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A row of steel shielded light fixtures dimly light up the room. There is a smoky haze to the open space without there being any smoke at all. The pressure of the room is enhanced by the suffocating silence withholding Kinsey from making any noise.
The blonde sits in silence on the polished oak bench with her head hanging low. She breathes in and out, not loud enough to disrupt the silence but enough to maintain her meditation. She coaxes her rampant thoughts into submission by thinking of nothing, or at least attempting to do so. Visions of running routes and the sensation of the gritty football against her bare hands cloud her mind.
Can I still do what I always do?
There is a possibility that I can fuck this up. I can fuck up a route. The ball can slip through my fingers.
The blonde tilts her head over to the pair of football gloves sitting beside her on the bench. Her jaw tightens. She draws her head away from the gloves, allowing her eyes to glance down at her trembling hand. The tremor in her left-hand goes haywire.
Kinsey stares down the hand as if to intimidate it into ceasing its shaking. Her breathing is slow but steady, not erratic.
She lifts the quivering hand to her collarbone. Her crooked, long fingers take hold of Nana's necklace. The gold necklace with the inscription of Kinsey's name is pulled from underneath the thick black laces holding together her shoulder pad unit.
Kinsey glares through the gold jewelry, not admiring the superficial aspect of the item, but thinking as to who it represents. Remembering everything her grandmother had ever told her about being Kinsey Scott.
"Kins, you're the only one able to do what you do. If they could've found anyone better wouldn't you think they'd have found her by now? You're the only one for this gig, so prove it to those bastards every time you step out there."
"No matter what happens out there, you have me to run to."
"Don't make me get out of this fucking wheelchair and show you how to spiral a football."
The memories of the headstrong woman force Kinsey to crack a small smile. A little chuckle rolls out before Kinsey's face straightens.
The blonde blinks away the salty liquid building in her eyes. It only takes two blinks before the blonde stuffs the necklace back into her jersey, snug underneath the front of her shoulder pad unit. Her neck cranes up and before she even knows it, she is on her feet. The feeling of her cleats against the tile floor sends a chill up her legs. Her hands rise above her head to flatten out the stray hairs from her gelled-back low bun.
After getting most of the little rascals, Kinsey motions for her helmet on the bench. In a swift movement, she has the helmet on over her head.
She no longer appears as Kinsey Scott as the helmet settles around her face, squishing her cheeks and muffling her hearing. Her face is barely visible through the mask of the helmet.
