Page 81 of The Wrong Move

Fuck Rome. The best it has to offer is right in front of me.

She takes my hand. “Wine and dine me, then I’m all yours.”

20

BYRON

On Tuesday morning,my energy is drained after sleeping fourteen hours straight trying to catch up on missed sleep.

“Move your ass, Hendricks,” Coach yells at me. “You’re running like your shoes are two sizes too big.”

I hiss out air and sprint to the end line.

“Coach just called you a clown,” Simpson says with a laugh.

“Fuck off,” I say, quiet enough that Coach doesn’t hear.

“Next time, don’t leave the country without permission, especially when you miss two trainings and were rested for one game,” Coach fires at me. “Everyone is sprinting for the next ten minutes, not just Byron. We’re a team, and if one of you fucks up, it affects us all.”

My teammates groan, some of them glaring at me. I wipe my brow. I’ve had my share of penalties for other players’ fuckups. I feel like a piece of shit when I’m the cause.

“Go,” he yells, clicking the timer. “Next time, consult with the team before making an impulsive decision. And what did you do to your knees?”

“Rock climbing, Coach,” I shout over my shoulder.

We sprint for a minute, then rest for fifteen seconds.

“Rock climbing?” Brandon says, mocking me.

“Shut up. How was your weekend?”

He walks in a circle to catch his breath. “Great… watched the AFL Grand Final.”

“Yeah? Good?”

“Yeah, it was a close game. My team bombed out last week, so I enjoyed the game without the pressure.”

“Go.”

We take off to the other end of the court. By the end of the fourth minute, we’re sucking in air as though all the oxygen has evaporated. Hands on hips and heads tilted back, we walk slowly around the base line before lining up again for the timer.

“Go.”

I swear all the pasta and pizza have slowed me down.

“Time.”

We are spread out on the court, some of us faster than the big guys.

“Go.”

My legs burn. My calves tighten. Sprints are part of our program, but not at the end of a two-hour training, the second training session of the day.

“Time.”

I slow to a jog, stop, and shake my legs and fingers. Two to go.

Some of the senior players send me sideways glances. Yeah, I’m an asshole.

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