Camryn Quinn is finally getting what she wants...sort of. Moving into a dorm and away from her not so supportive father is a good first step, but like everything with him, it comes with strings. She must attend the college of his choosing for at lea...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
FWEET! I take off fast, the spikes on my feet sinking deep into the soft earth with each step. Sprinting ten yards up and to the right, I turn on quick feet at the perfect moment just as the ball comes flying towards me. The leather slides between my fingers, suctioning into my gloves.
FWEET! This time up and to the left and then a quick one hundred eight degrees to the right around the opponent. Another fifteen yards northeast to the spot. He finds me once again. I catch the ball with such grace and precision just like I have every single play.
One more sound of the whistle snags me back to reality. I grab a green bottle from the caddy and find a player who needs it, squeezing and squirting the water into his mouth until he gives me the signal to stop. These days all I am is a glorified waterboy. I just take up space on the sidelines as I stand with my hands on my hips watching drill after drill. The most action I get is when the team doctor and athletic trainers join us and allow me to run up and down the end zones in between their stretches and rehab exercises.
Coach blows the whistle once more and the same drills begin again. No one would even notice if I just left all together, but I walk to the other sideline to see the play from a different angle. Even though I have no chance of seeing contact today, I let my mouthguard hang out of my mouth anyway. I have a bad habit of chewing on it while I wait. My mom claims it drives her crazy, but I don't even realize I'm doing it half the time.
Except now, when I have absolutely nothing to do besides watch my team move through plays without me.
The minutes pass slowly, but Coach gives three quick blows to signal the end of offensive practice for the morning. We're still in preseason with no classes though, so it means it's just time for film.
But I'm a crippled tight end, so I stay planted in place. I watch as the special teams make their way on to the practice turf. It's probably the only thing I've enjoyed about being bound to the sidelines. I have the chance to see what every position is working on, and how it might affect our game play.
I'm sulking. And I have been since I tore my ACL in the championship game a few months ago. I don't feel the need to hide it, not around my team. We all have a common goal, and part of it is actually getting to see the field during a game. As of right now, the only time I might actually get to put pads on this season is for media day.
I would give anything to have my muscles be sore as shit from more than bodyweight lunges, but that's all I'm supposed to do at this point. When I agreed to have the surgery the doctor made it seem like I would be back to running sprints and deadlifting before the summer was over. Instead, my knee is still stiff enough that I'm supposed to be wearing my brace all the time and I've barely seen the weight room.
Glancing back towards the field I slip my shirt over my head and wipe the sweat raining down my forehead as the punt team lines up to run through a play. I'm used to the Texas heat and humidity, but Ohio is giving a damn good impression of the south today. I guess I should be thankful I'm not in full pads like the guys out there.
One, our punter, gives the call and I watch as the ball is snapped long seconds before his cleat makes contact with it. He's not bad for a redshirt freshman. We're probably going to need him even more if I don't back onto the field soon.
🏈🏈🏈
I pass the threshold for Bullies Tavern, a usual spot for us after a long day of practices. A mixture of pizza and wings fill my nostrils as I find the table my friends are already at. The table is already full of beer and food, so I plop down and help myself to a slice.
"Where ya been?" Anderson, one of my roommates and my teammate asks.
"PT," I say, mouth full.
"Damn," Chase, another teammate, says, "Do you get to scrimmage with us tomorrow?"
I shrug, "I'll be lucky if Doc releases me by the playoffs with how slowly he's been working."
The guys don't make another comment aside from their agreement that it sucks. Their attention has fully shifted to the group of girls that just walked in. Bullies may have some of the best food on campus, and the workers always give it to us almost free of charge, but the real reason they come here every night is because the freshmen are always here. Most of them are also student athletes who, like us, spend the day preparing for our season, but are looking for release in the evenings.
The guys like to turn it into a game. Who can close the deal with a girl first, get them to abandon their friends and come back to our house. After another day of not practicing, I could really just use a few beers and a reason to not sit around and sulk.
I laugh as Michaels, one of the younger guys from the team, talks himself up before walking towards the group of girls. He's a freshman too, and I can tell he doesn't have much practice. He always thinks he needs some sort of grand gesture to talk to them. I just sit back and let them come to me if they want. I was raised in a house of women and know that it's more trouble than it's worth to try and win them over. It's worked for me in the past, and I'm sure tonight will be no different no matter whatever house or bar we end up at.
