Page 20 of Man On

LANE

"It won't happen again."

The words have echoed in my head for the past three weeks.

Things are quiet, but it’s been relatively pleasant in the dorm. We’ve cultivated an awkward, tension filled peace that somehow manages to be more stressful than fighting all the time. So far, if we’re not at practice, Noah’s planted on the couch playing video games or screwing around with Miah and a few other guys from the team. And I stay in my room or go for a run to avoid them.

He and Miah are there now, lounging around like slobs and playing a video game rather than filling out the schedules that his dad got us to keep track of classes and assignments. Mine was completed as soon as the syllabus for each class was posted, and I’ve been working hard on getting ahead with course readings. Academics don’t come easy to me. I often need to read something multiple times to memorize it, plus added research for things I think I know, but might be wrong about, is an added layer of anxiety.

There’s so much information and not enough hours in the day to get it all done, not to mention everything else we’ve packed into the last three weeks of training and exhibition matches. There have been academic meetings and sessions with nutritionists, forced socialization, and last weekend we did community service at a local park after we got back from our exhibition match. It’s overwhelming.

I can’t focus on studying. I need to make sure I’m ready for our first day of classes tomorrow, but with those two screaming about blowing stuff up every few minutes, I can’t concentrate and it’s stressing me out. My eyes are pulsing from the tension, and my nerves are getting the best of me. I’m about to blow my top.

"I'm going for a run," I say, stuffing my feet into my running shoes. I eyeball the discarded shoes that are scattered around the rack specifically designed to hold shoes, but refrain from saying anything. At least they took their shoes off. When I glance up, Noah tries to look away and cover his smirk, but I'm certain he knows what I'm thinking.

Two days off from training and being cooped up has my patience running thin. Working off some nervous energy usually helps. It’s hot outside, but I dislike the dorm gym because it’s always packed, and I’m pretty sure everyone hates me.

I didn’t make a great impression at the team dinner and I’ve been trying to make up for it by being the best player I can be. The team captain, Sam Triviano, seems pleased, and so does Coach Carr. They even tried me out on the starting eleven for our last exhibition match before the season starts, and I played well. If I keep proving myself, I’ll get a lot of field time this season, even though I’m just a freshman.

The other players aren’t warming up to me much. I overheard Noah and Miah saying something about me being a brownnoser a couple of days ago. I’ve been trying to figure out where the line is between being a suck up and being polite. It's impossible. Thank God I’m not here to make friends.

I’m here to work towards a better future. Harrison University has one of the top Division ? NCAA men’s soccer teams in the nation, and the prestigiousness of the university name will look good on job applications. My time here will impact my life, and I need to make the most of it—get the best grades possible, cultivate networking opportunities, maybe push for an early Master’s program. Then I can get a good job and make something of myself. Have a normal life, with a nice house in the suburbs. A wife and kids—a family that will count on me to provide for them. A normal life, where Isaiah Warren never existed.

Deep breath in through the mouth, out through the nose.

I’m doing it again. Overthinking every tiny detail of my life. Logically, I know that I'm focusing on things that don't matter because I feel out of control. The therapist I've been seeing since I left the compound says it's a common defense mechanism for people that grew up in very strict households. That's an understatement for what I grew up in, but her rationale makes sense.

Despite having the option for virtual sessions, I haven’t scheduled an appointment with Dr. Fenton since the raid. Despite avoiding her, I'm still working on being more mindful about where my thoughts go when I'm struggling. And I’m definitely struggling. I just don’t want to talk about my grandfather anymore, or the other church leaders, or how I feel about the raid.

I don’t want to think about it. Instead, I run until my legs are protesting and the only sound in my head is my own heavy breathing.

My phone chimes with a text from Noah, and I slow my pace to read it.

Noah: We ran into some players from the women's team. They're having a party tonight. Wanna go?

Lane: Classes start tomorrow.

Noah: All they’re going to do is go over the syllabus in every class.

Noah: We don’t have to stay late.

Lane: I'll pass.

There’s no way I'm going to a party the night before classes start. How dense can he be? Even if he's not drinking, which I really hope he's not stupid enough to do, he'll still be out too late. We have the same class on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, so I know he’s got to be up, ready, and across campus at eight o’clock. That’s not a problem for me, but Noah isn't a morning person. He should be having an early night.

It's not my business. It’s not my business. It’s not my business. Focus on your own issues, Lane.

"Do me a favor, son, and help keep Noah in line? He gets in his own way sometimes."

Scott's request, and the way I felt when he called me son, have me slowing to a walk. How can I help someone else when I don't know how to help myself? Even more, how can I focus my attention on someone that intimidates me as much as Noah does?

Noah's cocky attitude, the way he's so carefree and sure of himself, are like kryptonite to me. I'm caught between feeling inadequate and annoyed, in awe and infuriated. Everything about him is a contradiction. He doesn't have to try at all, and just seems to effortlessly skate through life. People like him even though he does nothing to try to impress them. He gets decent grades even though I've never once seen him study or do homework. Even his messy hair and too-casual sense of dress works for him. If I walked around in sweatpants all the time, I'd look sloppy, like I'd just rolled out of bed. Noah can actually roll out of bed and look effortlessly cool. Every room he enters, people gravitate to him, falling over themselves to be liked by him.

The worst part of it all is that he’s aware of his effect on other people. He knows he has everything and uses it.

"It won't happen again."

After three weeks of not so much as a glance in my direction, I believe him. But instead of feeling relieved, I feel weirdly bereft.

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