thanks to years of practice. I’m not a fan of people’s hands on me despite my chosen profession being a contact sport, so I have become proficient at avoidance. The trick is to stay on the edge of celebratory huddles and to keep everyone in front of me and within eyesight so I can dodge what I see coming rather than fall victim to an attack from behind. Sure, it has made me into a bit of an outsider, but I’m happier this way.
Aleks’ smile wavers only slightly as his hand falls limp at his side. “You’ve got some skills, man. I hope one of the names called for training camp was yours.” The inflection in his tone isn’t clear whether he is asking or not.
I offer an up-nod and a vague “Mhm” in response.
“Uh-huh,” Aleks muses, eyebrows raising. “And which name would that be?”
“Avery.” I clear my throat, which suddenly feels like I’ve been eating gravel for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the last week. “Hendrix Avery.”
The second-most famous quarterback currently active in the League—because, honestly, no one can hold a candle to Nathaniel Conroy in Miami—gives me a charming smile and holds his hand out again, this time for a handshake. “Aleks. Ezekiel Aleks. Obviously, you know who I am. As captain, I’d like to welcome you to training camp and tell you that I hope you make it all the way. It was a pleasure having you out there today.”
I offer a grunt of thanks.
Aleks opens his mouth as if to say something else, but another guy shouts something that catches his attention. We both look over to see Kit Alexander—a second-year running back—jumping high in the air and making wild gestures with his hands. He may appear to be a young, petite guy, but I know he can squat six hundred pounds without a drop of sweat falling from his shaggy auburn hair. “Kiss! Come here! This guy is an absolute unit, and he made camp!” Alexander closes two hands around—go figure—Tight End Energy’s bicep as if to measure the circumference.
“Catch you at camp, Hendrix,” Aleks hollers over his shoulder as he bounds off toward Alexander.
Given the chance, I would correct him and tell him to call me by my last name. It’s more impersonal that way. Instead, I’m left mumbling a confused, “Did he call him ‘Kiss’?” under my breath.
“It’s a nickname,” a cool voice says from behind me, making me startle and turn to face . . . “We all have one,” Tahegin Ellingsworth states as he sidles up beside me.
I don’t deign to respond, but that doesn’t deter him.
“Aleks got his because . . . Well, I’m sure you know. The media outed him using a picture of him kissing some guy behind a bar. Instead of letting them shame him, he took it upon himself to kiss so many people there wasn’t a story left for the media to exploit. If you scroll back far enough, there is a post on his socials where he once took a series of pictures kissing the entire team, one player after the other. We all got a good laugh out of that. It wasn’t a far jump from Aleks to Kiss.”
Nodding, I keep my eyes trained on the group of guys dispersing for cooldowns.
“They call Kit ‘Baby Boy’ for . . . reasons. You’ll hear them shorten it to Baby or sometimes Babe. Gallon, the center—” He points to one of his teammates, a big, burly guy. “He can chug an entire gallon of milk in less than thirty seconds. He’ll respond to Gallon or just Gal or even Big Guy.”
“It’s true,” someone interjects, throwing his arm around Ellingsworth’s shoulders and grinning, wide and toothy. Something pink and squishy is stuck between his upper and lower teeth on one side, and I realize it’s a big wad of gum once he blows a huge bubble in my direction. “Gal will respond to pretty much anything. Hey.” He holds out a hand, which I don’t take. It takes me a second to recognize him as one of the Rubies’ safeties. He must have gotten rid of his dreads sometime between the end of last season and now because his head is buzzed close to the scalp. “I’m Blow. Like for bubble gum, not the drug.”
“What’s wrong with just using last names like every other sports team?” It’s the first thing I’ve said to either of them since our exchange began, and I watch the surprise spread across their faces, as if they thought I was mute or some shit. Or maybe they weren’t expecting me to question their dumb nicknames. Without giving them a chance to respond, I take off for the other side of the field to do my cooldowns in peace.
CHAPTER 3
TAHEGIN ELLINGSWORTH
Gargle. Spit. Rinse. Return mouthwash to cabinet. Close cabinet. Look in mirror—
I am strong. I am loved. I am happy. I am (more than) enough.
I am in control. I can do this. I am living my best day.
I am taking my meds.
More notes litter my mirror, but I pause my reading to obey the most important one. I open the cabinet again and count out my morning dose. One and a half yellows, one green, one-half white. I down them in one go, washing the bitter taste away with a sip of water from the faucet. After, I return to my affirmations. Some are in my handwriting, others—like the ones that say “we love you” and “we’re one call away”—are written by my parents. My little sister, Willow, drew a cute heart on one and a stick figure family on another. She was too young at the time to remember the reason why I need these affirmations, but that hasn’t stopped her from being as supportive as our parents, if not more.
Checking my watch, I realize the team plane will be leaving in a little less than two hours to take us to Denver, where we will play our first game of the preseason. I’m mostly packed, save for my toiletries, so I check things off my mental list as I toss them into my bag: hydrating conditioner, toothbrush, retainer case, spare contacts, prescription glasses for nighttime, three bottles of my prescription medications, and three notes of affirmation. Picking only three is the hardest decision of my day, but I ultimately choose one I wrote, one from my parents, and one from Willow. Aleks has been my roommate during away games since I was drafted three years ago, and he always brings a note of his own for me. Sometimes it’s respectable, other times it is wildly inappropriate, but I wouldn’t change a thing. He’s a close friend, a fellow ally, and one of the only people who know about my medication.
Fully packed, I make my way into the kitchen, where my nutritionist has a green smoothie full of protein and vitamins already waiting for me. I swipe the drink on my way through. “Thanks, Emma!” I call before exiting my house to find my driver patiently standing near the car. Though I insist on putting my own luggage in the trunk, Jay never allows me to open the car door for myself when he’s around. Playfully rolling my eyes at the young man, I give him a soft thanks as I slide into the back seat of my Jeep. “To the airport, please,” I request once Jay is situated in the driver’s seat. We pull onto the street, and I take the momentary calm to check my phone.
Itinerary information from my mom—she doesn’t go anywhere without one. Some emojis from my sister, which I quickly respond with just as many. The D-line group chat is blowing up with excitement, as is the team group chat. A single text from Aleks appears among the chaos.
Kiss: Have you seen the room assignments on the team page?
We have an app that is like a private Facebook for our team, and our coaches use it to post announcements—like room assignments. I have yet to check it this morning.
Me: No. Why?
