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@qimmahrusso as Honey Seaton
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"I really don't see why we have to be inconvenienced because of those incompetent little boys that call themselves the men's track team."
I was currently standing at the door of the locker room seething with anger. How ridiculous was it that despite the fact that we (the women's volleyball team) booked the gym for practice today, we have to sit in the fucking bleachers because the track team wants to do their stupid sprints? I'll answer for you. Very ridiculous.
"Yeah, those idiots are rude as fuck too, damn near physically pushed me off the court when I told them they had to pack up shop." my co-captain Simi chimed in. All 12 of us sat on the cool leather of the purple and white benches in the room venting about the bullshit antics of the track team.
Those guys were your typical meathead athletes. They carried an air of superiority with them as they walked around campus, mostly because they were treated like demigods by students male and female alike. Guys wanted to be them and girls, well, I'm pretty sure they would have given a limb to be able to say they even knew them personally. Especially the captain of all meatheads, Trevante Rhodes. Being that all of us athletes were supposed to live in the same quarters, I had the privilege (not) of being his across the hall neighbor and had seen many girls strolling in and out of his place.
Trevante Nemour Rhodes was the All-American Track and Field competing, Junior Olympics qualifying, 60 meters in 6.83 seconds running captain of the team. Standing at 6'0" and weighing in at almost 200 pounds, the guy was, I'll admit, a beast on the field and also very attractive, as embarrassed as I am to say this, I've probably had a few...dreams about him. But that didn't negate he fact that he and his crew of neanderthals bullied their way into every single free space on this big ass campus.
"You know what, I say we go in there and practice on top of them." Simi said pursing her lips and throwing her arms up in the air as if she just had an "aha!" moment.
"Shiiiit, I'm tryna practice on Kofi, if you know what I mean." Our libero Jazzy said as she twerked in the air and stuck her tongue out.
At this the whole locker room erupted in laughter, she was always our comic relief.
"Simi is right y'all. Everyone get dressed, we're going into that gym and carrying on with our scheduled practice." I ordered. "When we're done, Jazzy go grab the balls. Simi, we'll go set up the nets."
Par for the course for our usual pre-practice routine, we sang along to the words of Key Glock's "Russian Cream", pulled on our ungodly tight spandex shorts and sports bras, strapped up our knee pads, and laced up our sneakers.
"Y'all hoes have 5 minutes to get into that gym!" I yell playfully as I jog out of the locker room. As team captain I sometimes had to run practice by myself, and I was almost as strict as the coaches when it came to punctuality.
