Page 12 of The Rookie's Sister

I nod, absorbing his metaphor like a sponge. If anyone understands the fragility and strength of human potential, it’s Dad.

“And this Johnson guy,” he says, his voice adopting an unusually stern tone. “Whatever your dealings with him, don’t cut ties recklessly. A person like that can either open doors or seal them shut. Be mindful.”

I wince inwardly, my cheeks flushing a shade that feels incriminating. Oh, if he only knew about the labyrinthine plan I’d knitted with Xavier just last night. A pretend romance, each of us pulling strings behind a curtain. But instead of divulging this tangled web, I simply nod.

“Don’t worry, I’ll play nice with Xavier.”

Dad seems satisfied with my response, but little does he know that ‘playing nice’ is a performance that could earn me an Oscar, given the nuances involved.

After another hug, one that I wish could last forever, I step back into the dim corridors. The atmosphere of the hospital fades as I navigate through the maze of hallways, soon finding myself thrust into the gray Chicago afternoon. My feet instinctively guide me toward the train station, but my thoughts are a whirlwind, each one a leaf caught in an autumn gust.

My dad’s wisdom reverberates through my head. He’s right; Xavier Johnson isn’t just some guy I have to endure for the sake of my own professional life. He’s become an unexpected key player in my brother’s fledgling football career. This pretend romance, hatched in a moment of audacity, now looms like a towering skyscraper I’m somehow supposed to scale without a safety net.

Questions surge like a tide within me, each one begging for attention. How do I navigate this complicated charade without losing parts of myself? How do I ensure that Jeff isn’t collateral damage in a game neither of us wanted to play? And the biggest question of all—how do I reconcile with the mounting tension between Xavier and me, a tension that’s more complex than simple annoyance or indifference?

The die has indeed been cast, setting into motion events I can neither predict nor fully control. All I can do is play this high-stakes game with the cards I’ve been dealt, no folding allowed.

SIX

XAVIER

The smell of sweat and musk permeates the locker room as I make my way to my designated spot, eager to rinse off after a grueling practice under the blistering sun. The cool air inside is a welcome relief from the oppressive heat outside.

I nod at a few of the guys as I walk by, exchanging casual fist bumps and manly half-hugs. Despite being on this team for years, I’ve never been the buddy-buddy, slap-on-the-back type. Sure, I have my inner circle - Chase and a couple of other guys I really trust. But mostly I keep to myself. It’s easier that way.

As I’m about to round the corner to the showers, the unmistakable sound of a confrontation stops me in my tracks. I peek around to see Billy, one of our second-string defensive ends, crowding Jeff against the lockers. Even from here, I can see the kid’s eyes wide with apprehension.

“Look, rookie, all I’m saying is maybe you’re not Thunderhawks material,” Billy says with a sneer, shoving Jeff’s shoulder. “Coach is wasting his time thinking you could ever start. Hell, I give you two more weeks tops before they ship your ass down to the practice squad...or cut you altogether.”

Jeff flinches and looks away, his face burning red. I feel a flare of anger in my gut. Sure, the kid’s made some mistakes on the field, but he’s got raw talent. And he takes direction well - never complains or talks back. Not his fault the playbook is thicker than a phonebook.

Before I can think better of it, I stride over and plant myself between Billy and Jeff.

“How about you quit puffing your chest and hit the showers, Billy?” I say sharply. “Jeff’s gonna be starting before you know it.”

Billy’s eyes widen in surprise, then narrow menacingly. “Wasn’t talking to you, Johnson.” He spits my last name like it’s dirty.

I fold my arms over my bare chest, well aware that every eye in the locker room is on us now.

“Yeah, well, I’m talking to you,” I reply coolly. “Lay off the rookie, got it? Kid’s got more potential in his pinky than you’ve got in that thick skull of yours.”

A few muffled chuckles echo around us. Billy glances around, then fixes me with a deadly glare.

“Just you wait, Johnson,” he hisses under his breath. “That pretty poster boy rep of yours won’t last forever. Mark my words.”

With that, he brushes past me roughly, stomping toward the showers. I turn and put a hand on Jeff’s shoulder. The kid won’t meet my eyes.

“Hey, don’t let assholes like that bother you,” I say, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “You’re doing great out there.”

Jeff nods, still looking at the floor. “Yeah uh, thanks Xavier. Appreciate it.” His voice is so low I can barely hear him over the echoing din of the locker room.

I give him an affirming pat on the back, then continue on my way. Adrenaline is still pumping through me from the confrontation. As much as I hate to admit it, Billy’s words dig under my skin.

My poster boy reputation, as he so eloquently put it, is something I’ve worked hard to cultivate over the years. And it’s damn well deserved - I’m the best receiver this team has ever seen. Two-time All-Pro, richest contract in Thunderhawks history. I’m the face of this franchise.

But lately, some shadows have crept into the edges of that shining reputation. Whispers about my focus being off. Comments from the coaches about relying on my natural talent versus honing my technique.

I grit my teeth, grabbing a towel and stalking toward the showers. As if on cue, I hear Chase call out as he falls into step beside me.

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