Instead of waiting for a response, I open the app and check it myself. Our coaches always try to pair rookies with seasoned players to try and keep the new guys from getting into trouble, sort of like a big-brother thing—teach them the rules and keep an eye on them. In the past three years, my name has always been right there beside Aleks. One glance shows me that is not the case, and I internally groan at the thought of having a new roommate.
I find my name on the senior side of the list, and the rookie across from it is . . . Damn it.
Avery.
The walk-on wide receiver has made quite a name for himself these past few weeks in training camp—in both good and bad ways. Good, as in he has amazing skill and potential. Bad, as in he has earned himself the title “Sour.”
The nickname comes from a couple of reasons, the first being the scowl he always wears and his perpetually grump attitude. The second has to do with me. Everyone calls me Gin as a play on my first name, though I had no say in the nickname and secretly loathe it, so it only makes sense—to my teammates—for the grumpy wide receiver, who I have been matched up against throughout all of training camp, to be called Sour.
As in gin sour.
Objectively, it is a well-thought-out duo nickname, I’ll give our teammates that.
Mashing the call button on my cellphone, I wait five long rings for Aleks to answer with a dejected, “Hey, Gin.”
“We aren’t roommates,” I state without preamble.
My friend sighs through the phone. “No, it looks like we aren’t. It’ll be okay, though. I’ll still give you a note for the morning.”
Shit. Rooming with someone new means I have to explain my affirmations and the trio of pill bottles in my toiletry bag. It was fine with Aleks because he accepted the items and knowledge that I have them without asking deeper questions, but now I have to room with Sour—Avery—of all people. I just know he is going to be a dick about it all.
I’m not sure what I ever did to piss him off, but the guy hates me. Probably even more than he’d hate his nickname if he found out about it—kinda have to talk to teammates to know what they call you, so I doubt he knows about the whole Sour thing.
Every day at training camp has been a war zone—Avery versus me. No matter how nice I am or how many compliments I hurl his way, the guy acts like I’m kicking his puppy and spitting on his grandmother’s grave. If I offer to spot him on weights, he literally gets up and walks away. I’ve invited him to sit with us during lunchtime in the cafeteria and given him tips during practice to help him run his routes better. Still, he stares at me with disdain, sometimes even a sneer.
It isn’t just me, though. Other guys on the team have tried to include Avery, and he gives them the—albeit slightly less—cold shoulder also. Tank—a tight end prospect who was in tryouts with Avery and has spent every day of training camp with him—told us that the scowl on Avery’s face is pretty much permanent no matter the time of day. Said he tried to introduce himself, and Avery rudely brushed him off.
Our training coordinator told Aleks that Avery was the only guy in tryouts to question an intentionally incorrect play in the book they were given. Tray also caught Avery watching gameplay of Aleks and the team running those plays, and Avery said it was to get a better feel of what our quarterback does under pressure.
If Avery would accept the compliment, I’d tell him that is the kind of thing that separates the good players from the great. I’d tell him that I admire his drive and am in awe of his talent. His skill, combined with the fact he didn’t get drafted, had me digging deeper into his background one night when I was bored. It surprised me to find little to no information on the guy. He went to a local college barely big enough to even have a football team. He played with them for four years, making him two years older than I was when I got drafted. Clearly, he finished out a degree while waiting to hear from recruiters. I guess when none came, he decided to attend walk-on tryouts.
I’d found and watched a few of his college games from last year online—and was pleasantly surprised. When Avery gets the ball, he has it. As my momma would say, it sticks to his hands like glue. There is footage of him breaking tackles, outrunning defensemen, and making amazing catches with the poorly thrown passes his quarterback at the time lobbed his way.
To be completely honest, I’m impressed.
If only his attitude and personality were halfway as decent as his football playing.
“I know you don’t like telling people about your meds,” Aleks’ voice brings me back to our conversation. “If he’s an asshole about anything—anything, Gin—tell me immediately. I’ll beat his ass.”
I roll my eyes at the man who can’t even bring himself to swat a mosquito that’s biting him. “You won’t.”
“I’ll kiss him. On live television.”
“You would do that anyway! You have no shame. Or boundaries.”
“You’re right. I’ll have Tank and Gal beat his ass.”
The mental image makes me laugh, but I quickly sober before he can get any ideas. “No one is beating up anyone, Kiss. I will keep to myself, and I’m sure he won’t say anything.”
“I’ll still kiss him.”
“Maybe he’ll like it.”
“If kissing Sour will get that scowl off his face, I’ll take one for the team. All night and all day. That man’s ass—”
“TMI!” I groan, though Aleks’ commentary has brought a smile to my face, just what I needed. “I hate you,” I tease.
“You looooove me,” he singsongs. “And my kisses.” Smooching noises fill the line, making me laugh even more. My worries fall away for now, thanks to his antics, and I begin to feel a little more like myself. All I needed was a little laughter. “Tell me you looooove my kisses.”
My cheeks begin to hurt from smiling. “You’re an idiot.”
“You wound me and insult our love,” Aleks dramatically cries. “How will I ever go on? How can I possibly survive this heartbreak?”
“You will.”
“I won’t,” he insists in that theatrical voice. What a damsel. “How easily you dismiss our love!”
“We kissed for an Insta post three years ago,” I deadpan. “And you, Mr. Man-whore, have kissed thousands of people since.”
“None have ever compared to you, my love!” He doesn’t even question the “thousands of people” part, of course.
“Dude.”
“Yes, my Romeo?”
This guy, I swear. We have been best friends since I was drafted onto the team, and while, yes, I did join in his kissing post on Instagram after he was forcefully outed—and I am bisexual—everything between us has always been platonic, never anything more. He and I both agree on that. “What will it take for you to quit this act?”
“Only a confession, my lord.” Now, he’s donned a British accent.
