Book III of UNC Series
While it's known that there are five stages of grief, did you know that there are also five stages of love?
Bailey Nicholson dreamed of finishing her Master's degree and settling in Boston while working alongside her boyfriend...
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Music resonates across the field as Meek Mills raps Uptown Vibes through the speaker, and I'm grateful for the music. His words urge me forward, propelling me as I push off the ground. Using each fast-paced beat and bass to fuel me across the turfed field, running from one goal line to the other, rejuvenating my aching limbs to continue moving.
I have long foregone my shirt, which clung to me like a second skin. Running through my sprints and suicides, I have sweat beading down my back, neck, and temples. My bronzed skin glistens, pools of perspiration sliding beneath the hem of my shorts.
I come to a stop at the sideline, clutching my hips, leaning back as I draw a long breath into my depleted and overworked lungs. Despite the weekly and nearly daily practices for the last month, the air burns my chest, and I almost taste the metallic tinge of blood.
Motherfucker. I collapse onto the ground, my knees bent, and my arms shield my eyes from the scorching sun. The cool grass sticks to my back as burning pain flares in my elbow.
"Great practice. Now get up," Coach Flint claps his hands together, bellowing his voice across from where he's standing on the opposite end of the field, "Get up NOW."
I rest my arms on my bent knees and duck my head between them, attempting to catch my breath. Blood surges to my head, and I purse my lips controlling the ins and outs of air that rush to fill my lungs.
A harsh slap resounds, followed by a stinging burn on my upper back. I glance up, squinting to find Sutherland standing over me. He ditched his shirt as well. His dark skin glistens like mine as he holds out his hand, helping me to my feet.
After a painstakingly long time to make our way across the field with shaky sore legs, we huddle around Coach, who stands tall. His dark brown hair has been ruffled and pulled back. The muscles bulge and flex as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, a clipboard tucked under his arms.
Four years ago, I was excited to play for the coach that won three championships—in a row—with some of the best players in the Eastern Conference. But once I got here, I realized how bullshit it all was.
I looked up to two guys on the team at the time, Ethan Collins and Jonah Sinclair. They were a duo with the most completions resulting in touchdowns in a season. They were unstoppable and envied by many college players across the country.
While I admired Collins the most because he played in the same position as me, I was more curious and intrigued by Sinclair. His dedication to the game, his focus, how he never let anyone's bullshit get to him. I wanted to learn so much from him—especially on how to evade Nick's constant berating.
But unlike Collins, Sinclair was a piece of shit who let his popular status and his talent for the game get to his head. He would take advantage of the fact that I was still a new player finding my way around the field.
If it weren't for Collins, I'm sure the harassment and bullying would have been worse.
But the most disappointing thing about all of it was our fucking coach. Who revered Sinclair and consistently turned a blind eye to what he did. None of my other teammates noticed since I was Sinclair's sole focus for torment, so no one caught on to Coach's treatment of me.
